Adjectives are Subjective

Adjective: n. a word used to modify a noun or other substantive

 

Okay, I'm pretty sure we all know what adjectives are, but have you ever noticed how their meanings can vary depending on either who's using them or the situation involved?  Take adjectives like pretty, hard or scary for example.  I think we're all familiar with these words and their definitions, but let me illustrate what I'm talking about. 

 

Pretty.  A fellow hiker once told me I was the prettiest girl on the trail.  After an uncomfortable moment I said, "Really, even with my gray hair, pointy nose and this fang?"  Then, after flashing a smile to reveal said fang – to which he was largely unamused – I just humbly said, "Thanks."  See, that's what he thought and he's entitled to his opinion.  Who am I to argue with what he deems pretty.  Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder. 

 

Here's another one: Hard.  When I first started doing crossword puzzles, I found them challenging, and since their difficulty increases as the weekdays progress, the NY Times Sunday puzzle was extremely hard for me – well, often the Thursday puzzle was just as tough (as any puzzler knows) – but that's not the case anymore.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that they're effortless, but they've gone from hard to, not only doable but, enjoyable.  So, although I wouldn't describe these puzzles as hard anymore, others still may.  Or on a completely different note, take push-ups.  Many people can do these – some can even add fancy claps in between or do them on one hand.  I can't do them at all.  So, where brain-teasers are easy for me and hard for others, push-ups are easy for some, yet hard (more like impossible) for me.  Get it?  The meaning changes depending on the person.

 

Or how about this: Scary.  There are those (who are out of their minds) who enjoy bungee jumping.  These folks describe this activity as exhilarating.  I'd describe it as scary – more like terrifying, actually.  Now, I've performed live on stage many times, which I find exhilarating, but I know there are others who find that prospect terrifying.  In fact, I know people who'd rather jump off a bridge than perform on stage – see, it's subjective.

 

So, here's the latest contradiction of terms, if you will:  Fun/Humiliating.  My sister-in-law asked me to participate with her in a fashion show at our local Anthropologie.  "It'll be fun," she said.  Fun?  Nothing fits me in that store.  I'm a shoulder less, small-chested, short-waisted, long-legged deformity with a big behind.  Fun?  Try humiliating.  And to really seal the deal with that one, I'd have to walk in heels while showcasing my flouncy outfit.  I've been in sneakers and flip-flops for years.  When I walk in heels I look like a man in drag on his first day on the job.  At the risk of being redundant, fun?  Fun for whom, exactly?  Well, I'm a good sport if nothing else, so without mincing words, I agreed.  "Yeah, okay," I said, "it'll be… fun."

 

Well, what could have been disappointment to someone else was a major relief to me.  Turns out they had enough participants (read: people who actually wanted to be there), so my services were not needed.  (I feel I should tell you that their roster was full and I was excused without ever being seen.)  But here's what's interesting – once the pressure was off, my initial relief did sort of turn to a mild disappointment.  You know, it might have been fun.

 

~ M.

 

 

To Tip or Not to Tip?

Granted, this may not be as deep as contemplating one's mortality, but still, I think it's a question that bears some pondering.  Not that long ago, this was basically a non-issue.  I don't mean that people didn't tip.  I just think it was pretty clear on who did get tipped – not so much nowadays. 

 

Because they work at a reduced rate, waiters and waitresses have long received tips/additional compensation from their customers which naturally encourages them to provide decent service.  It's similar with bartenders, and this can work greatly to your advantage.  If you go up to a bar that's three deep and generously tip your mixer, you're guaranteed to get good service the rest of the night.  It's a two-way street, you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-your-back, quid pro quo sort of thing.  People wanting good service, from people providing a service, are able to reward those for said service, acknowledging the quality of the service provided.  Too wordy?  You get it, though.  It's a win-win.  No problem tipping these folks.

