Kendra, my new BFF (or, Comcast, how do I love thee?)

We pay a tidy sum monthly for Comcast to provide  internet access and television at our house. I have a slight addiction to the Weather Channel (shoutout to Stephanie Abrams and Mike Bettes — I heart you!) and am a recovering NCIS addict (who even thought about fixing up Mark Harmon with Jamie Lee Curtis?? Blech!). Music Choice gives me the Blues when I crave them and a Mexicana fix as necessary.

A remote the size of a small cat with about 100 buttons came with our service. I mastered the on/off and volume buttons and tried not to bump any others lest I be forced to press every button to get back to home base, or worse, be forced to call Comcast on my essentially nonexistent cell phone service. About a year into our service my nephew visited and informed us we had HD channels. Duh. Even I of very low threshhold viewing requirements could see the crisp, color-infused superiority of an HD presentation.

Recently, in a bold, devil-may-care moment, I pushed the ”On Demand” button. It was as if I had stepped into Dr. Who’s phone booth. As angels sang softly in the background, an entire time-warp’s worth of extra programming appeared, for viewing at my leisure. Though I confess to frequently using television to put me to sleep, no longer did I have to wake up to the credits of my one favorite show rolling along. Easy menu choices allowed me to cue up my selection as well as pause the program for a drink refill/toilet flush/nose blowing break. I had discovered the alternate universe that is Comcast Xfinity.

And, I met Kendra.

Kendra, in the virtual, in my house.

Kendra, my new BFF. Smiling, encouraging, non-threatening Kendra, she who resembles my niece and invites me to come along with her, sometimes bringing her also-smiling friends, on a brisk walk or a booty-busting, sweaty dance session. Never condescending or insipid, always reasonable and patient, Kendra

You go, girl!

accepts me into the fold of her excercise classes without asking me if I have kids or telling me that’s not how we do things here or telling me she can help me get religion. I can see that flash in her eyes and the way she looks at her friends that she rocks, too; she’s trying not to laugh at someone in the background egging her on during the Rhythmic Groove.  She’s always available for me, for the quick 10 minute walk after I drag myself from bed before plodding off to notwork, or in the reviving half hour we spend sliding sideways and marching it out while rain again falls outside my windows. She’s having fun; I’m having fun. Kendra’s helping me get my groove back.

Comcast (literally) hasn’t always been there for me in the past, but Kendra’s changing that. She keeps showing up when I look for her. The value of that tidy sum we pay has increased exponentially. So, hey Comcast — thanks!

To Xfinity & beyond!

The button box.

I’m reluctant to really clean out my sewing machine cabinet. It’s full of remnants (no pun intended) of another life — zippers salvaged from discarded garments, thread in 64-Crayola colors, a miniature pizza cutter tracing wheel, and silver-toned needle threaders that my older eyes require. The real treasure of this now neglected realm, though, is my mother’s button box: buttons in pairs and more, orphans, shanked and not, most of unknown or long forgotten origin. To remove the box’s lid is to release a confetti-toss of personal memories of my mother, my best friend.

My mother preceded me on the storied sewing path, from necessity. She began by making diapers for my oldest brother. The scratchy feeling of the mint green dotted Swiss dress she made for me, a smaller replica of hers, remains in my mind, 50 years later.

On snowy days when I was young, I would empty her button box on the floor and sort them by color. In my eyes they were jewels, currency for my imagination, tiny rainbows, complete stories in themselves. Like a waterfall, I would pour them over and over back into their box, watching them slide through my fingers.

The button box took on new importance when my mother passed the sewing baton to me, or rather, when I commandeered her sewing machine after she showed me the basics. In my early teens, I began sewing constantly, using cheap fabric to maximum effect through striking and unusual color combinations and styles. Every new clothing fad churned from the sewing machine and I could go thirty days at my part-time job without wearing the same thing twice. Where once my mother had sewn for me, I now sewed for her.  Nearly everything needed a button and my inherited stash rarely failed me.

I sewed, buttoned and zipped my way gaily through school, into the working world, and right into a horrendous marriage. I quickly became a blurry outline of my original free-spirited self:  downtrodden, frightened, exhausted, trying to keep peace and quiet in the house. Eventually sewing became my only permissible means of self-expression, and Mom’s button box supported me. A slight addiction ensued — I could stand at a button bin for an hour, digging around the 5 for $1.00 cards, matching, discarding, feverishly digging again, triumphant with new additions to the button box. My ever-patient mother would find a seat somewhere and wait out the episode.

