Technical difficulty

Loyal readers, I am having WIFI issues while on the road. Hope to be posting soon. Thanks for your patience and support. 

Regifting at another level

I had to shake off my food coma and waddle to the keyboard to work on this post.
It has been a decadent five days of feasting. We polished off the leftovers tonight.
The weekend guests have returned to their respective zip codes. 
Table clothes have been laundered and folded and put away.
I figured tonight would be as good a night as ever to catch up and blog.
I figured if I started typing I would stay out of the kitchen and stop eating.
So in order to procrastinate just a little bit longer, I turned to my December issue of O The Oprah Magazine and was sad to find that it was too late for me to enter to win "The 12-day Give O-Way." I had been meaning to enter. I had even marked the necessary icons scattered throughout the magazine. You had to go on line for 12 days and register the icons for a chance to win. 
It would have been a chance to do some of my holiday shopping without shopping.
If I had been one of the 12 lucky winners, who actually entered the contest before the 11/25/13 deadline, I would have given almost everything away. 
For years Oprah was bigger than Santa Claus in adult circles by giving away her "Favorite Things'' to lucky TV audiences. And a lot of those items wound up on EBay quicker than the UPS trucks delivering them could back out of the recipients' driveways.
Pretty ungrateful and nervy if you ask me. And every year when this gifting and selling would take place it really bothered me.
If I had been more focused and entered this contest I would have given away or auctioned off for charity most of the 60 items on the list.
My sister was definitely getting the UGG boots. My husband would have been the recipient of the PerfecTemp Cordless Electric Kettle. I would let the children wrestle over the Beats headphones and the Samsung Galaxy Gear watch. 
I would have kept the lounge gown by UrbanMuuMuu. 
I would wear it while writing this blog.
Okay, I just looked into ordering it in orchid, using the OPRAH code to save 20 percent on a ridiculously priced gift to myself. Happy birthday to me. The fact it was made in the USA makes it even more tempting.
Have I mentioned Oprah and I, and one of my dearest friends who lives in New York, share the same birth date?
The rest of the "Favorite Things," after also spoiling a few wonderful friends with gifts, I would auction on EBay for charities. 
As always most of the stuff on the O List is soooo-O not on my list of favorite things. My favorite things start with family and friends and then there is chocolate, purses and Molly the yellow lab that lives up the block. But never truffle products, unless they are chocolate truffles.
I wanted to win to avoid shopping. Unlike the 141 million shoppers who got involved in the Gray Thursday/Black Friday crazy, I went to and watched movies. The "Hunger Games" on the family room PC until 1 a.m. and HG No. 2: Catching Fire on IMAX in the theater. Both with my visiting college-aged son. Priceless!
According to figures released by Walmart, 2.8 million towels were sold during the big shopping weekend. And 2 million televisions and 1.9 million dolls were whisked away from the big box retailer.
None of these items were on the Oprah list. A fight over towels at a Walmart in Arkansas also made the news.
According to USA Today, the National Retail Federation reported shoppers spent a lackluster $57 billion going into Cyber Monday shopping. That was down from $59.1 billion last year.
The average shopper dropped between $400-500. If Mrs. Tom Hanks, Rita Wilson, is reading this she should skip the next sentence. Oprah is sending her a $500 Thomas Keller Black Truffle Risotto gift box that was on the the "Favorite Things" list. A whole page was devoted to truffle products.
Oprah is not your average shopper.
Neither am I. I have 30 minutes to see if the UrbanMuuMuu lounge gown becomes a Cyber Monday special.

Giving more thanks for pie

I can't spend a lot of time on this particular post because I am prepping for Hanukkah (first candle tomorrow night, for those of you keeping track) and Thanksgiving, Thursday at our house.
For the first time in years Thanksgiving will be at our home. Our children and our siblings will be under one roof (weather and airport permitting) and around the table debating whether jellied or whole cranberry sauce is better, for the first time in a very long time.
I am looking forward to hosting and having leftovers.
There will be three kinds of pie, marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole and leftovers.
The past few years we have gone to Philadelphia for Thanksgiving. 
Moving the holiday here is bitter sweet for me. 
My mom -- the main attraction for our annual Thanksgiving journey -- passed away in February. 
So this Thanksgiving, even with its pie and leftovers, will be different.
Our family has been blessed while living in Chicagoland, and before in Orlando, to celebrate many other holidays with our extended families. Transplants like ourselves and natives, who extended dining room tables to make room for more, have adopted us for many holidays, but Philadelphia was the Thanksgiving destination.

Whenever there is a pie on the table, it seems to be a conversation starter. About a year ago a friend of ours told us the story of Beth Howard, a woman he knew from his web production days, who has taken pie to a whole new level. She proclaimed pie had healing qualities. 
He had experienced it firsthand when he shared making one of her apple pies from scratch with his daughter as they worked the dough and worked out an emotional crisis.
I immediately "Googled" Howard and have since run my fingers through her book "Making Piece: A Memoir of Love, Loss and Pie."
My friend met Howard, author, blogger and pie baker, when she was a very successful web producer. She later quit that lucrative gig in early 2000 to pursue pie. Eventually, she wound up watching A-list celebrities as well as pedestrian pie lovers enjoy her wares in LA, while baking for a restaurant there.
Howard, who now lives in THE American Gothic House in Eldon, Iowa, is a celebrity. When not throwing Pie Parties and baking and selling pie at the Gothic House's seasonal Pitchfork Pie Stand (closed for the season), she has continued writing and been healing others thru pie.
A year ago, while the country was reeling from the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary, Howard packed up her pie plates and took a team of volunteer pie makers and servers from Iowa, Illinois, New Jersey, New York and Georgia to help the people of Newtown, Conn., deal with their grief with fruit pies.
Her act of kindness and healing was featured on CNN's Anderson Cooper 360. Howard -- who has another book coming out in April, also returned to Connecticut in March to teach pie baking and spoke on her life experiences at a public library.
Sadly, Howard experienced firsthand how "pie does help heal." 
She threw herself even deeper into the pie promotion biz in 2009, after her husband of six years died unexpectedly from a ruptured aorta.
My husband and I loaded up the grocery cart at Costco earlier today with pumpkin and pecan offerings. We heard a Costco employee claim the company expected to move 1 million pies today.
During our last two Thanksgivings in Philadelphia we introduced the rest of the clan to the Costco pies. It was an easy offering for a table that sometimes sported turkeys our cousins raised and de-feathered for dining at my aunt's house.
Truthfully I have not had better than the warehouse market's pumpkin pies -- why bake?
But I am going to make an apple pie for Thursday. I am going to make Beth Howard's basic apple pie recipe.
And I am going to think of my mom as I count our blessings and I am baking.
You can never have too much pie. 

Take the money, please.

