Take Note!

Ann Margret took notes with a pen.

It’s been some time since my last anti-technology rant so I feel I’m overdue.

In addition, I just read an article in the Wall Street Journal that prompted a lengthy diatribe which, fortunately or unfortunately, was heard only by the cats (who barely glanced up from their ipads). 

Written by a millennial (millennials are an amalgam of two factions -- Generations X and Y – who, with their artisanal mustard and microbrews, are very similar but X-ers can vaguely recall a world less electronically connected while the younger Y-kids are too young to remember anything a time when you actually had to use your brain to think)…it was about the taking of notes in a classroom setting

Forget notes. No one is learning because they're all on Facebook.

It appears millennials of both variety have discovered they comprehend and retain more information when taking notes the “old-fashioned way.” By this, I mean the use of those clunky and pre-historic tools remembered by some as pen and paper. Ha. No, I really mean that—HA! Maybe mom and dad, with our supermarket condiments and cans of Bud from the gas station cooler, might not be such imbeciles after all.

You are so right, Ned!

Unfortunately, the article goes on to explain that new “tablets” have been designed that are almost as thin and “flexible” as—guess what?! --PAPER!!! HA again! And, with these conceptually amazing and ground-breaking devices, you can purchase an electronic implement suspiciously similar to a “pen” for a mere hundred bucks or so. Personally, I prefer my pens from the dollar store.

Tom, my older son (very tech-savvy, yet the more likely of my boys to run off and live in a hollow tree), read the article at my behest only to inform me that these so called “pens” retain your written notes as would a computer. After shouting and windmilling my arms for a bit about how this is nothing but evil sorcery, he placed me in a headlock until I accepted this madness as fact. 

Upon release, and when my breathing finally returned to normal, I countered with the personal knowledge that it is possible to “save” hand-written notes in something known as a file folder which, barring an explosion in your basement artisanal pickle lab, will outlast anything with a computer chip, withstand power surges and be referenced by later generations just as I utilize my great aunt’s recipes from carefully stored index cards written neatly in ink over a half-century ago. 

Tell that to your stupid little electronic pen that you accidentally dropped in the toilet.

This leads directly to another article in the (non-web version) of the same newspaper about how millennials are also starting to install land lines in their homes because -- wait for it -- they are more reliable. 

They blame poor connections, annoyance with the need to constantly monitor re-charging needs, dropped calls and the frustration of locating a dead phone. Again-Ha!! Seth and I have kept our trusty landline for those same reasons. And, while I fully acknowledge the many advantages (Pinterest on the go!) of owning a cell-phone, my land line is an old friend. 

I even make sure there’s a corded version in the house: easily found in an emergency, less likely to give me brain cancer and often needed to call Seth’s number to locate the smart phone that’s slipped between the couch cushions.

Who didn't have one of these in their kitchens?

The "Slimline." What a
concept! 

I’m not advocating one of those no-frills wall phones we all had that came in several colors with a dial and a long, tangled cord or the pretty pink princess phone I coveted as a teen (never got one) or even the comparatively new-fangled “slim-line” from the 70’s that blew our minds by having the dial in the handset. 

Get something modern and sleek with all the fancy features you want! As a side bonus, you can slam the receiver down in fury at anyone who’s pissed you off or wants to clean your chimney. Angrily jabbing at a screen is a poor substitute for a good slam.

Is, as I’ve heard it said, everything old, new again? Nah….and, in many instances, that’s a good thing. Even we fossils acknowledge that technology has made life easier, safer and opened doors for medicine, science and the vital transmission of information. But try picking up a pen and giving your handwriting a new lease on life. Make that call on a land line for a clear and uninterrupted chat and then discuss, over a frosty mug of barley wine and lentil chips, how some old things are worth keeping around. 

And, kids-you might even want to try one of those fancy erasable pens for your note-taking…now that’s technology

My preference for a landline.

The Guardians

My son Tom is visiting for a bit. He’s heading back to where he lives in Virginia in a few days but while he’s here, he’s been catching up on his sleep. 

Emerging from his childhood bedroom, he’ll come out tousled and stretching to comment that he doesn’t know “what the hell we do to him” but he sleeps, and naps, more here than anywhere else. He says this somewhat accusingly as if Seth and I might be slipping potions into his milk for the purpose of rendering him unconscious. While this would have been a fabulous idea during his terrible teens, I can assure you that we have never and would never.

The reason Tom sleeps better here is due to the same reason that when I would walk past the living room to my mother’s quarters, finding her either seated in her wingback, watching TV while plying one of several handicrafts she enjoyed or ensconced at her desk writing and humming along to something from her eclectic CD collection, I would start –as had been my original intent – chatting about one thing or another. Inevitably, however, I’d soon be curled up on her bed, enjoying deep and restorative sleep. She might have been a bit disappointed because she always welcomed a good talk but she’d never disturb me.