The button box, and very little else, followed me out of those terrifying years. When I finally gathered the strength to save my life, I ran, leaving everything behind except my sewing supplies. Across country and back I traveled, stumbling and struggling to begin a new life.  My mother was there to support me, without judging me for some of my more questionable actions as I thrashed about trying to find my way. She sacrificed much of herself trying to help me become whole again.

Gradually my world reformed around me. At last there was time for other pursuits — reading, theater, travel. The sewing corner was quieter now, the buttons more for mending or updating rather than new creations. Clothing and sewing became much less important as I caught up on many years of missed opportunities.

The button box reappeared for the sunny day of my mother’s funeral. Caught unprepared by her sudden death, the clothes I was compelled to buy for the service came with the usual unsuitable buttons. Off they came, on went a selection from the box. Mom went to earth, I went to pieces. Wine bottles kept me company for long shaky months.

However, the buttons did not completely disappear. The world blithely kept turning and I plodded my grieving way through its days. By chance, my interest in the Civil War rekindled and once again the button box found its niche. Wide hoop skirts and little girls’ dream ball gowns, with contortionist button-up back openings, rustled off the sewing table. All manner of hooks & eyes, fasteners, and buttons enveloped me as I Virginia-reeled into the next stage of my life.

The dress I wore when I remarried was sewn with the skill and knowledge my mother had taught me nearly 30 years earlier.

The sewing corner is again quiet. But I still have that box of buttons and always will. I handle it very gently, fully aware of its fragility. It contains the story of a significant part of my life, and entwined with that story, a glimpse at my incomparable mother’s brief life.

My mother died May 12, 1998, two days after Mother’s Day. She was 68 years old.

Slap happy.

This gallery contains 31 photos.

Guilty – I admit it at the outset. I have a visceral need to be part of Something – Something New and Big. How that fits in with my other need to be invisible remains to be reconciled, but there … Continue reading →

Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, seen from beneath a perfect hat.

Last Sunday’s jaunt to Baltimore produced some noteworthy lessons: preconceived notions can be pleasantly wrong; if you have a Perfect Hat, why leave home without it; and taking the wrong way can be the right thing to do.

 The answer to the question, “If I got my ticket, can I ride?” posed by the excellent Jubilant Sykes got him a road trip with me via the Magic Bus’ sound system, as we bobbed and weaved northward behind Mike’s smokin’ hot 4 cyl. (cough, cough, lug, lug) black Dodge Avenger rental. I walked out of the house with my sensible Georgia Peanut Tour baseball hat, then at the last instant I leaped from the Bus and dashed back in for my Perfect Hat, dispelling the feeling of having left behind something important. 

I know there was a television series about Baltimore called The Wire; I’ve never seen it. There’s not a place on earth that doesn’t have its shortcomings, and maybe Baltimore has more than some. But I’ve heard disparaging remarks about cities that turned out to be the prejudice or misunderstanding of the speaker. For me, Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and surrounding area were a Big Fun place to spend a Sunday afternoon. The Convention Center was hosting a cheer competition, and gaggles of girls in Spandex, sparkles and smiles bounded along sidewalks. Barnes & Noble had set up shop in the old power plant, its stout smokestacks rising beside racks of cookbooks and magazines. Goofy bright green and deep plum Puff the Magic Dragon-shaped boats, their occupants sealed like human hot dogs in orange lifejacket buns, muddled about between the USS Torsk, a submarine that sunk the last Japanese warship of World War II, and the Civil War-era wooden ship Constellation.  A pirate vessel sped at a remarkable clip across the water, all flags boldly flying, crossing waves with bright yellow sightseeing speedboats and blue & white water taxis.  The waterside was pleasantly crowded with tourists and locals together, taking in the sun and warmth and breezes of the day.