Why do banks make it so difficult to deposit money?
At some banks, if you have a particularly restrictive college savings/checking account that is not attached to your parents' mortgage, a bank will charge you a fee to deposit money with the assistance of a human-pulse-toting-teller.
Seriously.
If you want to deposit Aunt Harriet's birthday cash with a human you may incur a $6 fee to  deposit money into your account.
You can take a photo with your smart phone of Aunt Harriet's check, if she mails you one. That image can be directly deposited into your account.
Aunt Harriet can electronically transfer money to you or her favorite babysitter if she has set that up on her smart phone.
But don't try and deposit the cash she and Uncle Joe handed you on the last visit to Philadelphia, by involving another human.
I am the first to admit that I am technologically challenged.
Last week, in an attempt to stay warm inside the car on a blustery suburban Chicago day, I attempted to help my daughter (IT Gal) deposit her tip money thru the drive-up ATM. My daughter, who is making money as a very good waitress at a wonderful breakfast place, while plotting her next life move, wanted to make a deposit.
I told her we could do it thru the ATM, since I had become accustomed to making deposits for her brother without the aid of a human teller.
So much for my being so savvy. Before I knew it, the ATM was spitting her hard-earned dollars back at us.
My daughter, as my witness.
First the finicky machine kicked back excess bills because we didn't heed the 30-bill max warning. Then it got even more picky and kicked back a wad of cash because it didn't want to digest a grotty $1 bill someone left her for bringing out their breakfast with a cheerful attitude.
When did it become so difficult to deposit money into the bank?
She wound up having to get out of the car to complete the deposit when I inadvertently cancelled a third transaction attempt after begging the machine for more time.
A quick glance in the rear view mirror and I saw about seven or eight cars stacked up behind us. It was then that I yielded to her pressure and parked the car and allowed her to go into the bank and hand the money to a human-pulse-toting-teller.
Of course there was only one of them working behind the counter in the giant branch. Another was handling all the cars stacked up in the drive-thru lanes. Another was behind a desk, just in case someone came in to deposit something in a safe deposit box or try to open an account.
Maybe this is just a payback for once making fun of the fact there was braille on the drive-up ATM to aid visually impaired patrons when they attempted to use the machines.
I remember pitching the observation to a columnist friend, while working at a newspaper in Florida. After making light of the situation in his column, but also educating anyone else who had ever noticed the bumps on the drive-thru ATM keypad, he received a barrage of mail and phone calls.
The folks who need those bumps were not amused. The machines, which are plated and produced the same as the walk-up ATMs, are standard issue.
He left the paper soon after. I hope not because of this topic.
I will resist adding anything else on the subject of drive-up ATMs that have braille on them.
When they put in the automated postage machines in our post office branch, and eliminated three of the walk-up counter spaces, they thought they were going to be able to streamline mailing packages and letters. 
The last time I went in to mail a letter for more than a traditional stamp they had a full-time postal employee trying to assist folks, standing in line for one of the two remaining human-pulse-carting-clerks, with the new machines. 
After 30 minutes in line for a clerk, I posted a letter for a dollar and change. When the clerk told me I could have saved time and done the transaction myself on one of the machines, I mentioned the new machines did not take cash and I didn't like to charge anything on a plastic card for under a certain amount. I was also helping to save her job. 
Call me a dinosaur. I don't like to scan and bag my own groceries.
I do like to have people help me when I don't have the exact postage.
And I do still like the idea of putting money in the bank.

If it looks like a pizza...

It is not my personality to get into the middle of an argument.
I am a firm believer that minimally there are three sides to every story.
I know this might not sit well with Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel and The Daily Show TV Sage Jon Stewart. 
Earlier this week their bantering over which city has the tallest skyscraper literally spiraled out of control. 
Accessories will make the Second City's beloved Sears Tower número due (just can't call it the Willis Tower, and I am a transplant here). The beloved Freedom Tower aka One World Trade Center's antennae, which dots the "I" on a 1,776-foot building, will put it 325 feet above our tourist attraction, making it the country's tallest. 
And despite Mayor Rahm's dictate that "if it looks like an antenna, acts like an antenna, then guess what?", One World, with its measly 104 floors, will be and is taller.  
The mayor's comments only fueled Stewart, who opened up the deep dish battle. He was critical of the food source Chicagoans worship. He even made the mistake of comparing it to the New York slice of life, the kind of pizza you fold in the palm of your hand and stretch the cheese with each bite as hot oil drops down your wrist. 

This was the only pizza I knew until I moved to Chicago. 
And I am a Native Philadelphian. I left the Philadelphia-New York area in in 1979 and continued a quest for "good" New York pizza while living in Clearwater, Mount Dora, Cocoa Beach, Orlando and now Buffalo Grove.  Believe me,  when this family finds good hand-tossed NY pizza it remains loyal. NY pizza is not to be confused with Chicago thin crust. 
So I understand the passion both rarely opinionated men have for one over the other. Pizza that is. 
Mayor Rahm sent Stewart and staff deep dish pizzas -- including ones with symbolic anchovies atop -- as a "piece" offering. 

That is one thing Chicago has figured out. You can ship deep dish almost anywhere in the world. And one of our favorite Chicago chains does that to support the troops on a regular basis. 
Never, and I mean NEVER try to mail, let alone, transport a hand tossed pizza to another zip code unless you hand carry it or your husband figures out a way to carry it on an airplane to cure a suburban Chicago family's withdrawal symptoms on his way back from a business trip.

Apparently Mayor Rahm Tweeted (although there are Social Media Experts making careers out of doing this) "No hard feelings?" to Stewart and his Twitter followers and a physical note allegedly from him accompanying the deep dish buffet said: "Jon, Deep Dish With Dead Fish, Love Rahm."

The symbolic anchovies - something I would not even eat on a hand-tossed pie - go back to Mayor Rahm's days as director of the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (1988), when he sent dead fish to a pollster. I think he has mellowed since becoming a mayor.

When people ask Philadelphians if we prefer cheesesteak icons Pat's or Geno's, we will of course have hometown favorites: Jim's (me) and Pudge's (husband). One thing we know is that we don't eat Philly cheesesteaks outside of the Delaware Valley. Not even if the vendor says they imported hoagie rolls and the meat from the City of Brotherly Love.

My family doesn't ever compare a cheesesteak to an Italian beef sandwich -- another Chicago delicacy. 

One is not better. They, like the pizzas we are arguing about, are just different.

 