Simply put, our mothers are the guardians. We are they who will keep the wolf from the door, successfully wrestle the bogeyman into submission, vigilantly protect our sleeping angels -- tiny or full grown -- while they slumber.  That unconscious and restful abandon is why Tommy sleeps so deeply here and why I, a restless and fitful sleeper, would slip into a rejuvenating abyss when my mother sat near.

If you’re lucky, this is the kind of mother you have…or, as in my case, had for the blessed years she was with me on this earth. She’s still with me every day…showing up in dreams, as far away only as a thought or a prayer.

Here’s a little something I wrote once for Mother’s Day…

Mother’s and Trees

At first, you might not think that mothers and trees are similar beings but, upon closer inspection, the similarities cannot be ignored.

Trees and mothers come in many different sizes, shapes and colors. Sofas do, too, for that matter...but sofas are not brave, steadfast and proud. Trees, and mothers, are.

Trees put down roots so their branches will grow strong and be nourished just like mothers do for their children. And, trees are appreciated, respected, enjoyed and also, occasionally, peed on, just like mothers.

They are also sometimes taken for granted as we lean against them for support not unlike how mothers are occasionally thought of by their children. They are part of the landscape, dependably blending into the scene but when it’s raining we rush beneath their boughs for comfort and they become exactly what we need.

And, trees are beautiful…..just like mothers.

Happy Mother's Day

Sixty

IHOP and I--both
60 this year.

I am writing this exactly one week before my 60^th birthday. Sixty. The big 6-0. The start of my seventh  decade knocking around this planet being a smartass. This day, when I was little girl -- up to a point,  probably, in my thirties -- seemed very far away.

Sixty seems more daunting than other benchmark birthdays. Thirty was nothing. Forty was a minor shock and fifty was, literally, overlooked. Fifty? Bah---who cares! Especially when others (people in their fifties) insisted that fifty is now considered the “new thirty.” I knew that was nonsense but I was busy, the kids appeared to still need me (although that was a mirage) and my knees hadn’t started hurting in earnest…yet.

But sixty sounds formidable. Even though I didn’t need any special skills to get here, it carries a sort of gravitas.

It’s the gateway to another chapter---one where you become a little more cranky, creaky…and more invisible.

It’s when women of my mother’s generation began wearing lower heels and crisp snap coats to the corner store. They might even have fastened one of those schooner-shaped net kerchiefs, designed to keep their beauty parlor coifs safe in the rain, under their chins. Nobody cared. After all, you were sixty.

Today, women’s uniforms don’t seem to change much. If we were cleavage baring, stiletto-wearing hussies, we continue to be---apparently unto eternity. I’m not saying this is a bad thing as I, myself, hope to wear my jeans and Birkenstocks until the bitter end. But sixty cannot be turned into something “young.” We’re not spring poultry anymore.

My generation fights to stay youthful. We’re capable of spending hefty sums on one (or several) of twenty trillion available skin treatments, endure boob and tushie lifts and text in disturbing abbreviations on our little phones. Men get hair plugs and take viagra. Aging has become something to fear, something to hide from by utilizing a variety of sophisticated defenses. And, while I fret endlessly about diminishing collagen, eye bags and wrinkling knee caps, I realize that, every day, something else has begun sliding downward in need of an artificial boost…and it ain’t stopping.

I have a photo of my grandma, taken soon after her sixtieth birthday. Perched on a swing in a playground, she’s wearing a sensible dress and the saddest expression you’ve ever seen. She wasn’t bemoaning the encroachment of age. I was only two at the time but now understand that this woman was too worn out to have spent much time worrying about getting older. She still worked like a dog everyday, dealing with all kinds of problems and all kinds of people. 

She might have slapped some Jergens on before toppling into bed every night but she didn’t have the luxury to wonder if she should join a gym. Her leisure time was spent with Lawrence Welk or chatting with her sisters, all of whom lived in the same house. She looked and behaved like an “old lady.”

I may look like an old lady but I prance off to the gym, wear sweatshirts with words on them and  shove pedicured feet into fluffy UGGS when it’s chilly. I text (in full, perfectly punctuated sentences, for the record), listen to current music (sometimes) and occasionally use the word “cool.” That doesn’t, however, make me cool. My grandma was cool. She baked every week, washed the floor every night and sewed much of our clothing on an old factory Singer in the damp cellar of our Brooklyn home, sometimes late into the night. I hope someone acknowledged her sixtieth birthday.

I’d also like to say that I greatly appreciate still being here. We all know a startling number of wonderful friends and family who were snatched away and who would have loved to be planning for their sixtieth birthdays. I miss you all terribly and, in your names, promise that I won’t whine too much about it but will truly celebrate, in my heart, that I’ve been given these years, months, days and minutes to enjoy a sunset, browse the aisles of Sephora (where I’m ignored) and tirelessly plot against Justin Bieber.  

I cannot promise that I will always use my time well and never be a jerk, and -- as Seth loves to remind me, a cinder block could fall on my head tomorrow -- but sixty, here I come!