Almost at the very outset of the walking tour I signed us onto, I was mentally dope-slapped for my presumptions — that the low cost of the tour ($7) meant we’d stand outside the visitor’s center and the guide would point to things, drone a few facts, and we’d be finished in 30 minutes or less, and that she wasn’t spry enough to walk more than a few blocks. Wrong and wrong. Two hours and a goodly tramp later, guide Cheryl had proved herself a well of intriguing information (the American flag of Star Spangled Banner fame was so large its seamstress had to spread it on a brewery floor to sew it), patience (as I skittered here and there taking photos), insight (she didn’t miss anything I was thinking despite my bejeweled-skull sunglasses and Perfect Hat disguise), and a proud Baltimorean — neither Northern nor Southern — simply an excellent ambassador for a reinventing metropolis. Cheryl was old enough to reminisce about the smell of McCormick Spices before the company’s relocation from the harbor area, and knowledgeable enough to recommend where to eat crab cakes (which contain almost no breading and are as common at cookouts as hamburgs and at least the same size), that Vaccaro’s has the best cannoli (the first I’ve had, and pretty tasty), and that Nancy Pelosi is actually Nancy D’Alesandro Pelosi, daughter of a Baltimore mayor (I thought she sprang from the womb a fully formed adult in California).  

Our tour completed in Little Italy, which was exactly where I wanted to be for food. We took our hungry selves into Amicci’s, which declared itself “very casual,” and sits near the parking lot where Italian-themed movies are shown on a building’s outside wall on summer nights. After mussels in marinara and a side of tomatoes with mozzarella only the fact that we were on foot gave me hope of freeing up room for dessert at Vaccaro’s. Several blocks’ easy walk then took us back to the Magic Bus.

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In preparation for my drive back to our Virginia house, Mike drew me a beautiful map. Here it is, isn’t it impressive?

The way back.

I left my road warrior husband at his hotel prepping to battle bugs somewhere in the Baltimore area. Without the least sense of wifely disloyalty, I popped my man Robert Earl Keen into the music player, turned up the volume exponentially, rolled down the Magic Bus windows, and launched happily into the ride. How I have missed you, traffic and freeways! The excellence of the day was underlined by all slowdowns being in the opposite direction.

Then I came to the 495′s, south or west. I was GPS-less and the only paper map I had was Mike’s limited version. But beneath my Perfect Hat  my pleasantly fried brain couldn’t recall — should I take 495 south or 495 west? (Mike regales me frequently about the delightfulness of Washington, D.C.’s traffic and the countless “95′s” — 495, 695, 195, 895, 395 and so on, ad nauseum). A quick decision was necessary with minimal familiarity on my part with the names on the highway signs. South was moving along smoothly, and Virginia was south, so I chose that.

Within a mile, I realized I should have gone west. But I also didn’t much care. I was now singing as loud as I could with Robert Earl, and along came those lyrics, “I’ve got these thoughts in my own head. . .I’ve got this moment that I’m livin’ in and nothin’ else at all. . .I am a runaway locomotive, out of my one track mind.” Why ruin a perfect day with insignificant details like the “right” direction? I’d get to the house eventually; I didn’t have to be at notwork till Monday at 9:00a.m. So I snugged my Perfect Hat on a little tighter and continued what seemed to be downhill all the way (just like on a paper map, north to south), dueting endlessly with Robert Earl Keen (where had my voice been during Virtual Choir?), seeing what was to be seen along this new way.  And I took no offense at the semi that harrassed me for my place in the middle lane on I95, moving myself to one of the other two completely empty lanes and giving the truck driver a friendly single-finger wave and a “Hey, Dick, have a nice day!” beep from the Bus. Starry darkness accompanied the reality of my final westward swing near Richmond, Virginia, me and the Bus and my Who Do Man, Robert Earl.

I’m already planning another trip to Baltimore to see more of that eclectic city. And Robert Earl’s coming to town in June — I’ve got my ticket to sing more duets with him, live this time. And I’ll be wearing my Perfect Hat for both events.

"I gotta go somewhere, I gotta go!"

A Day at Notwork.

Arrive at notwork, 9:05 a.m.

Choose pen to compliment Jimi Hendrix “Electric Ladyland”-style jacket, sharpen pencil which has been used for more than two years.

Open balcony window. Turn on calculator and computer. Dismiss all error messages on monitor. Start Outlook 2000. Unlock file cabinet.

Read personal email. Respond to personal email. Peruse Facebook and enter profound comments regarding local weather. Log into WordPress and see The Magic Bus Stop has not (yet) been Fresh Pressed.