Bullying is not acceptable on any level

The women that I drink coffee with at Starbucks on Monday mornings, while solving world affairs, said they would  boycott watching the Miami Dolphins-Tampa Bay Buccaneers Monday Night Football Game.
I agreed to go along, because I had this blogging deadline and I agreed with them that the National Football League had to put its house in order.
Two of the Dolphins' offensive linemen are under the microscope for not being able to get along*. The actions of one, allegedly caused the other to quit the team. Yep, this is professional football I am blogging about.
Alleged bullying -- death threats and racial slurs -- has divided the rest of the Dolphins roster and the coaches were grappling with what needed to be done. I would bet more players and coaches were more upset that what happened in the locker room did not stay in the locker room.
Richie Incognito, an alleged troublemaker who had already been released by another NFL team, was suspended for conduct detrimental to the Dolphins. Jonathan Martin, who is taking a lot of crap for breaking the "Bro Code" the "Blue Wall," etc.,  left his professional football team two weeks ago after making allegations of relentless harassment. Incognito's being named a "team leader" might have been the final straw for Martin.
The off the field antics -- including more than 1,000 text messages and recorded messages between the two players -- have overshadowed the pass protection and offensive line issues that are really plaguing the Dolphins this season. Seriously, someone needs to take their phones away.
Going into the game Miami was 4-4. The Bucs, 0-8, were another story. Neither team needed this distraction.
The NFL, which is doing its own investigation, is taking its hits in the media as reporters take a break from reporting on the on-going concussion issue. 
NFL players are expensive. The egos are enormous. Locker rooms filled with 300-pound guys are crowded. The locker rooms can be pressure cookers, especially if a team is not winning.
Generally teams police their own behavior. At least that seems to be the consensus from other players around the league weighing in on the topic.
*News flash: Not all teammates get along. And this testosterone-fueled bullying thing did not just start. Hazing has also been part of the culture.
We coffee drinkers and most educated people I know are in agreement that there is nothing funny about bullying.
This topic has made it difficult for me to write a blog and keep my pledge to provide at least one laugh per read to my loyal readers. I won't count the 12 followers I have on Twitter.
Bullying is an issue the NFL, the Dolphins and the two players who have set the sports world on its ear this month need to sort out. The NFL which wasn't exactly quick to put the kibosh on towel snapping and verbal abuse in its locker rooms when women reporters were trying to gain access and do their jobs in the 70s and 80s and 90s is now saying it won't tolerate bullying in the locker room because a locker room is a workplace. 
On a personal level, I have been on both sides of the bullying issue. As a first-grader at Philadelphia's Pennypacker Elementary School I was reprimanded for pushing and punching an older boy on a walk one morning to school. The third-grader made fun of my mentally challenged brother. I don't remember tripping him and how he got a bloody nose, but I vividly remember the principal rolling up his sleeves and leaning across his giant desk as the "victim" and I sat shaking in our shoes.
I may be confusing this reprimand with the time I "illegally'' picked flowers on the way to school for a teacher, either way the boy never called my brother the "R" word again. He also didn't walk on the same side of the street to and from school.
The principal told me to keep my hands to myself, after the fight and after picking flowers. 
One of my children was bullied by a classmate, who would spit on my child's lunch in elementary school. At dinner each night I would remind my child to use words not actions to resolve the situation. 
After a few weeks of tossed lunches, I called the teacher, who rearranged the lunch table so the bully could spit on someone else's lunches.
The NFL should set an example for the rest of the world. Bullying is not acceptable and the bully's behavior is what needs to be changed.

Wanted, continuity editors

Does it drive any of you crazy when you are watching an NCIS episode on your HD TV and you spot the mountains in the background of a street scene that is supposed to be taking place on the streets of Washington, DC?
Even staring into Mark Harmon's piercing blue eyes won't distract me from scenic details.

Do any of you get distracted by the palm tree that towers over the house the suburban Philadelphia (PA) family on The Goldbergs resides in? They make sure the older son is wearing a Flyers jersey, but they don't notice the shrubbery when the family steps outside.
I grew up in suburban Philadelphia, so I am always trying to find trip ups in that show. They are spot on in a lot of their details, even up to the wallpaper in the kitchen that was actually in one of my friend's houses.

Maybe it's just me. 
When watching a movie I get distracted by the water level in a glass not matching up in the next scene, a character's hair length changing depending on the filming sequence, actresses who never perspire in chase scenes, etc.

After moving to Cocoa Beach in the 80s it drove me crazy there were no mountains. Having grown up watching I Dream Of Jeannie, I thought I would be familiar with the terrain. I don't think I missed an episode of the sitcom which starred Barbara Eden as a 2,000-looking-great-for-her-age-old genie and Larry Hagman, her handsome astronaut, whom she eventually marries.
Nope, no mountains. I lived in Cocoa Beach for nearly two years and only met one astronaut. Met a lot of surfers, but that is a whole other story, or two, or three.
And the Atlantic Ocean beach the bottle she lived in from 1965-70 washed up on, was on a different side of the country if you pay close attention.
I lived on Cocoa Beach when the Ron Jon Surf Shop didn't have a neon glow to it. Shuttle launches and Patrick Air Force Base's "routine military operations offshore" rattled the sliding doors of the condo I was renting and rolled me out of bed.
It is not just me! I just Googled "TV continuity mistakes" and saw there are countless movie and television errors documented  -- most referring to Star Trek and the Golden Girls -- by amateur sleuths like myself. 
Recently I overheard some people talking about the details in the film Gravity. They acted like they had been on a space station. Listening to them pick the movie apart bugged me a little as they tried to destroy the illusion. I was too distracted by seeing George Clooney in IMAX 3D to notice the "plot flaws."
Sure, being a blogger is almost as easy as being an armchair quarterback. Unlike print media and film, you can go in and fix your mistakes -- when they are pointed out to you.
That is one part of the process I am enjoying.
I always thought that being a continuity editor would be a good career path for me. Working as a reporter and editor for newspapers is where I really honed my fact-checking skills.
I always seem to know where the missing sock is in my laundry, I replace the toilet paper before the cardboard roll is completely empty and from wherever I am sitting in the house, I can pretty much direct the other people in my house to find what they can't locate. 
Details, details, details.

Reunions

Don't know what I was thinking when I held up the giveaway and determined that new T-shirt would fit on this old body. 

I can't even blame the disconnect on alcohol. My drink of choice at The Temple News reunion had been a diet soda. A lot of us were drinking sodas. 

Maybe it was the adrenalin from reconnecting with my newsroom buddies. The weekend visit to the campus and Temple-Army football game was more than a flashback. It was quantum leap back for a lot of us who have raised our own college students. Some of the AARP card carrying Temple News crew had children raising children. 

The reminiscing about putting our all important (at the time) college paper to bed four nights a week got our juices flowing. We were once the infantry of the Fourth Estate. Very few of us assembled last month were still in the newspaper business, but we still had great affection for it. 

And those of us from the 70s were sad to see very little of our work on exhibit, during the party, with the selected archives of the school newspaper's storied history.

Hey, stuff happened during our watch. Nixon resigned, the Vietnam War ended, tuition  increased, Gene Banks picked Duke over Temple and the city's Big Five basketball programs. Philadelphia newspapers went on strike, and for three days The Temple News changed our on-campus focus to provide the entire city with a printed local paper. 

We romanticized about punch cards, cropping wheels and pica poles. The slide rules of our time. 

The kids mingling with us were more interested in careers as social media specialists, than bringing down the university administration in a three-part reporting series for a newspaper. 

Some of them could not wrap their heads around one of the round table speakers -- a Hall of Fame professional beat writer for more than 30 years and a News alum -- not owning a cellphone. 

Apple computers graced the tabletops of their work spaces as we toured the Newsroom earlier in that day. Editors are now being paid for getting the paper out and reporters are being paid for stories per published bylines. And the paper only comes out once a week. Today's News reporters stream news live by tweeting to their followers between deadlines and post editions on line. 

When most of us worked at The Temple News back in the mid 70s we practically lived there. If you didn't have work-study money, you worked for free. Most of us commuted to our urban campus from the suburbs. No way, after rush hour, could you take the subway safely. At least you would never tell your parents if you did.

We cooked out of the blue box mac n cheese dinners and soup to sustain ourselves, drinking the worst coffee for days while editing the paper late at night. We started our days before class -- some of us remember going to class -- with coffee and breakfast off food trucks ( a fixture on campus even before they universally became trendy and fashionable), while reviewing the morning's edition and thinking about the next one. 

