A while back when I was having my weekly 6 ounce sirloin special at Outback, I overheard a conversation in the bathroom between a woman at the sinks and a young girl in one of the stalls.
First they talked about rides, amusement park vs. carnival rides, which went on for a moment or two. Then, after a lull in conversation, I heard the girl say to the woman waiting, not her mother I assumed since she called her something other than Mom, “It’s okay if you want to go back to the table. It’s going to be a while. [pause] I’m pooping.”
“Okay. Just remember to wash your hands. See you soon.”
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Agreement
Life is good. I had a great, relaxing weekend. The weather was perfect-- Chamber of Commerce one might say. I spent some time each day by the pool reading, after going to the gym (go me!) and I am enjoying this slow transition to fall, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get worked up about something. Agreement. A pet peeve passed down from my executive editor to me is agreement errors.
I usually heart the Food Network, but lately they’ve been airing an ad for The Best Thing I Ever Ate, a lame filler show. The commercial says “What Makes Their Mouth Water?” What?!?!?!? All the chefs and FN celebrities share one, collective mouth? Isn’t that interesting? And that’s not even a sentence that would require two singular, gender appropriate options. All that takes to correct is an s. Make mouth plural, and it agrees with their. What makes their mouths water? Each chef has his or her own mouth.
Doesn’t the Food Network have editors? They should. And maybe those editors could spend a little time coaching the chefs and celebs on the overuse of adverbs when adjectives are required, and ending sentences in prepositions. Cooking shows are a hotbed of grammatical gaffes. Why can’t we just fry anymore? Or sauté? Cook or bake? Measure? Seems every time I turn on a cooking show they are cooking or baking something off or frying something up. Since when?
Maybe it happened when healthy foods became healthful. Which is probably about the time all houses became homes, even when they are empty structures. But that’s another post.
I usually heart the Food Network, but lately they’ve been airing an ad for The Best Thing I Ever Ate, a lame filler show. The commercial says “What Makes Their Mouth Water?” What?!?!?!? All the chefs and FN celebrities share one, collective mouth? Isn’t that interesting? And that’s not even a sentence that would require two singular, gender appropriate options. All that takes to correct is an s. Make mouth plural, and it agrees with their. What makes their mouths water? Each chef has his or her own mouth.
Doesn’t the Food Network have editors? They should. And maybe those editors could spend a little time coaching the chefs and celebs on the overuse of adverbs when adjectives are required, and ending sentences in prepositions. Cooking shows are a hotbed of grammatical gaffes. Why can’t we just fry anymore? Or sauté? Cook or bake? Measure? Seems every time I turn on a cooking show they are cooking or baking something off or frying something up. Since when?
Maybe it happened when healthy foods became healthful. Which is probably about the time all houses became homes, even when they are empty structures. But that’s another post.
Friday, September 4, 2009
100th Post!
As I checked back I saw that Curtain Call was my 100th post. Some posts are short, and a few are just pictures, but 100 times I have tried to communicate something to you all; 100 times I have "shown up at the page," as it were.
Thanks again for reading! Next celebration: 1 year!
Thanks again for reading! Next celebration: 1 year!
Curtain Call
This is the last official weekend of summer, and I plan to spend as much of it as possible by the pool. The weather has really been spectacular this week. It’s been comfortable in my classroom with the windows open, but I have not been able to enjoy much of it outside. While I have made it out to the pool a few times for an hour here and there over the past couple of weeks, it’s not really the same. I hope that this weekend I'll get to share a farewell to summer with the friends I have made by the pool but haven't seen lately.
There is Ann Marie. She had knee replacement surgery last winter (on both knees) and retired recently and loves to cook. While we waded near the steps at the low end and chatted, she introduced me to a new produce stand in town, we exchanged some recipes and cooking tips, and she shared with me a couple stories of some tragedies in her life. Last year I ran into her at CVS and at the polls; this year she asked for my address and phone number. “I thought of you at Christmas, and would have loved to send you a card, but I didn’t know what unit you’re in or your last name even,” she said. So during my last week of vacation, she walked over to my chair with an address book and asked for my address and phone number. She had brought a scrap of paper with hers already written on it. “If I don’t see you, have a good year,” she said.
Kristina is a regular like me, usually there in the mornings during the week. She is a high school math teacher (it’s easy to figure out who the teachers are!) and a soccer coach who had a few more days of vacation than I had. Funny, but once over the winter I didn’t recognize her by the mailboxes. It was a snowy day and we were all bundled up and I didn’t realize until I walked away that the fair skinned woman in the winter coat was Kristina; I was so used to seeing her on her lounge chair in a bikini, skinny and tan.