Another Bitchy Review: The 2018 Grammy Awards

Last night at the 2018 Grammy’s, Bono – gray roots showing and looking (and acting) more like the Crypt Keeper every day, escaped his attendants and wandered out on stage during Kendrick Lamar’s pyromaniacal opening act. Obviously confused, he quickly retreated. 

Dave Chappelle, who, apparently, needs his name emblazoned on every article of clothing he owns, soon followed. Rambling a bit, he, too, seemed slightly confused, also disappearing quickly.

Giant duck or swan?

I, myself, had been a bit baffled by Mr. Lamar but it all made sense to me when, soon after, Lady Gaga sang her huge hit about having “one hundred million reasons to fall asleep.” Wait—what? Those aren’t the lyrics? Well, they should be since I nodded off frequently throughout the evening. I did kind of like Gaga’s piano even though it had, obviously, been hit by a poultry truck on the way over to Madison Square Garden.

Rihanna at work

I have, in previous reviews, admitted that I may be getting too old and farty for these musical award shows. Known to scroll for crock pot recipes on my phone during performances that bore me, last night was no different despite many of the chaotic production numbers reminding me of performances from variety shows of the past. For me, this further confirmed the creaky adage that there really is nothing new under the sun--except twerking hadn’t been invented yet, profanity didn’t need to be bleeped from song lyrics and, in those days, Rihanna might have been arrested – mid zumba demonstration—for public indecency. And, while I have finally come to like the song “Despacito” and harbor a strange fascination for the gentleman known as “Daddy Yankee,” I was distracted by the endless crotches and ass cheeks to the point where I forgot what they were singing. 

Miley in 2013 with Robin Thicke.

Miley, last night.

Naughty stuff, but the vice squad didn’t storm the stage because we’ve all become numb to this sort of behavior. Thank you, Miley Cyrus who, last night, dressed for a performance of “La Boheme” in contrast to the nude two-piece she wore to the 2013 VMA awards while rubbing up to Robin Thicke's privates during a hilariously shocking performance of “Blurred Lines.” Thicke’s wife divorced him soon after.  

Jim or Philip Seymour?

Since I did doze a bit,  I do have several questions about what went on last night: Why was Jim Gaffigan pretending to be Philip Seymour Hoffman? Why did Sarah Silverman travel though a wind tunnel that puffed up both her hair and boobs to alarming and uncharacteristic proportions? Is Childish Gambino really childish? Why does Scissor spell her name SZA? Why did the airlines lose Pink’s luggage and from which lunch lady did she borrow her outfit? Why was Rihanna wearing a shower curtain early in the evening? Why was Sam Smith wearing a lab coat and pajamas? Why didn’t Elton John, dressed as an extra from a Marvel Comics movie, sing his own song? What motivated Sting to untangle himself from an extended session of tantric sex with his wife long enough to show up for the telecast and, most importantly, why won’t my husband, Shemar Moore, return my calls?

What the heck, Sarah?

Regular readers of my reviews know I love Gary Clark who – in a glorious purple velvet suit -- paid tribute to the recently deceased Chuck Berry. Chuck Berry, if you’ve forgotten, is known both for the groundbreaking style with which he approached early rock and roll as well as for placing multiple video cameras in the stalls of the lady’s room of the motel he once owned and -- while we’re at it -- will someone please remember that Jay-Z, who is treated like the second coming of Christ, once sold crack on the streets of Brooklyn, New York.

Patti Lupone still has the pipes to awe the crowd, Cindy Lauper, even singing background for the ever- grubby Kesha (yes, I know what happened to her)) and the diminutively dynamic Bruno Mars always warm my cold heart.

I kind of missed this....

Last night’s audience, responding with more recognition to the far, far less accomplished Ben Platt (one-time Tony winner for a leading role in a Broadway play) than for the legendary Leonard Bernstein, was missing the obnoxious front row dance stylings of Miss Taylor Swift. Instead Lorde sat like a zombie, apparently dead until someone waved Elton John's sneakers under her nose.

No, not this Shaggy....

This one!

Refusing to be subjected to anything about politics and/or current “movements” that pinned wilted white roses to everyone’s lapels, and preferring an era when the Grammys were all about the music, I fled at the slightest indication that something of that nature was on the way. Thank goodness, because rumor has it that Hilary appeared and that would have definitely harshed the mellow I’d achieved during the all-too brief appearance of my beloved "It Wasn't Me" Shaggy. I also tried to minimize (more recipe searches on my phone) the giddy blathering ("Oh, there are celebrities around me!!!") of the self-besotted James Corden who, like Hilary, just won’t go away. 

Afloat  in the harbor....

To my horror/gratitude, my DVR went only until eleven and I awoke to find I’d slept through the final awards. I hear Bono made it back from the floating stage in the river but, reportedly, the “Edge” panicked after his cap was blown off, diving into the frigid water after it. Luckily, Lady Gaga, floating by on her piano, was able to rescue him though the cap was never recovered.

That’s it, friends. I know I’m nasty but tough times require a hard heart…or something like that. I now have several good crock pot recipes lined up and look forward to trying them. I’d be happy to share them if you’re interested!