At the reunion we talked about now dead professors and  colleagues. We vowed to make other staffers come to the next gathering and to make sure our work was represented next time in the archive display. 

Funny, most of us had time-faded, hard copies of our editions buried somewhere at home. 

I bet I am not the only one who will exhume the yellowed copies this winter. 

In the meantime, I am going to hand wash my Temple News t-shirt in cold water and get back into shape to wear it more comfortably. I am going to Link-in with former staffers -- including that cub reporter I sent out to wrestle a bear for a soft sports feature, who is now the editor-in-chief of a famous tabloid.
I vow to stay in touch and follow the careers of current staffers. Especially the kind media specialists who handed me their Temple News business cards and attempted to teach me a trick or two on Twitter.
And I am going to continue blogging.  And maybe some of them will join me on my new writing adventure. 

Musing from a road trip laundry room

While waiting for someone else's mom to get their stuff out of the cold dryer in the laundry room of the Homewood Suites in Durham, NC, I started to make notes for this blog.
I had not done any laundry for nearly a week.
My husband and I had been road tripping thru the South.  We had been taking in the change of seasons, the topography and, of course, the food. 
Truthfully, I was skeptical even at this point in the trip that I would still fit into my airplane seat home.

I arrived at Parents' Weekend with full intention of doing all of our son's laundry and that of any family-less student still in town for the festivities.  We were there to spend quality time with our youngest, to meet his friends, celebrate his 20th birthday, and to enjoy some R&R before returning north to the elliptical machine at the fitness center. 

I did in fact start writing this chapter from a pedicure chair where I had motivated Danielle, my nail tech, to resume her journal writing by picking up blogging. I was there killing time while my husband was getting an oil change on what used to be the family SUV. The SUV has been living at school with our son.
We had time to do these normal routine appointments because pre-med boy was in class and playing flag football and we had nothing to do until dinner time because he would not let us do his laundry. 

We travelled 1100 miles to see him. The trip kicked off from my husband's and my hometown -- Philadelphia in Pennsylvania. We were still married after eight states, and the District of Columbia;10 McDonald pit stops, refueling each time with $1 unsweetened iced teas (except on the border of Virginia and Tennessee where they charged $1.75 for the same guilty pleasure), that would eventually lead to more pit stops. 

We made planned stops in Richmond, VA, where we Yankees sought the perspective of the natives on "the war of aggression" at the Confederate War Museum and Jefferson Davis' White House. We kicked off the eating festivities setting the bar high at Richmond's top BBQ joint. Buz & Ned's Real Barbecue, where Bobby Flay lost a "Throwdown" in a brisket challenge. I make a mean brisket. I too would have lost the challenge. Brisket and beef ribs melted like "buttah" in our mouths. 
Later we took advantage of Richmond's  restaurant week for dinner at Tarrants that included a coconut chess pie, which I added to my Pie Hall of Fame, while scraping the plate. The restaurant is in a former main street small town pharmacy. This made it even more appealing to my pharmacist husband/traveling companion.  

The next day we were on the road to Monticello, VA to Thomas Jefferson's estate, where we enjoyed a brilliant tour from a guide who oozed Jeffersonian factoids and loved his job. 

We enjoyed being at Monticello and also loved the southern buffet at the Michie Tavern next door, where the fried chicken and mashed potatoes left no room for dessert. 

Exhausted from battling the GPS and the travel and touring we broke all rules that night and ate at our hotel in Charlottesville, VA. The chef, who is trying to build a notable place to eat in another foodie city, rose to the occasion and served us well. Generally we only eat the free breakfasts at the Hilton properties we stay at. This particular Hilton Garden Inn might be a dinner gem. 

Speaking of GPS battles. We could not really blame our satellite sister as she directed us around and up and down the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains on our six-day journey. As we saw signs for Tennessee, on the way to North Carolina from Virginia, I was feeling completely geographically challenged. My husband, who for kicks and giggles and lots of baseball has taken our son on road trips to every Major League ballpark (and some that no longer exist), was pretty confident that we were going the correct route as we passed thru a gorgeous part of the country I doubt I will return to in this lifetime.  The leaves were beginning to change and the distance between Cracker Barrel Restaurants became more spaced out as we headed for Asheville, NC and the Biltmore Estate, nearly six hours from the day's starting point. 

It was worth the trip to gawk at the opulence of this Gilded Age home. It is impossible to wrap your head around how much money this branch of the Vanderbilt family (not Anderson Cooper's line) had, and spent, not to mention the skill and tenacity of the people who built it. 

That drive for perfection was matched that night at a local spot called Tupelo Honey Cafe which has quite the rep for its biscuits, flaky softball-size orbs that require no condiments. This did not stop me from dressing half with Tupelo honey and the other half with a homemade blueberry compote. Because I ordered their vegetable combo plate for dinner (only in the South is Mac n Cheese considered a vegetable), I treated myself to a slice of their chocolate pecan pie. It was the best pecan pie I have ever eaten in a restaurant. Worth the drive, even if you aren't in the area. 

As we waddled out of the cafe I was so glad we had not rented a Prius for the journey. Driving in the safety and comfort of a 2014 Jeep Grand Cherokee, I could barely fathom fitting in a Prius after the pie. Also, I could not fathom what the Civil War soldiers endured traipsing from battlefield to battlefield on this terrain. At both Monticello and Biltmore, guides talked about distance in "how the crow flies" measurements.  

Today we get annoyed if a plane takes off an hour late or if there is no direct flight. It took Jefferson three days by horse to get to DC and often when visitors invited to Monticello arrived, he would host them for three months. Of course he had his own private wing at the place.  

We paced ourselves on the journey to Durham. Even stopped at an outlet mall (like we don't have those at home). Despite the pie, hush puppies and biscuits, I squeezed my way into a new pair of jeans that were a size smaller than the ones I wore into the Chicos. No salespeople were injured during that visit. 

Then we headed into Durham to enjoy Parents' Weekend and more eating. Kicked off the food fest with Dame's chicken and waffles. It was downhill for any dieting from there. The jeans will probably not fit me now for a month or two.
Other than standing for a complete basketball game amongst the Cameron Crazies in the student section, most of the activity we threw ourselves into revolved around food. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you about how we even ate BBQ twice in one day.
We had already been to a few Parents' Weekends between our two children. By now the university's planned activities were not a big part of the visit plan. The most important thing was to spend time with our son, now a sophomore. 

Observation: Friday all the parents arrive full of energy and enthusiasm. Sunday we all are carrying bags from the University Store, empty wallets and weary faces.
Diagnosis: Food comas.

After three days in Durham we were whisked to the airport this morning in the former family car by our son. Cashed in my winning North Carolina Powerball lottery ticket to buy him breakfast as his dad filled up the SUV at the airport gas station. 

We thanked him for a fantastic weekend (he pulled an all-nighter to get us tickets for that exhibition basketball game, scrounged up tickets for a very good acapella concert and hand-picked where we would dine) and mostly for spending time with us.
He thanked us for coming. Priceless. 

Hair raising issues

I had just barely recovered from thumbing through the October issue of Oprah Magazine.

You have seen the edition. The one with the bright orange cover and Oprah, who has always been obsessed with her own hair, donning a Diana Ross epic fro. 