 

Then, of course, there are what I call seasonal tips.  These were probably born of a time when workers received Christmas bonuses and liked to spread the wealth – so to speak.  To digress for a moment, this was so long ago that they were actually called Christmas bonuses without any fear of PC repercussions – that wouldn't fly in today's standards, but most don't get bonuses (by any name) anymore so… In spite of that, though, we still have those who get a few bucks or a "holiday" gift card from us at the end of the year: postal carriers and/or regular delivery/service people, for example – but should they?   

 

And what about others, like, say hairdressers or pet groomers who may be seen regularly throughout the year?  Should I be giving year-end, seasonal tips to them, too?  I don't.  I tip these people at each service – never mind that they're owner/operators and tip etiquette dictates they shouldn't be tipped at all, I still do.  They don't seem to mind. 

 

But does everybody deserve a tip?  What I'm getting at is the tip jar.  The ubiquitous tip jar.  You know what I'm talking about.  It's on almost every counter nowadays: delis, Starbucks, ice cream shops, mailing centers, dry cleaners, the list goes on – basically you'd be hard-pressed to come across a service counter without a tip jar.  Now the thing is I can't go behind the counter and make a bagel, pour coffee or scoop gelato, nor can I ring up packing popcorn or retrieve my own dry cleaning.  This is why these establishments hire employees, and they pay them accordingly to perform these services – some even have health benefits.  This overhead is built into the cost of the consumer goods.  So, if we're already paying $2.50 for a bagel, $5.00 for a froo-froo cup o'joe or $6.95 to have a shirt cleaned, I say we're already doing our part – get rid of the stupid tip jar already.  I don't even like when grocery stores let teens come in and bag groceries for tips – and this has nothing to do with the fact that they don't understand simple bagging techniques.  This is a service the store should provide.  I think the teens can come in (squished fruit aside), but the store should make the donation – maybe on an hourly rate, whatever they work out – not the patron.  It's enough already!  

 

And here's the latest.  In the early Spring, I was traveling for work, and as such, stayed at a hotel – not some cheesy little flea-bag motel, no, a pleasant hotel designed for extended stay business travelers.  I've stayed at this place before.  I like it because their rooms are suites with nice amenities.  On this most recent visit, the clock in my room displayed an incorrect time.  Now I'm fairly bright and up until this point I'd never come across a clock radio with programming that was beyond my capabilities but, darn it, I could not figure out how to reset the time. 

 

"Well, I won't use the clock," I thought, "I'll just phone down to the desk for a wake-up call."  Who was I kidding?  I'm too OCD to have a clock display the wrong time.  According to the time on my cell phone, this clock was 3 hours off local California time.  I was still on MST which already had me off by an hour, so between my phone, my watch and this clock, I was in quite the time warp.  I had to fix it.

 

Willing to risk looking like an inept fool – is there any other kind? – I called down to the desk to inquire about fixing the time.  "Oh, we'll send someone right up," was their reply.  I responded, "You don't have to do that, just tell me how to do it."   "You can't do it," they said, "it's locked."  Locked?  Has there been a run on time-setting tomfoolery that I don't know about? 

 

Anyway, the maintenance guy comes up, unlocks the back of the clock and resets the time.  Easy-peasy.  Even with the chit-chat, this only took about a minute and a half.  While thanking him, I gestured toward the door.  To say he was lingering is an understatement.  He didn't move.  Thoughts raced through my mind.  Am I supposed to tip this guy?  I'm not tipping him.  It's not like I requested some special service – no, I'm not tipping him.  This room costs over $200 a night, the clock should have been set correctly – I refuse to tip for this.  If the clock wasn't locked (ridiculous), I'd have fixed it myself.  I am not tipping this guy.  I turned, walked to the door, opened it and thanked him once more.  Clearly put off by my lack of tipping, he left.  "I should not have had to tip that guy," I said aloud to no one.

 

With that behind me, I grabbed my bag and headed down to the restaurant.  Guess who I met at the elevator?  I smiled, then said, "Oh, by the way, here's a couple of bucks for helping me with the clock."  At the Lobby level, we parted ways.  He was $2.00 richer and I rationalized how it was worth the two bucks not to anguish anymore over not tipping him.  But I gotta tell ya – I shouldn't have had to tip that guy! 

