Selective Memory

Ah, the human brain--what a complicated and sly little trickster! Equipped with a Memory Box, it has a mind of its own when it comes to which ones get stored and which ones get tossed, and far be it from us to understand the criteria for each. A dear friend and I just had a little exchange about a dramatic incident occurring 30 years ago, and while he was merely a bit player and not the lead, he doesn't recall any of it while I clearly remember him as having a speaking part.

No matter, it's long gone--but it got me thinking about how we gloss over the facts and rewrite history whenever it suits us. Were it not for a little memory or two, entire lives could be different. Who knows--I might still be pals with my ex-business partner were I able to forget the hilarious sight of her undercover tag-team operation during the waning moments of our first and only company Christmas party. With her complicit husband waiting outside, she surreptitiously ferried an untouched platter of catered shrimp to his waiting hands as if it were the Olympic torch. But really, half of it was mine; would it have been so hard to say, "I want the shrimp, you take the leftover wine"?

I think of Operation Shrimp Run whenever I see her around town and it still cracks me up each time, so I guess it was worth it after all.

See Food Differently

Dammit--why are all the good jobs always for men? Today I found this ad on Craigslist: 

5 guys needed! (southern maine) 

looking for five guys to be in a short film based on fornicating food.

On Forgiveness

Along with some other things my son is a waiter, or as he likes to say, slave. He often shares anecdotes of awful behavior exhibited by diners on his watch. I'm sorry for him, but hey--servers can be a pain in the ass too. In fact, a bad one can ruin an otherwise good meal, and you still have to leave a tip or you go straight to Hell, I've been told.

At a recent dinner out, our waitress acted as if she were our long-lost firstborn just sprung from a Turkish prison. She nattered on so much about things other than what's on the menu that I forgot for a minute and thought she was selling us a timeshare at the beach instead of a lousy plate of pasta. But she was so cheery, it was unthinkable to tell her to shut up and and just bring the food-- and some water and maybe while you're at it, the salt and pepper. And we're missing a napkin. And what happened to that wine we ordered. And by the way, "My name is Deedee and I'll be your server for the evening" doesn't get the food into my mouth if I have no silverware.

Also annoying is when they tell you the specials, which in some places can take as long as a reading of Beowulf.  Then when you ask if this is good or that is good, everything is "fabulous," which you know is not true. So they lie. And then they disappear when it's time for the check. I could go on but I won't, since I just want to make the point that there are two sides to every story, and because of that I forgive Deedee. Because we never recover until we forgive. Even though I see no reason why I had to hear that her daughter wasn't feeling well that day and missed school. Is that really something I needed to know? Oh right....forgive. Recover.

Me Don't Get It

                                   Gordon Studer

Continuing its slow, daily slide into the muck of popular culture, today's Wall Street Journal contains an article asserting that the more someone uses the pronoun "I" in conversation, the lower their status. It turns out that one tiny word signifies a lack of self-esteem on the part of the speaker, combined with a feeling of powerlessness and subordination to the listener. If you find this interesting--and who would--you can read an entire book on the subject, aptly entitled, "The Secret Life of Pronouns." In an odd twist, studies have also proven that those who avoid saying "I" are generally more dishonest, since avoiding the first-person is "distancing."

Now me confused. I'm not sure what to say.

I Guess That's Why They Call it CHASE

Like everyone, we get a lot of bills each month: car, house, insurance, utilities, phone, credit cards, blah, blah, blah. I pay everything on time or early, since I am neurotic that way. Every so often, like once a year, I overlook a bill, probably because it got lost somewhere in our home or even worse, ended up in my husband's briefcase and stayed there if he picked up the mail that day. Anyway, we are fabulous debtors.

So last month I must have lost the mortgage bill for our second home, which we share with a friend, in upstate New York. I never paid it, which I learned via the new bill for the next month. Wrongly believing my earlier payment would show up, I just paid the new bill. So then I went to the post office on Saturday and had to sign for SIX CERTIFIED LETTERS FROM CHASE BANK IN NEW YORK SCREAMING THAT I COULD LOSE MY HOME!!!!! The letter also contained a list of housing counseling agencies to help me out of what must be a messy downward spiral to the gutter. It said I had until the first of November to pay up, or else.