The issue offered every conceivable angle on hair 

No follicle was left untangled 

I am relieved her staff took the time for such an indepth look at everything you could possibly want to know on the subject. 

Apparently a lot more people than I had ever thought possible are really into their hair.

"Just look," my colorist Katie said, last week, pointing her magic wand at the gooey-headed gals filling all the chairs in her Long Grove (IL) Red Cottage Salon. 

I'm happy for Katie and her business partners that all of us wearing tarps and hair dye are too cowardly to do it ourselves. Oh the commercials make it look like Sarah Jessica Parker can process herself, but I can't imagine she scrubs the grout after that final color rinse. 

I also don't think she has ever feared leaving a salon with "I Love Lucy" locks.   I hail from  a family of receding headlines and redheads. I still wince at the nicknames Ginger and Red. The upside, I never felt more at home than during a visit to Ireland. 

The downside, redheads are on the endangered species list. While growing up only one in three people had red hair. Recent report out of England warn we red-haired baby boomers are heading for extinction. Sadly, it is up to the Prince Harrys of the world to make us more desirable. 

While living in Florida I would perm my locks to keep the humidity hair in check so it would not injure people with the turn of my head. Now I keep it shorter to prevent incidents.

When we moved to Chicagoland my first hairstylist went home sick before finishing my new haircut. Not every stylist wants to mess with my kind of kinky coif. When I latch onto a brave stylist who can send me out the door with a haircut that will tame these tresses, I am loyal to a fault. I will follow that artist from shop to shop. While living in Florida I would cross the state from Cocoa Beach to Tampa Bay to stay with a certain stylist. I have even remained the client of one of my favorites after she accidentally snipped my ear while we were lost in laughs and conversation.

I have had the same loyalty with my colorists. You don't have to be a hairdresser to know for sure that this color is not my natural color. My real hair after having and nurturing two children is the color and texture of dental floss.
A day or two before going for color I sometimes don't want to leave the house. I time the appointments with calendars of engagement dates and full moons and around mostly Katie's schedule. So, when I got the call before going into Philadelphia last week for a college reunion (a much better topic for those of you who want to check back next week) and a family gathering telling me Katie's children were ill and my back-up colorist was off that day, a wave of panic washed over me. They promised all would be righted the next day. This was almost as bad as having to pay for reticketing my flight because of my own  booking mistake that cost almost as much as half a year of hair color.
When I don't stay on top of this color schedule I have been mistaken for my sister's mom, my children's grandmother. Cruella hair. Get the picture? I don't know how Bonnie Raitt has carried off her signature white-streaked look so long.
I am waiting for grandchildren, or Katie's retirement before I give in and go completely white-haired.

After recovering from reading the Oprah chronicles on hair I was mentally challenged, again, soon after on a train ride into the city. Four beautiful college-aged girls with lovely locks talked up hair the entire hour into the city while twisting, flipping and splitting their ends. Shootings on the Southside, trouble in Syria, not on their minds.

My sister used to sleep with orange juice cans on top of her head to get the look they were complaining about having, as they primped and played. 
Over the weekend, while standing in line for alum-tent-hamburgers at the Temple-Army football game, my college friend Donna, who I don't get to see all that often, found me easily in the crowd of 25,000-plus.
And it's not like she recognized me on Facebook (don't have it), or by my Linked-In profile pic (don't have one for reasons of national security), or this blog (which I try to write anonymously).
"Saw your hair she said," as we exchanged hugs and told each other how fantastic we looked.
Thanks Katie.

Flying by the seat of my pants

I have just paid to change an airline ticket because I made a mistake.
The entire time I was going through the online process (because I wanted to avoid waiting 25 minutes on hold to have a human charge me more to do this change over the phone) I was shaking and sick to my stomach.
Changing P.M. to A.M. is very costly.
But I need to get to where I am going. The same place I was going to when I booked my original fare more than two weeks in advance to save money. Problem: I need to be there 12 hours earlier.
I am the booker of flights in our house. I rarely, if ever, make a mistake.
When I have worked with travel agents for vacation "deals" in the past they asked me if I was in the industry, because  I have such a good grasp on how this ticketing thing works.
Who would have thought that booking four tickets at once would be my undoing?
I got the other three people in the house ticketed from two different starting points, two different dates and three different return points (yes three!) juggled without a problem. It think, I'm afraid to look.
I was even able to digest the outrageous fares we paid with 14-day advance ticket (because it is cheaper to book if you book earlier). It's a good thing Americans aren't flying these days, or the overstuffed planes, with no room in the overhead storage bins, would justify even more expensive airfares.
I just rebooked this multi-city airfare because I made a mistake, and it is costing me more to fly to Philadelphia than Peru. I kid you not.
I just paid my $200 change fee and $216 additional ticketing fee to get on an earlier flight to make a conference in Philadelphia. And, there is not even a seat on the seating chart that won't cost me even more money, so I am nervous that there might not be room for me on the plane.
The whole time I have been thinking about this process I have been seeing my travel life pass before my eyes.
How many times have the airlines cancelled flights on me or made me miss connections and messed up my schedule?
How many times have the airlines put me on a flight where the seat was broken, or some other malfunction --  not to mention vomiting children near me -- have messed up the experience?
How many times has my luggage (which I no longer relinquish for anything less than gate check with pick up on the jetway) gone someplace or somewhere it wasn't expected?
How many times have I been charged for premium seating because the seat map has boxed me out?
How many times has the person before me ruined the Sudoku puzzles, leaving me with nothing to do while electronic devices have to be turned off?
I hope none of you have suffered any of these pitfalls in your travels.
When a flight home from Madrid was cancelled because of mechanical issues and we were put up and pampered by the airline until another plane could take us safely across the Atlantic, I was the one who squashed the mutinies in that airline's defense. 
In my thousands of miles of travel I have always been forgiving of acts of God, weather, mechanical issues that can't be resolved and crew complications. I believe that as long as the airline is striving to get me to and from, safe and sound, all is good.
That is also why I have no problem standing in long, slow lines at security or even taking my shoes off and walking on the germy, nasty floor.
I pity the person, with the "weekender fare" sitting next to me on my flight to Philadelphia. Knowing that their free beverage costs $416 less than mine is not going to make for a cheerful seat companion. Especially, if I have to pay even more for an economy-plus seat to guarantee space on my earlier flight.