 

At the tipping point,

~ M.

 

 

Whoa, Nellie!

As I've mentioned, I hike Pinnacle Peak regularly.  I've been hiking that trail for years now and it never ceases to amaze me how, in spite of the fact that it is the same trail, the hikes are always different. 

 

There are days – probably when I'm a little tired – when the climbs seem steeper than others.  Some times, after a slight rain or a dewy morning, the path is so slick that you really have to watch your step lest you slide right off the mountain.  And then of course, my favorite, days when the wind is so gusty that you feel like you're walking through a sand-blasting zone.  Yes, the hikes are rarely the same. 

 

Well, recently, my trusty hill offered me a whole new experience – an unprecedented experience (is that redundant?).  I should point out that there are rules and regulations posted at Pinnacle Peak to inform those who may not be in the know of trail etiquette how to conduct themselves.  They're really common sense type things: 

 

-         No smoking (no kidding, this is posted – like who would climb a mountain while smoking?)

-         Only service dogs are allowed on the trail (how many blind people do you think are hiking up there – and how are they reading the sign?)

-         Keep right (this is a challenge for some, believe it or not – makes me wonder how these people drive) 

-         Runners yield to walkers (makes sense – no need to mow anybody down)

-         People – whether running or walking – yield to horses (horses?)

 

In all my time up there I've often wondered why they had that note about horses.  I have never seen a horse up there, and even though I've yet to see an actual horse, I finally saw evidence – a lot of evidence – to support that horses may sometime share the trail.  Who knew?

 

At first there were scattered horseshoe-shaped prints in the dirt.  These were quickly followed by more scattering – and I'm not talking about hoof prints anymore.  There were volumes – wait, is that the right word?  Does volume only apply to liquid quantity?  You know what, it doesn't matter; if it does, it still applies.  There were massive, voluminous piles of horse poop everywhere.  I don't think the… let's call it… output was normal.  Maybe the poor boy (assuming – you know most males can go anywhere) was sick or perhaps he's an I.B.S. sufferer, who knows?  What I can tell you is that the trail was covered in such an unnatural way, it made negotiating it quite difficult.  I guess riders don't have to worry about curbing their horses.

 

In any event, it reminded me of a riddle I heard many years ago and I didn't hesitate to amuse my fellow hikers with it: 

 

What's brown and sounds like a bell?   DUNG!   

 

Giddy-up…

 ~ M.

 

Extra! Extra!

I'm a newspaper subscriber.  I know, they say no one's buying papers anymore, or I suppose what's really said is that no one is reading papers anymore.  And, in spite of the fact that I get regular home delivery, I do sort of fall into that category.  I've admitted that I don't get the paper to stay up on events – current or otherwise – although, I do scan the headlines.  No, I get the paper for the puzzles.  Translation = big dork.  There, I've said it (once again).  Hey, I'm not the only one who does puzzles, you know.  It's people like me who make big business for others.  Think about it, where would Will Shortz be without all of us puzzlers?    

 

There are others, too, whose entire careers lie in creating brain-teasers for people like me – addicts, who are hooked on solving these mental conundrums.  I know I'm digressing but what non-puzzlers don't realize is that these things really do stimulate the brain, and if you do them like I do, over lunch, it helps to pace one's ingestion and, therefore, digestion.  If not for the puzzles, I'd eat my lunch in four minutes flat.  But anyway, as I said, I've digressed.

 

So, I've been getting home delivery for over seven years.  Every morning, no matter what time I'm up (as early as 4:30 in the summer) my paper is always there, in my driveway, waiting for me.  I have a very dependable carrier.  I've never met him, but we exchange Christmas cards every year.  Without fail, some time during the middle of December, folded within the newsprint, I find a greeting card wishing me all the best for the holiday season.  This enables me to reciprocate with yuletide wishes of my own along with a gesture of appreciation for his steadfast commitment. 