Accept 8 pieces of mail from boss and greet same (boss, not mail). Discard 4 advertisements and 2 noble and dignified requests for money from politicians  which are addressed to “Dear Mr. Enterprises” and “Dear Whom;” place recent issue of “OK!” magazine, featuring painfully detailed cover photo of young female celebrity wearing a Band-aid sized bikini, in stack for overnighting to employer afflicted with cataracts; set aside 1 invoice for coding. Eat yogurt. Examine container.

Mourn close proximity of personal office to office bathroom.

Fill sippy cup with coffee. Perform several leg lifts in response to annoying Outlook reminder to move in order to stave off DVT.

Read blogs. Comment on blogs. Rake tiny Zen garden.

Code invoice, 10:30 a.m. Rearrange envelopes on desk.

Apply hand lotion. Evaluate performance of dollar store mascara (which, incidentally, cost $1) now in use after viewing self-portrait from vacation and experiencing significant mortification. Defer product judgement. Wash yogurt spoon.

Read personal email. Respond to personal email.

Catch up on recent issues of Wall Street Journal and New York Times. Exercise eyebrows. While reading about exotic antelope hunting in Texas, store “oryx” and “addax” in memory for use during Words With Friends.

Engage in brief and mostly futile personal grooming. Flip plastic dinosaur head to grinning position.

Play Words With Friends on Facebook, 11:30 a.m. Wistfully note lack of opportunity to use “oryx” or “addax.” Somehow break Words With Friends game. Shop online for military books for husband. Practice smiling but fail to produce Duchen marker. Online research into Duchenne marker and correct spelling of same.

Mourn close proximity of personal office to bathroom.

Code invoice. Sharpen pencil again.

Fill sippy cup with coffee. Dismiss annoying Outlook reminder to move, taking chance instead with DVT.

Read personal email.

Read blogs. Read responses to comments left earlier. Produce smile complete with Duchenne marker (see above).

Verify receipts attached to invoice for $18,000 in salon services. Code invoice.

Noon. Apply eyedrops to eyes irritated by continuous computer monitor viewing. Decline invitation from AOL to create account for free music.

Surf Facebook. Refresh WordPress home page, note continued absence of any post from The Magic Bus Stop at same.

Find crackers in drawer and determine they can be eaten since recently discovered canned soup (Progresso Light Zesty! Santa Fe Style Chicken) will prevent starvation in the event of an earthquake before 5:00p.m. (See post.) Fill sippy cup with now-cold coffee.

Mourn close proximity of personal office to bathroom.

Empty virtual recycle bin. Dismiss Outlook reminder to move.

Send personal email to Freecycler  who claimed my extra wine corks.

Answer notwork phone. Kindly inform caller that oral surgeon’s phone number is one digit different than notwork’s phone. Disconnect (phone). Eat salad. Assemble tower from empty plastic food containers.

Log into Twitter. At recommendation of @TheBugChicks make virtual leap to Chris Guillebeau to evaluate his “Art of Non-Conformity” blog, focusing on article, “How to be Awesome,” since I have self-proclaimed (virtual) awesomeness. Remind self to be awesome when opportunity arises. Enjoy incredibly pithy comments of @TexasHumor and @CarTalk.

Restock bathroom paper towels. Eat banana. Note marvelous slow passage of time.

Briefly samba around office.

Read personal email.

Gaze out notwork window.

Handwrite lengthy good-bye note to notwork’s New York property manager without actually saying good-bye. Reflect on our conversations about martinis, technology, and embroidered hand towels. Seal envelope for mailing.

Mourn close proximity of personal office to office bathroom.

Observe time to be 4:50pm. Sign out of personal email. Log out of Facebook. Log out of Twitter. Log out of WordPress. Shut down Outlook 2000. Close balcony window. Shut off calculator. Lock notwork file cabinet. Apply eyedrops to eyes irritated by continuous computer monitor viewing. Turn off computer. Place pen and pencil in holder.

Gather personal newspapers, purse, lunch container, sippy cup and cell phone. Inform boss of imminent departure by yelling same from personal office.

Complete 528th day of notwork, all of which have been remarkably similar to the above scenario, walk to The Magic Bus and leave notwork premises at 5:00p.m.

Notworking.

We cared, together.

Eric Whitacre’s Virtual Choir 3.0, “Water Night,” streamed live last night online from Lincoln Center. My aging, temperamental laptop and equally frustrating internet connection miraculously made peace with each other, allowing me to watch all 3700+ of us, with a celebratory glass of wine in my hand. The video is now here.