Stimulating the economy, one bauble at a time

You would have thought I would have learned something last year after my rookie trip to this jewelry sample show.
As I accepted the brown paper lunch bag from the greeters at the door, I realized I had completely forgotten to purchase and pack a flattering light-up make-up mirror so that I could see how dozens of pairs of earrings would twinkle next to my green eyes.
Just kidding.
More importantly, I had not forgotten to show up later to avoid the stampede of suburban women who were in a hurry to scour the tables of necklaces, bracelets, pins and earrings from American jewelry designer Patricia Locke's collection.
If these were just the samples, her staff was scattering on row after row of banquet tables, I can't imagine what her warehouse is like. 
So many twinkles, so many baubles, no wonder the women sitting on the floor around the room with their mirrors and over-flowing lunch bags of the loot, were having personal parties. 
I had stumbled on the jewelry designer a few years back while shopping at Macy's. I was looking for a gift to take to my daughter's host mom in Spain. I was looking for something made in the USA, even better Illinois, to take to Elena as a thank you gift. Elena loved the bejeweled bracelet (which by coincidence matched the colors of her home) and did not take it off for the remainder of our visit. I hope she is still enjoying it.
I learned about the sample show by accident at TJMAXX last year. Almost punched another customer in the nose when she insisted imported costume jewelry in the case was similar to PL's designs, but of better quality. After she left the counter, the salesperson told me she too was a Patricia Locke fan and that there was going to be a sample show later that month. 
Last year I bought myself a bracelet, similar to Elena's, that I can't wear without someone complimenting it. This year I received a card in the mail to alert me of the sample sale's date. I was so in. I invited a dozen of my friends to join me -- only two were brave enough to embark on the adventure.
I shared that it was better to drop in a little later so there would be no anxiety-filled line of women to stand in. Also, many lunch bags would be emptied back on the tables after the early-birds culled "the best stuff" and had headed out for margaritas at the neighboring Mexican restaurant to review their bounty.
Believe me, there may not have been much floor space to stake out for trying on the inventory, but there was plenty of inventory on the table to wade thru. Take that hoarders!
It always amazes me how many people are shopping at these events (cash and check only, please), even when the economy is rocky. Truth, you are probably not going to find this jewelry for less. And there were many followers in the room who would have payed RETAIL. Yes, I said RETAIL.
As I held the six pieces I was weighing on purchasing in my bag, I looked around to see what other women were holding onto. I was a minor leaguer. I decided to check out before succumbing to peer pressure and filling my paper bag.
In fact, I put back a set of earrings before stepping into the checkout line. I reminded myself I have worn the same stud earrings for 25 years. I am not really a jewelry person. Except for a few inherited sentimental treasures, I have little bling to flash.
Wednesday I added another bracelet to my collection; the rest of the twinkly baubles will be gifts. I also supported a woman-operated company that understands and helps customers match orphaned earrings (at a price). I kid you not.
The checkout clerk tallied the damage and put the jewelry back in my inconspicuous lunch bag. She accepted my check, stapled my bag shut, thanked me, and sent me on my way.
She said she hoped to see me next time. I made sure I filled out an e-mail notification card before I left.

Mahj Mitzvahs

A dear friend and her sister have made a pledge to journey from here to a neighboring state every couple of weeks to play mahjong with an aging aunt and their cousin.
They are calling it a "mahj mitzvah."
After my mother-in-law moved into assisted living here a few years ago, the same dear friend, offered to go and help teach any men or women who wanted to learn the ancient game. Anything to help a fellow mahjong maven get a few more players so there could be a game. Unfortunately it never happened because of the physical disabilities and the sad comings and goings of people in my mother-in-law's assisted living facility. 
In the entire time my mother-in-law lived in assisted living the only thing she complained about (besides the food, but we won't go there) was that lack of mahj mavens. When she moved to Chicagoland to join our family here, she joined a recreation center to take mahjong lessons and meet new friends. She made a lot of sacrifices to move closer to her family -- the biggest was to leave Philadelphia, the second was to give up her treasured mahjong and card groups at the swim club. To the very end of her life the ladies she shuffled tiles with in two cities were among her loyalist friends.

Mahjong, for those of you who have never heard the shuffling of tiles and learned the ceremonial breaking of the wall or the jingle of the winnings purse, was originated in China. World-wide the best players are still men. According to Wikipedia, it has only been played here in the USA since 1920.
I don't know when it was hijacked by Jewish women, but I think today they keep it thriving in the West. I grew up in a mahj house, in the Philadelphia area. One night a week and maybe an afternoon or two, when possible, the snack tables with bowls of nuts, pretzels, fruit and other nosh, were set up around a bridge table and mom's mahjong set.
The set was proudly purchased with S&H Green Stamps. I can still taste the glue on my tongue as I type this.
I have early memories of helping my mom turn the tiles face down for the players to swish around before drawing and stacking them neatly to build walls against their raised racks. Then there was the sound of the tiles clacking as she and her friends kibitzed and cackled before starting the next game.
When the game was in play my sister and I knew better than to interrupt. Sometimes a fifth person moved stealthily around the table like a satellite waiting for her turn to play. She would discreetly try to not show any emotion as the players built their hands.
When the National Mah Jongg League's new card came out each year, word of its availability spread like wildfire. Mom's friends were almost orgasmic about the new card. Although they all kept the tri-fold card, which shows the official hands and rules of the game, in front of them, most of the mavens didn't need to refer to them. My mom had that card memorized before almost anyone else she played with. She took great pride in frequently being asked to sub in other games looking for a fourth player.
At the beginning of each new season, there were deep discussions over the challenges of this year's card versus last year's. I'll bet there are some players out there who could compare all 76 years of the National organization's hands. As in baseball, there is also a more junior American Association.
Even when macular degeneration impeded mom's eyesight she could still play mahjong. The touch of the tiles, which have numbers, and dots, and jokers, and dragons, and flowers etched on them was second-nature to her.
My dad joked about how he didn't know how they understood the card since it was in Chinese. Chinese symbols that is.
I remember having a conversation with mom, when her eyesight began to worsen, about getting a larger print edition of the card. She said she would be embarrassed to have to use it. 
I reminded her that years ago when she needed to get the Canasta decks with bigger numbers, the rest of the women she played with happily adapted. Most were probably relieved to have the larger typeface.
Mom finally had to give up mahjong in her late 80s, not because she couldn't see so well, but because she couldn't reach from her tile rack to the table center to discard her useless tiles and pick a new one. Bad rotator cuffs and arthritis caused a premature end to a 70-plus-year-hall-of-fame-career as a mahj maven. I know with my mom's passing away in February she was reunited as that elusive fourth player with her other friends who preceded her, or even my mother-in-law, who never gave up on looking for a game.
Where ever I have lived I've been asked if I play mahjong. I understand the fundamentals and vocabulary of the game, but have had no desire to play it. Maybe there were too many "sushings" when I was watching mom and "the girls'' spend the afternoons at play. Sometimes the sound of the tiles clacking into each other makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
A lot of my friends are picking up the game or finding their foursomes, perhaps feathering their empty nests.
Maybe on the next trip to Philadelphia I will drag the mahjong set out of my sister's guest room closet and bring it back to Chicagoland.
Maybe my daughter, or son, will want to play someday.

Everyone is a little bit Italian

My offspring, mi figli, tease me about my ability to speak Italian.

"Just because you move your hands and speak a little more animated than others, or toss an O at the end of your wordsO, doesn't mean you can speakO the language,'' according to my daughter.

She, a woman of many language fluencies, a degree in International Studies and a longing to work in the foreign service, doesn't understand my passion for the Italian language.

I have always wanted to speak another language with some proficiency. Learning Latin in high school might have helped a little. Using the Spanish I learned instead more frequently might have helped a lot more.