So then at 7:50 this morning I got a call from CHASE BANK IN NEW YORK, and a nasty man asked for my husband, saying, "HE MIGHT BE IN TROUBLE!!!!!!!" I explained that I pay the bills, and my husband was out, and please give me an update, and he said since I am not listed on the loan he could not talk to me, even though I got two certified letters personally addressed to me. He insisted that MITCHELL BETTER PAY UP OR HE IS IN VERY HOT WATER AND AT RISK OF LOSING HIS HOME...

I suggest another way: Have some nice lady or gentleman call and say, "It appears you overlooked your last payment, perhaps you could send it along." Maybe then there would not be one suicide every 40 seconds in this country.

FILM REVIEW: The Wrong Stuff

George and Sandra sharing a bit of bad dialogue.

Being one of those suckers born every minute you hear about all the time, I could wait no longer to see the latest, hyper-hyped movie and so went this afternoon, just two days after it hit the theaters. "Gravity" is a suspenseful 3-D space odyssey that stars Sandra Bullock, and when I say it stars Bullock, I mean if you are Sandra's mommy this movie is for you. It's All-Sandra, All the Time, and if you don't like her already, this movie won't win you over. Fortunately I went in as a fan, and I came out feeling sorry that she probably thinks she will win an Oscar for this performance, but guess what--she won't be. (Naomi Watts acted a lot harder in that tsunami movie and she wasn't even nominated, so Sandra should just accept it now and move on.)

Along for the ride is everyone's buddy, George Clooney. He portrays the captain of the mission gone awry in an affable, Houston-we-have-a-problem sort of way. Despite floating around the interstellar nebula permanently installed in a Barcalounger spray-painted Milk of Magnesia white, and with a gigantic tool chest strapped to his chest, Clooney remains nonplussed and downright jovial for the duration. (Spoiler alert: Not that he's around for the duration.) Anyway, the photogenic twosome are engaged in banter and chitchat while on some everyday assignment when a major goof by those damn Russians--who else?--ruins everything and outer space gets broken. Things fall apart. There is floating debris. Houston does not copy. The script worsens.

The 3-D part is pointless as usual, except for one time when Sandra is crying and one of her tears floats into space and you start watching it instead of Sandra working for that Oscar. That's a good moment, offering a needed break; the tear comes at you, growing bigger and bigger. It's all got to do with gravity. And then too. there is the gravity of the situation, which is that Mitch and I shelled out $21 bucks for the experience, not counting the popcorn. To be fair, it's fun to see outer space and rocket ships and all that astronaut jazz up close. It's just sad that you can't turn the sound off.

Pizza for Breakfast

Even though today was supposed to be the first day of my Really Getting Serious, Lose 10 Pounds by Christmas Diet, I woke up and went downstairs and straight into the garage to throw away some cat litter and there it was, stopping me dead in my tracks: an empty pizza box from OTTO. This is a rare and beautiful thing. My heart pounding, I raced to the fridge and found an entire--okay, less than entire but a lot left--pizza wrapped in copious amounts of aluminum foil. If you have never been to Portland, and many have not, you might not know that OTTO is the God of Pizza and He lives up here, splitting His time between two locations, with talk of a third.

I grew up on Long Island outside of New York City, and as a child believed that La Bella Notte in Baldwin was where He lived. Then I matured and went to college in Greenwich Village, and late one night stumbled into John's on Bleeker Street. Again, I was convinced I had found Him, until I moved to D.C. and knew in my bones that A.V. Ristorante Italiano--known to the congregants simply as A.V.'s-- housed the deity, who often vacationed at a restaurant in Brooklyn I never knew the name of but it's down the street from my brother-in-law's house. Anyway, all that falderol ended when we moved here four years ago and I discovered OTTO, which is the best thing in Maine, except perhaps its rocky coastline. The search is over, and like most spiritual quests it has taken the better part of my life, but I know Him now, and He is in my fridge.

So there it was in all its glinting, triangular-shaped glory, obviously smuggled into this house by one of the occupants long after I went to bed. On closer inspection, I determined it to be a stellar choice: sausage and white bean. Instinct overtook reason and I did not hesitate but instead dragged out the toaster oven and got busy. And now the day is ruined and it's only eight in the morning. I guess I'll start that diet tomorrow.