Caroline is in her late twenties. This was her second season by the pool, and her last season of being able to tolerate a roommate, so she just bought a new condominium in her home town. She has been by the pool with her mom (also a teacher) and dad, sometimes said roommate. She enjoys an incognito cocktail by the pool like yours truly, and also like me enjoys peace and quiet to read. We decided it would be nice to go out for a drink before she moves on, so we programmed each other’s cell phone numbers one afternoon recently. A weekend die hard, I’m sure I’ll see her over the weekend. Maybe her mom will be there too.
And there’s Susan, who recently moved into the complex. She’s a visiting nurse to whom I lamented about my cankles when I got back from Seattle, who raised her children on the Cape, lived in New Mexico for 10 years after a divorce, and now has moved back to be closer to her children, especially her grandchildren. One daughter lives in Florida and is getting married next month. I hope to wish her a safe and happy weekend away, and perhaps exchange phone numbers with her so that we might go out for a drink too. Both of us like the new Mexican place down the road, so a margarita would hit the spot.
Of course there is Dean, who like me prefers the pool child-free. If I am the Queen of the Pool, he is probably the King. He lives in my building and we frequent the same restaurants, so I see him year round. And there’s Jen, yet another teacher, who just got married (and with whom I share a small world connection); and Bill, a single dad of a teenage girl. Others I know by face, or bathing suit, or chair, but not name.
This cast of characters is a bunch of nice people and I wish them all well. I guess it’s like getting to know people at a country club. (And maybe the gym?) That is, I don’t imagine we will become BFFs, but I do enjoy their occasional company. And it seems only right to say goodbye to the summer with them.
There is Ann Marie. She had knee replacement surgery last winter (on both knees) and retired recently and loves to cook. While we waded near the steps at the low end and chatted, she introduced me to a new produce stand in town, we exchanged some recipes and cooking tips, and she shared with me a couple stories of some tragedies in her life. Last year I ran into her at CVS and at the polls; this year she asked for my address and phone number. “I thought of you at Christmas, and would have loved to send you a card, but I didn’t know what unit you’re in or your last name even,” she said. So during my last week of vacation, she walked over to my chair with an address book and asked for my address and phone number. She had brought a scrap of paper with hers already written on it. “If I don’t see you, have a good year,” she said.
Kristina is a regular like me, usually there in the mornings during the week. She is a high school math teacher (it’s easy to figure out who the teachers are!) and a soccer coach who had a few more days of vacation than I had. Funny, but once over the winter I didn’t recognize her by the mailboxes. It was a snowy day and we were all bundled up and I didn’t realize until I walked away that the fair skinned woman in the winter coat was Kristina; I was so used to seeing her on her lounge chair in a bikini, skinny and tan.
Caroline is in her late twenties. This was her second season by the pool, and her last season of being able to tolerate a roommate, so she just bought a new condominium in her home town. She has been by the pool with her mom (also a teacher) and dad, sometimes said roommate. She enjoys an incognito cocktail by the pool like yours truly, and also like me enjoys peace and quiet to read. We decided it would be nice to go out for a drink before she moves on, so we programmed each other’s cell phone numbers one afternoon recently. A weekend die hard, I’m sure I’ll see her over the weekend. Maybe her mom will be there too.
And there’s Susan, who recently moved into the complex. She’s a visiting nurse to whom I lamented about my cankles when I got back from Seattle, who raised her children on the Cape, lived in New Mexico for 10 years after a divorce, and now has moved back to be closer to her children, especially her grandchildren. One daughter lives in Florida and is getting married next month. I hope to wish her a safe and happy weekend away, and perhaps exchange phone numbers with her so that we might go out for a drink too. Both of us like the new Mexican place down the road, so a margarita would hit the spot.
Of course there is Dean, who like me prefers the pool child-free. If I am the Queen of the Pool, he is probably the King. He lives in my building and we frequent the same restaurants, so I see him year round. And there’s Jen, yet another teacher, who just got married (and with whom I share a small world connection); and Bill, a single dad of a teenage girl. Others I know by face, or bathing suit, or chair, but not name.
This cast of characters is a bunch of nice people and I wish them all well. I guess it’s like getting to know people at a country club. (And maybe the gym?) That is, I don’t imagine we will become BFFs, but I do enjoy their occasional company. And it seems only right to say goodbye to the summer with them.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
[Heart] Note...to Meredith
I called my niece Meredith this afternoon to see how her first day of school went. After the brief rundown of teacher, classmates, and an 80-minute gym class that she participated in while wearing flip flops because she didn't know she had gym today for 80 minutes today, she said, "Asia," (number 27 on my list of 44 blessings) which means she is about to change subjects. I hear "Asia" in the middle of a conversation with her and my internal editor inserts a new paragraph symbol.
"Yes?..."
"Do you think I should do band?"
"Well, what instrument are you thinking of playing?"
"Trumpet."
"Oh. I didn't know you liked the trumpet. Why do you want to play the trumpet?"
"It's the easiest. "
"It is?" I asked.
"Yeah, it only has three buttons."