Last year, in an attempt to stave off early onset Alzheimer's disease, I enrolled with my friend Julia at our community college for Italian I and Italian II. I dropped before Italian III because of the impending winter weather and the fear of being exposed as a language fraud. Julia went on to converse her way through Italy and speaks beautifully.
I am now content to order off the menu in an Italian restaurant clearly pronouncing each syllable as I have been taught. I've had a few bruschetta battles with "more knowledgeable wait staff" over pronunciation. But I am sure after working on my most recent linguistics degree, the tasty bread treats -- with the tomato, basil, garlic and olive oil dollop -- are pronounced bru'sket ta, not brus chet ta.
It reminds me of my first trip to Italy (BC, before children) when the New Jersey folks on the trip kept calling the country "It Lee," making me feel even more empowered.
Why am I in an Italian group at Bontà Italian Market and Cafe, a small family-run eatery, in Lincolnshire, IL, on Saturday mornings? I think in another life I might have been Italian. I will never get bored with visiting the country, the history, the art, the music, the people, the food.

Mostly I drop into Bontà because I have found a nice group of people who share the same love, and I love to hear them speak this language. Some are native born, like Nunzio who owns this delizioso deli gem, with his wife Antonella. Some of the Saturday morning classmates have lived the life in Italy. And others bring their rich heritage to the table (il tavolo) each Saturday morning.

We have shared our vacations, discussions over Italian politics, Il Papa, how to properly stack eggplant parmigiana and even the recent controversy surrounding Barilla pasta (Google it!). And we have shared sadly and happily a few life cycle events now and then.

Besides camaraderie and cappuccino, the nucleus of the group wants to make a presence on the North Shore and create an Italian-American Cultural Center full of activities and identity, similar to others in Chicagoland. Bontà opened its doors to the Contemporary Italian Cultural Society -- Chicago Chapter to be part of the new epicenter, while building its business.
Besides conversation and breakfasting we kick in contribution$ each week to build the dream or at least offset the cena e cinema (dinner and movie) nights that have become very popular at Bontà a couple of times a year.

Truthfully, I am after almost two years still intimidated when I have to read or say anything after buono giorno. But I could listen and learn from the majority of the group all day. 

This is not my first frustrating attempt to master another language. Thanks to an adult literacy course I can read Hebrew sans gusto, but understand very little of what I am saying. After my daughter's beautiful Torah reading during the Jewish High Holidays I congratulated her and told her how proud I am that she too can read Torah. She almost burst a bladder when I she reminded me that I don't speak Torah. I don't read it either. It doesn't have any vowels.

One of the obstacles I found in learning Italian was that I would stop to think of what the word was in Spanish before figuring out what was being said in English. My daughter, who is not as mean spirited as I paint her here, frequently reminds me that my Spanish is also limited.

Okay, so I once ordered a pair of shoes (dos zapatos) for breakfast instead of eggs (huevos) in Mexico City and got into a loud argument over the price of a bottle of Kahlua not being (verde) green instead of verdad (the truth) in Puerto Vallarta.

And when my Spanish exchange student daughter and I were left at home without my children, who speak and understand the language with ease, there was a lot of dictionary page flipping and arm flailing. But Noey and I got along and still love each other.
I remind my daughter/IT gal that I have travelled Italy, Spain, Chile, Argentina and Uruguay without international incident. She reminds me she has always been at my side for communication purposes.
I was aware in Italy that she was telling people "my mother is a little bit crazy"  in Italian to get us help when we got a little bit lost.
 My son, who has been known to mock me in Spanish, sounds like John Wayne when he speaks, but he does speak and understand the language without problem. He still rolls on the floor with laughter from the time I professed that I spoke Swiss.
Back to my daughter, who has an ear for many languages. She even took an Arabic class while in college and was one of a few students who realized that they should be reading Arabic from right to left. Hebrew school again paid off.
Recently I reminded her that I was left in Buenos Aires on my own for 12 hours and still managed to eat, navigate the city and get on a flight home to the US without calling John Kerry's staff. She reminded me how the Argentinians spoke English beautifully in the tourist areas and were not too proud to get help from someone when necessario.
Now I am wondering if there might have been some miscommunication when I booked my daughter, my sister and I on an adventure tour to the waterfalls in Iguazu. I refer to that part of our vacation as "Survivor Iguazu." Stay tuned for a future blog.
Where did our children, who make fun of their father's dusting off his high school French, get the knack for all these languages?
Today I was looking through a continuing education listing from our neighborhood high school. There were still openings for an 8-week American Sign Language course. My daughter signed me a few phrases she has already committed to memory and hand.
Then she said she would rather take beginning Japanese. Was I interested? You never know.

Higher education: A blog is a blog, is a blog ... unless it is a book deal

Wednesday I put my professional look on and journeyed into the city to find out more about blogging.
I am trying to make this the most interesting of experiences for my readers (400-plus and counting), while furthering my dream of helping to pay off student loans for our offspring who have gone the private college route.
I rode the train, bumped into working people and law school students I know. Getting up so early to go into the loop on our limited Metra line reminded me of how much I want to continue working from home. My heart goes out to the people who commute to and from every day. Especially those who have their set seats on the train, who give the stink eye to random people disturbing their space and the peace.
Don't even get me started on the "quiet car" experience.
Two hours before my first seminar on "Mommy Blogging Your Way to Success," I enjoyed people watching and a breakfast at my favorite Lavazza coffee shop on Ohio Street. I had returned to the scene of a prior almost crime. A few years back a young thug attempted to sweet talk and scam me there. Stay tuned and I shall blog that story in the future.

Fueled by an excellent grande cappuccino, with perfect artistic swirls in its steamy foamed hat and the last almond croissant, I later ambled up Michigan Avenue to the Chicago Tribune Tower for a day of seminars to improve my proficiency in blogging. The Tribune was a host site to many Social Media Week/Chicago events this week. It was my first time around the revolving doors of the historic building.
Seventeen years ago I planned on continuing my newspaper career there after we moved to the Midwest from Orlando. I had no idea how far the loop was from my suburban zip code and prioritized raising a family over writing and editing. Surrounded by young editorial and advertising people carrying coffee and bicycle helmets I checked in and then found my way to the elevator bank. Off to a great start, while being distracted by a life I used to know, I got off on the wrong floor. Acting cool, calm and collected, I waited for another elevator to take me to the basement. Did you know there is a workout facility in the Tribune Building?
One of 90 mommy bloggers to sign up for Wednesday's event, I took a seat and waited for the other 89 to show up. Okay, I was a little bit eager, a little bit early.
As the rest of the bloggers drifted in (more than half of the registered lot and only two men) and the panel of experienced women got comfortable, I noticed I was on the empty-nest side of the pool instead of the Pampers/pre-school assemblage. After looking around the room I also noticed I am going to have to get much cooler eyeglass frames to be competitive with this group.
It's amazing what you can learn in an hour. I have notes to prove it.
Reoccurring themes, while the panelists snacked on Dove chocolates, were:

• You don't get rich from blogging.
• You should blog because you have a passion for writing. 
• Write less but more often.
• Book deals and speaking engagements are where the money is, if there is any money to be made off the blogosphere.
• Girl Scout cookies have already gone on sale.

I am more than up for the challenge. 

The afternoon's session which required another trip through the revolving doors and finding a different conference room was about reviving your blog. I figured by attending "TribU: Save My Blog," I would master a "prevent defense" for my losing interest in blogging. The event was overflowing with bloggers and with a lot of information I had been seeking.