My post, “Virtually Awesome,” talked a bit about how I found Virtual Choir 2.0, ”Sleep.”  That video was a tiny virtual shrub poking from the side of the sheer mountain face of despair I was then falling down, and I held onto that shrub fiercely while I found a toehold. I regretted publishing “Virtually Awesome” so quickly after recording my tenor part for “Water Night,” though, because my writing focus wasn’t right. The focus shouldn’t have been me, it should have been Eric Whitacre and those people from all over the world who gave themselves into that gentle, calming, reassuring gift of “Sleep.”

After last night’s “Water Night” premiere, Lincoln Center hosted a three-person discussion among composer John Corigliano, “Water Night” composer and conductor, Eric Whitacre, and Chris Anderson, conference curator from TED. These three talented and insightful individuals clearly realized that the Virtual Choirs were ground-breaking and universe-denting, and they seemed just as awed and humbled by them as the participants themselves have been. Notes I scribbled while watching them include, “The singers cared about one thing, and they cared together; there was a profound oneness; the singers are a part of a larger family; no singer was left behind; music changes how we respond to things — it opens us up; the singers are part of something bigger than themselves, which is a key to happiness.”

 

Corigliano, Whitacre & Anderson

 

I’ll probably never find my little square among all those other videos comprising the whole “Water Night,” (though, based on a static group photo, I am 4th row from the bottom and 27 places from the left edge), but that’s okay. I know I’m there and  care about that one bigger thing, and I’m surrounded by literally thousands of virtual singing family members who also care about that one bigger thing that took on a life of its own, and who support and improve my performance a thousandfold. I took part in this because of them, not because I wanted visual recognition, or to stand out from everyone else. I wanted to inhale the breath of our community, and release it into the same magical sound with my family from Brazil, El Salvador, Namibia, Hungary. Our breath, our determination, our triumph, are now a part of this universe, as the rising moon in “Water Night” watches over all of us.

Puerto Rico, seen from beneath a perfect hat.

Mike finagled us a trip to Puerto Rico by speaking about insect mating disruption at a conference there. That subject deserves its own post because it’s really, really interesting. No kidding. Really.

Here are my impressions of Puerto Rico, before the pictures that paint a thousand words:

1. The most important article of clothing turned out to be my hat, since the climate promptly styled my hair into havoc. (The hat is going to get its own post, too.)
2. I took nice clothes in case we ate at a nice restaurant. We did eat at a nice restaurant, and I wore a tee shirt with a skull on it, and my hat.
3. We didn’t see any surfers at Rincon, which is rumored to be a well known surfer’s paradise. The disappointment of not seeing them was mitigated by finding a heart-shaped rock on the beach.
4.  This was my first experience of texting photos to my friends and receiving their immediate replies. Sweet. It was almost like having them there with me.
5. It rains in the rain forest. Copiously.
6. The most used accessory on a car in San Juan is the horn. However, we saw very few speeding drivers outside the city. In fact, we nearly crashed into a couple vehicles on the toll road going at least 20 mph under the speed limit. Then, there was that episode of bob & weave with the pickup truck overloaded with fruit. Death by banana is not my method of choice.
7. Puerto Ricans are a people who will meet your eyes; there’s no stiff avoidance. They give you a thorough looking over. 
8. I knew intrinsically that there would be no need for me to go inside the Lo Coquette Lingerie and Booty Shop. There would be nothing inside there to fit my booty. There will be another post addressing that issue; it will involve the hat.
9. I now understand about the blue color of ocean water. Amazing.
10. Based solely on how many food vendors line the roads outside San Juan, I don’t know how there can be a) any live chickens remaining since they’re all on grills and spits and b) why anybody would cook at home.
11. I will not get on another airplane without some sort of earphones and music. I’m sure the gentleman from Tennessee was a lovely man, but I don’t sleep with my husband when he snores, and the prospect of a 4-hour flight beside a stranger thus engaged was dismal indeed. The flight attendant has my gratitude for re-seating me on a very full plane.
12. Who’s cruel joke was it to have my return flight board beside one flying to Houston? The Queen was not amused.
13. People will stare at someone who turns bright red from heat, though that someone is quite comfortable and unaware of her hue and is wearing a perfect hat.
14. I respect Puerto Rico’s pride in its rum production, and sampled my share, but I’m staunchly loyal to Tito’s Vodka, made in Austin, Texas.

Now, about those photos. . .

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