 

I assume my carrier is an elderly gentleman – possibly a retired veteran.  I say elderly because his name is Newton.  You just don't see that name that much anymore – at least not among the younger generation, that's for sure.  And I say retired vet because of his reliability and dedication to his customers.  I've already told you how my paper is always there, but it's also always tucked safely away in a plastic protective sleeve, and on the rare days we have rain, he double bags the paper.  This is no slouchy young person doing a half-assed job; no, this is someone who takes pride in his work. 

 

Now this is where I have an issue.  (You knew I had to have one.)  Lately, someone – a likely dog-walker, indeed – is taking the plastic bags off my paper (read: stealing).  I'm sure the perpetrator (correct word for alleged crime committer) doesn't think there's anything wrong with this.  In fact, I'd bet they just assume I discard the bags once I bring the paper inside.  And guess what?  They're right.  But that's not really the point, is it?

 

Newton places my paper in the protective – operative word here – bag for a reason.  To protect it.  Newsprint is already filthy.  Do I need road dust and grime all over my paper, too?  Or how about bird poop? That's always nice to see while the paper sits on my kitchen island – where I eat!  One day it drizzled and my paper was dotted with water marks.  And another time, on a breezy day, I had to retrieve wind strewn papers from my front yard.  Should I have to tolerate this?  No, I don't think so.  It's my paper – I'm paying for it – and it's my sleeve.  It should remain on the paper, protecting it, until such time when I remove it. 

 

As I said, I don't think the thief sees the crime, and I certainly don't mean to be petty, but it is my property.  I mean, how cheap can you be?  If you're a dog walker and you know you need to pick up poop, buy a box of bags already.

 

Well, I did just that.  I bought a box of quart-sized Ziploc bags and placed them in my driveway with a note taped to the top of the box that read: To whoever is taking my newspaper bags, please take this box of bags instead.  The box was never taken – it sat out there for over a week (risking an HOA violation).  But here's the thing, my newspaper bags have remained untouched ever since, and that is a good thing.

 

Ode to Dogwalkers

 

I don't mean to whine

But the paper is mine

 

And I don't like to squawk

But if you've a dog to walk

 

Who poops as he goes,

Then heaven knows

 

Prepared you must be –

Bring a bag or two, or even three

 

Because petty theft, I cannot condone

So, please, leave my paper alone!

 

Reporting it as it is…

~ M

 

Unrequited Love

I once read "the love that lasts longest is the love that's never returned."  Do you think that's true?  I think in some ways it can be.  It actually reminds me of a line from Steel Magnolias.  In one scene, while talking about love, the Truvy character says, "Unrequited love.  My favorite."  I get this – totally, and the reason why is that it's romantic:  A love that never was – feelings of longing, unfulfilled; or, a love that never fully blossomed – cut short before having had a chance to develop.  See the thing is, in these instances, the love is left to linger – shrouded in all the possibility of an endless series of daydreaming what-ifs.  It lives in the mind, tugging at the heart, and while certainly romantic, not entirely real. 

 

Valentine's Day was this month.  You can bet the hype and marketing behind selling a piece of jewelry, a red rose or a box of chocolates had nothing to do with spreading love.  I know it's been said to death, but Valentine's Day really is a Hallmark holiday.  I know what you're thinking, 'she was stiffed,' but that's not it.  True love is not expressed with some token gift on one day in the middle of February.  It's a way of being, day in and day out, all year long. 

 

I remember a joke I heard years ago about true love.  It went something like this:

 

     As a man lay dying, his wife dutifully at his bedside, he says, "Ethel, as I think back over our life together, it occurs to me that you have always been there."

 

E:  Harry, I love you.  I'll always be here.

H:  When I got my draft notice, you were there.

E:  I was.

H:  Then I went off to war, but you waited for me, Ethel.

E:  I did.

H: Remember that car accident I had?
E:  I do.

H:  You were there for that.

E:  I was.

H:  And when I lost my job, you didn't leave me.

E:  I didn't.

H: Even now, in this hospital room, you're still here.

E:  I am.

H:  Ethel, I realize now… you're obviously a jinx!