The Last Supper

These days I can't seem to get hired for so many reasons, it's not funny--not that it would be funny for fewer reasons either. Whatever the cause, I'm thinking my blog needs a "niche," since the only way I can make money is through writing, and the only thing I want to write is this blog. If I could distinguish it from the 60 billion other blogs out there, I could get attract more readers, fill it with ads and make money writing it. (Hang in, this part is boring even to me.) Anyway, my niche. Some things that are popular that I know a lot about:
1. Cooking
2. Suicide
3. Cats
4. Art
5. Boring jobs
6. Dysfunctional families
7. Dieting
8. Life in a small town
9. Literature

Since I wrote cooking first, that must mean something. Okay, so I'll have a cooking blog, but it has to be something different since there are so many already. How about Cooking for Dysfunctional Families. Artful Eating. Cooking for Cats. Cooking the Books. Food for the Suicidal, or What to Eat for that Last Meal. Or maybe just: The Last Meal. Diets be damned: What to eat when you are suicidal. That's it! Everyone loves to eat, except for anorexics and they're completely nuts--and besides, they have plenty of their own blogs already, whereas there are hardly any for the suicidal, which many people are, like about 30,000 annually just here in America. And the World Health Organization estimates that each year approximately one million people die from suicide, which represents a global mortality rate of 16 people per 100,000 or one death every 40 seconds. It is predicted that by 2020 the rate of death will increase to one every 20 seconds. That's a lot of readers, and they all have to eat something, since hardly anyone chooses starvation as the final solution.

Now I'm wondering what I would have. Hmmm, it's so hard to imagine not being worried about dieting since I haven't eaten a meal in more than 50 years without obsessing on calories contained therein. Anyway, my blog will focus on what to eat before you:
1. jump off a bridge (nothing too heavy)
2. sit in the car in the garage and turn on the motor (beef stew, pot roast, comfort foods)
2. shoot yourself (cheesecake, maybe a Whopper and fries)
4. overdose on sleeping pills (anything with vodka as main ingredient)
5. hang yourself (who could eat?)

 Needs work, but I may have found my niche. Certainly nobody else is doing it.

Shutdown Blues

Here's a photo of a new Chinese panda cub to tide you over...

I heard an amazing statistic earlier today: 80% of the seafood consumed by Americans is imported. I was skeptical, since most of the fish we eat here in Maine comes from local waters, some just down the road a piece. Intrigued, I did some research and found that in reality, 86% of our seafood is imported. Even worse, less than 1% of it is inspected by our government, and those inspections will now cease with the current shutdown. Shocked by that statistic, I wondered about the amount of beef we get from outside sources, but when I tried to check, a notice on the website with all the answers declared, "Due to the government shutdown, we're closed."

First no Panda Cam, and now this. We might as well be in Siberia.

Things You Should Know

A new black coat with an old black belt.

This morning, over coffee, I read some grim news: All of our national parks will close, except for the Grand Canyon which will remain open because they couldn't find a tarp big enough to cover it. And while many government employees are suddenly without jobs, members of Congress will still get their full pay, according to a law written by members of Congress that they will always get their full pay no matter what.

Then I came across some real news: This year, the Embellished Coat will be the "must have" wardrobe item. In fact, according to a top fashionista I never heard of, "Nothing is more stylishly transformative than a drop-dead embellished coat."

Confused, I looked up "transformative" in case it had another meaning than the one I know. It doesn't. Then I had to look up "Embellished Coat" for the same reason. Again, no--it's just a coat with extra stuff on it. Here in Maine, where the only embellishment any coat "must have" is a ski lift tag, I'm already out of style since I don't ski. But this year, women's coats will sport shiny objects, glittery geegaws, sequins, bobbles, non-functioning buttons and embroidery. Once the coat has those things, it will be turned into something else. Also, you should know that burgundy is the new black. (See photo)

Articles I Didn't Finish Reading

In today's Portland Press Herald, a local newspaper I check out sometimes online to see if anything crucial is happening in my area, I started reading an article about how nonverbal communication can impact others around you. A short introductory paragraph is followed by a list of examples, beginning with:  

Domineering Nonverbal Communication:
Speaking in a voice that is unusually loud or overly soft, with carefully enunciated words.

Why go further?