"Yes?..."
"Do you think I should do band?"
"Well, what instrument are you thinking of playing?"
"Trumpet."
"Oh. I didn't know you liked the trumpet. Why do you want to play the trumpet?"
"It's the easiest. "
"It is?" I asked.
"Yeah, it only has three buttons."
Random [heart] Notes
Occasionally I have or overhear a conversation that makes my heart say aaawwww, or witness something that brings a tear to my eye or makes me laugh inside, or taste something that makes my mouth sing. Already, I write about some, but there are some that don't provoke any further thought, or warrant 500 words. Still, I have decided they are worth sharing. And so I thought I would begin writing a new type of occasional post, random love notes (random [heart] notes, that is) that I would like to share with you.
I am ready for my first.
I am ready for my first.
Ouch
On a perfect day, perfectly suited for outdoor pursuits—an afternoon at the beach, 9 holes of golf, maybe some alfresco dining—I went to the gym. I walked right by my pool twice, on my way in to get changed and my way out back to the car, and went to the gym. As Candyce said in an email after reading my post about joining, “You can indeed do it.” She lives too far to go with me this time around, but she encouraged me as she had all those years ago. So I went. I did it. And I didn’t die. But it was a rude awakening.
First of all, it appears the last time I used gym equipment was in the Dark Ages, or at least before the dawn of technology. After my tour of the facilities and signing up for the first of my four training sessions, I thought I would start simply with the treadmill. From there I could use a StairMaster. If I stayed in the cardiovascular room, away from the resistance equipment and ellipticals and the free weights, in that big room where everyone seemed comfortable I could probably fake it, hop right on and act like I knew what I was doing. Um, if it weren’t a treadmill from a science fiction movie! (And I hate science fiction) I might have been able to figure it out. But instead the buttons and arrows and flashing lights made me want to cry. But I didn’t. I got off and remembered that a person with inner dignity is never embarrassed. I found the fitness instructor and asked him to show me. He did. And while I really didn’t absorb it all (partly because after two minutes he sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher), and he was lying when he said once I learned those particular computer controls I could use all the machines (more on that later), I was able to use the treadmill when he walked away.
About five minutes in I was sweating. Ten minutes later the blood vessels in my face had dilated, mixed with my tan, I had a purplish-crimson tinge. I looked away from the mirror and kept walking. I wondered if an alarm would sound when the red heart was flashing, but I increased the pace and kept walking. And walking. I even broke out into a bit of a jog. And eventually decreased my pace before the end of my 20 minutes on the treadmill that felt like no 20 minutes I have EVER exercised in my living room or my neighborhood. And, damn, the calorie burn counter must have been broken, because I barely burned enough on the treadmill to earn a glass of wine with dinner.
So I took a sip of water, wiped down the machine, and stepped on the Stairstepper, as the manager called it, and for the life of me couldn’t figure it out or am clearly not ready to be on that machine. My strides were short and I couldn’t change the pace. But I gave it a go. Then got off after 10 minutes. I went home with jelly legs knowing the toughest part was behind me.
Whoa.
First of all, it appears the last time I used gym equipment was in the Dark Ages, or at least before the dawn of technology. After my tour of the facilities and signing up for the first of my four training sessions, I thought I would start simply with the treadmill. From there I could use a StairMaster. If I stayed in the cardiovascular room, away from the resistance equipment and ellipticals and the free weights, in that big room where everyone seemed comfortable I could probably fake it, hop right on and act like I knew what I was doing. Um, if it weren’t a treadmill from a science fiction movie! (And I hate science fiction) I might have been able to figure it out. But instead the buttons and arrows and flashing lights made me want to cry. But I didn’t. I got off and remembered that a person with inner dignity is never embarrassed. I found the fitness instructor and asked him to show me. He did. And while I really didn’t absorb it all (partly because after two minutes he sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher), and he was lying when he said once I learned those particular computer controls I could use all the machines (more on that later), I was able to use the treadmill when he walked away.
About five minutes in I was sweating. Ten minutes later the blood vessels in my face had dilated, mixed with my tan, I had a purplish-crimson tinge. I looked away from the mirror and kept walking. I wondered if an alarm would sound when the red heart was flashing, but I increased the pace and kept walking. And walking. I even broke out into a bit of a jog. And eventually decreased my pace before the end of my 20 minutes on the treadmill that felt like no 20 minutes I have EVER exercised in my living room or my neighborhood. And, damn, the calorie burn counter must have been broken, because I barely burned enough on the treadmill to earn a glass of wine with dinner.
So I took a sip of water, wiped down the machine, and stepped on the Stairstepper, as the manager called it, and for the life of me couldn’t figure it out or am clearly not ready to be on that machine. My strides were short and I couldn’t change the pace. But I gave it a go. Then got off after 10 minutes. I went home with jelly legs knowing the toughest part was behind me.
Whoa.
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