 

I like that joke, but it is just that – a joke.  And there's really nothing to be laughed at about a life long relationship. 

 

I love seeing an elderly couple walking hand-in-hand, like in that jewelry store ad where the young couple passes the old couple in the park – you know which one I mean.  Our lives go by so quickly.  One minute we're in our 20s, then 30s, blink – 40s and before you know it, you're up there.  What could be more romantic than to take a wrinkled hand and look into the eyes of a face that shows the passage of time and still see the young person you fell in love with, the person you grew with, the person you shared your life with?

 

Years ago, when I was involved with Randy (The Ones That Got Away, Chapter 27), he was always looking for compliments about his physicality, and although his appearance deserved them – he was tall, had a manly build and was handsome – I didn't comment on those things.  I often commented on how clever I thought he was, his quick wit and how he always made me laugh.  I told him I was attracted to his mind.  And isn't that better, really?  I don't think he thought so, but I do.  The mind is the essence of who we really are – it's our thoughts and dreams, our fears and concerns, our hopes and aspirations.  Everything else fades away. 

 

So, if you have the good fortune of sharing your life with someone – through all the trials and tribulations, all the ins and outs, all the ups and downs – that is certainly not a jinx.  It is a bona fide blessing.

 

Unrequited love may be Truvy's favorite, and it may make for great drama, but it's not the stuff real life is made of.  

 

~ M.

 

Time in a Bottle

Jim Croce wanted to save time in a bottle, but that's just not possible – or is it?  While it may be true that we can't save up time, hoarding it away, keeping it stashed and on hand for some future use, can't we capture it – in little bits and pieces – and hold on to it?  The folks at Kodak thought so – remember the Kodak moment?

 

I have decades worth of time frozen images, albums upon albums, stored in my bedroom in a densely packed rattan wicker trunk – there at the ready, offering up a lifetime of memories.  I have sepia shots of my grandparents, my parents' pictures from my youth and a multitude of photos that detail my life's experiences which include a fairly large collection of snapshots from many of the community plays I've done.

 

I enjoy trodding the boards of Memory Lane, revisiting casts and crews, reliving rehearsals and performances, remembering the highlights – which often include when things didn't always go as planned (like when our set nearly collapsed on Lend Me A Tenor).  For those brief moments, I'm transported back in time.

 

And let me tell you, if an album can do that for me, just imagine what a video could do.  I have about a dozen performances on tape.  I haven't watched them in years – not since they were first recorded, actually – but this past Christmas, Tim and Kanna converted them to DVDs for me, so I've been watching them – reliving them.  From my couch, I've been spending time with old friends, people who were dear to me, some that have passed on – how great to see them so full of life; how great to interact with them again; how great to, once more, share a piece of my life with them.  

 

Albums and recordings are obvious means to capture memories, but for me, almost anything has that ability.  Last month I was back in NJ for my sister's wedding.  Driving around the State was like driving through shades of my history – ghosts of my past everywhere I looked.  That's one of the things I love best about going back there.  I lived there for 39 years.  I simply cannot go from Point A to Point B without recalling some memory.  It's impossible. As I cruise from here to there it's a constant barrage of I remember the time when… and oh, that's where so-and-so and I were… It's always something – some little slice from my life.  I enjoy that.

 

And the cool thing is that memories are always being formed.  Peter Gabriel penned, "Nothing fades as fast as the future and nothing clings like the past."  I wholeheartedly agree with that.  I don't live in the past, but as the present slips into it, I guess I do hang on – it's the fabric of my life.  It's who I am.  Some would call me a sensie (sensitive, sappy, sentimentalist) and that's okay.  I admitted long ago – in Chapter One of The Ones That Got Away, actually – that I'm very sentimental and that almost everything holds some special meaning for me.  And it's true. 

 

Case in point: I just received my December Visa bill.  Yes, the Visa bill stirred up feelings of nostalgia – scoff if you must.  As I scanned the details of account activity, it took me right back to the weekend of Linda's wedding.  The charge from the All Seasons Diner brought me back to Eatontown, NJ to the post-wedding brunch with the newlyweds.  The Lukoil entry placed me at the GSP Cheesequake rest area, sitting in my rental car, chatting with my dad – discussing why the gas was pumping so slowly and, more importantly, why that fool would pull into the pumps like that and block the flow of traffic.  And the Budget charge took me directly to Newark Airport – returning the car, hopping on the Airtrain, heading down to the gate – the magical weekend behind us, looking forward to going home. 

 

Our lives go by day by day, just like turning pages in a book.  Our experiences are what make up our individual books – our books of memories.  And the thing is, you never know what's going to stick. You think it will be the big things, but oftentimes, it's the little things: sharing ice cream with your brother, covering a flubbed line on stage or getting gas with your dad. 

 

Can you save time in a bottle?  No, you can't.  But, you can certainly store its treasures in your heart.

 

~ M.

 

Destined to Spend Christmas with Danny Aiello

One of the best things in life is that we don't know what the future holds.  This can be a double-edged sword, though.

 

I had no idea that last Christmas would be my last Christmas with Lillie and Izzie.  I lost them both this year.  I'm not complaining.  I was truly blessed to have them for nearly two decades.  I knew they wouldn't live forever, but it's been hard.  I still miss them.

 

Since their passing, I've been going through the expected this is the first so-and-so without Izzie, which became – much too soon – this is the first such-and-such without Izzie and Lillie.  And now, naturally, this is the first Christmas without them. 

 

As I began to decorate my house this year, I could not bring myself to fill my large decorative bowl with the red glass ornaments like I usually do.  Lillie always enjoyed sleeping in that bowl and, at Christmastime, Izzie always sat beside me while I filled it with the glass balls. No, this year, the bowl would remain empty.  I made that decision while holding the boxed ornaments in my garage.  Placing them back on the shelf, I saw the picture of Danny Aiello that's on the newspaper sleeve that safely protects them all year long.  Looking at it for an extended moment, I sighed, "My first Christmas without Lillie and Izzie… or Danny Aeillo." (See 12/7/08 post)  Or so I thought.

 

Shortly after Thanksgiving I received an email from – you'll never believe this – Danny Aiello's press agent.  It seems Danny released a Christmas CD and she wanted to give me a copy.  Whaaa?  I guess I was destined to spend Christmas with Danny Aiello, after all.  I graciously accepted her offer.

 

The CD is dedicated to his son – whom he lost this year to pancreatic cancer.  I lost my beloved pets.  He lost his son.  I can't even imagine what that's like.

 

The CD opens with a touching intro about Danny's youth, a time when life was simple – living was harder, but life was simpler.  The songs that follow are classics arranged in jazzy combos that give them a fresh fun feel.  As I listen, I can imagine sitting at a small cocktail table in an upholstered circular booth in a dimly lit intimate club watching the show live – I love it.  His version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" is reminiscent of something performed at Club Babalu – a welcome change to the over-played rendition by Bruce Springsteen.  (Sorry Springsteen fans.)  Rounding out the collection is a dedication to his son – a heartfelt "My Christmas Song for You" – a song about the simple joys of the season.

 

What we shouldn't forget is that this season is built around the celebration of the birth of Jesus.  Jesus came to give us hope, to redeem us, to save us – through him, life goes on. 

 

I know it sounds silly, but getting this CD reminds me of that very thing.  I didn't bring out those ornaments, and as such, thought this would be a Christmas without Danny Aiello, but then his CD shows up – a CD dedicated to his late son.  Life goes on – you can't stop living.

 

As I write this, like Lillie before her, Bailey's climbed into that bowl – good thing it's empty, I guess.  Next year will be different.  Next year – God willing – when decorating my house, I'll remove the Danny Aiello article to unwrap the red glass ornaments, I'll have him crooning Christmas carols in my living room and I'll look to Bailey and Zoe and say, "Well, girls, it's another Christmas with Danny Aiello."

 

Merry Christmas ~

 

M.