Twitter vs. Facebook. Facebook page vs. Facebook fan page. Adding widgets and whatchamacallits.
Reoccurring themes at this session, besides not serving coffee, were:

• You don't get rich from blogging.
• You should blog because you have a passion for writing. 
• You are not writing "War and Peace" or even worrying about good writing.
• Don't get hung up in the posting queue -- send, send, send.

I can't promise to follow through on all of these suggestions. The journalist in me still worries about some of these suggestions. I may not have all the answers but I now have a new network of people to help me get this blog out there.

Now I must stop writing and try to figure out how to move one address book into another so I can let you know we are up and running.

Tweeting is not for everybody #really

I have 11 people following me on Twitter. Nine are total strangers.
It is pretty scary that there are strangers in my life. I've been warning my children about stranger danger on the Internet for years.
It is also pretty scary that I keep sending this blog out there and that only 11 people are following me.
I am the mom who has never had a Facebook page. Yes, I am the one.
I don't really want anyone I knew in elementary school, who has not found me in the past 40-plus years, to look me up now.
When I was living in the Tampa Bay area during the 80s -- and the Philadelphia Eagles were in a Super Bowl -- a handful of those people were looking for couch surfing reservations and even tickets to the game.
I broke it to them gently -- the Outdoors Writer, who also had to cover high school football, for the local newspaper, did not get a handful of tickets to help pay her tiny one-bedroom apartment's rent.
I wasn't even going to THAT game.
Back to Facebook.
The blogging and IT gurus I have spoken to have told me that in order for this blog to get a following, it has to have a Facebook and a Twitter account. Twitter is something else I have avoided, although I hope to get in on the IPO if my Fidelity broker can make it so.

My IT Gal and I have been trying to set up a Facebook that won't disclose my real identity. We've been distracted between shopping, pedicures, an out-of-town wedding, etc., and hope to get back to that project in a day or two.
She did get a Twitter account up and running after the fourth blog was published. She Tweeted the first few messages out there to show me how it works. Now I've signed up for two seminars on the subject this week in the city.
My Twitter account journeys out there to infinity and beyond under this moniker: @musingsmom58.
That's me, Mama K.
We even found an adorable cartoon illustration to tie it in with the Musings From The Laundry Room theme (the name of this blog just in case you have not made the connection) I have going here that a few people have become loyal readers of. Two are in my Google+ circles. This is something else I didn't know I had.
In the old days you got instant gratification by publishing a story or column by your editor no longer snarling about your deadlines. You could sometimes see the papers being delivered on you drive home to your tiny one-bedroom apartment. That also meant you had stayed out too long after literally putting the paper to bed.
Back then your feedback wasn't by Tweet or blog comment. It might have been a wake-up call by the father of the high school football player you criticized in the morning paper after his big-time-college-prospect son dropped the-game-winning pass, or the excessive pickup horn blaring outside your window because you didn't mention the  name of the guy who caught the biggest tarpon of the week in your Sunday column. I kid you not.
Since setting up the Twitter account I have become obsessed with checking it to see if anyone is following me. Crap, I only have seven followers now. Where did they go?
I spent a couple of hours connecting with comedy favorites, foodies, organizations, the Obamas ... . I keep hoping that someone I have reached out to will reach out and Tweet me.
Just logged on and saw that Oprah has recommended I add a few connections. Now I am going to wake up my IT Gal and get her to remind me what my password is, so I can add a few more people to my Tweets.
There's no #stopping me now.

Good pie belongs on its own pedestal

Recently a link went around that really set me on edge.
It proclaimed that pie is the next cupcake on the culinary dessert trend circuit.
This proclamation offended me.
I take pie quite seriously. Good pie belongs on its own pedestal. I've put it there for years.
Pie is one of my favorite desserts and probably one of my Hall of Fame comfort foods.
During my phormative years in Philadelphia, Tastykake fruit pies were occasionally permitted with a glass of milk as our family's version of the most important meal of the day. Tastykake lemon and blueberry pies were always my favorites. Our breakfast of champions before heading off on a walk to elementary school.
My mom was not a baker of pies. She claimed they were too hard to make. Transferring the crusts from counter to pie plate can be overwhelming for a lot of people.
I shall date myself by pulling up a memory of the Horn & Hardart Automat and coconut custard pie. No one makes coconut custard pie like that memory. It was also my dad's favorite.
I didn't bake my first pie, or appreciate the talent it takes to make a good one, until I moved into my first apartment in Clearwater, Fla. Young, single and sometimes lonely, I would try to master former Philadelphia City Councilwoman/pie entrepreneur Joan Specter's  apple walnut recipe and throw a pie-pity-party for some of my newspaper friends who worked nights and weekends.
I was homesick in Florida for the strawberry tarts I'd shared with friends in Philly at The Commissary. Pie can be and is emotionally soothing (I will get back to this on or around January 23, National Pie Day; not to be confused with March 14, Pi Day).
As you can see, I don't discriminate when it comes to pie. I like fruit pies, cream pies and nut pies. Shoo-Fly pie would not be in my top 10. I do enjoy chicken pot pie and shepherd's pie as dinner entrées. For the purpose of this blog I am concentrating on dessert pies.
Some of the best pies I've eaten were in Florida. Not too far from Clearwater's Jack Russell Stadium in the early 80s you could pick up amazing sweet potato pies on the ride back to the office to write baseball stories. Purchased and brown bagged right out of the oven of a talented woman's BBQ shack/home.
It wasn't until I was living in Orlando, that I realized there were pie people as obsessed as I.
A columnist at The Orlando Sentinel, who called himself Commander Coconut, was always on the lookout for another good slice of life and he would refer to the minions who enjoyed pie as much as he did as "Pie Butts."A badge of honor.
Diners down south were/are great sources for pie. Local dives and posh diners, such as the Peabody Hotel's B-Line in Orlando failed to disappoint. Years ago the B-Line's deep dish apple pie was the best I had ever eaten. I would actually order one or two for Thanksgiving dinner and return the pie tins with rave reviews days later. But pastry chefs move on...
Ever since Oprah announced to the world her love of Costco's pumpkin pie I have joined that bandwagon. Truthfully, I have never had a homemade version as good. And you can't beat the value.
One of the best things about pumpkin pie is it is a vegetable so I don't worry about the calorie issue.
For many years I have entered into many debates over the best Key Lime pie out there. I will share a little expertise with you about Key Lime pie -- if it is green you must stay away from it. If you want a good commercial version Hooters and Trader Joe's can fill a void. A slice at Joe's Stone Crab restaurants in Miami and Chicago still makes my heart skip a beat. My friend Marla -- who lives in Chicagoland -- makes my favorite homemade version.

Chi-town is striving to become a very good pie town -- not counting its formidable deep dish Pizza pies -- with more than a dozen places with good reps. If you have an extra nine hours try to duplicate Gale Gand's recipe for banana cream pie--DO IT. It is just one reason Gand, an Evanston native and one of the world's most celebrated pastry chefs, had a cooking show called "Sweet Dreams."
I have marched crews of friends and family to Emeril Lagasse's restaurants in Vegas and Orlando to indulge in his version of banana cream pie when it is on the menu.
A long-standing family tradition, after walking to raise money for Juvenile Diabetes in the Chicagoland area, is breakfast and pie at Bakers Square -- I kid you not. Their French Silk pie needs no justification.
If you eat pie while doing charity or philanthropy there are no calories in it. If you professionally eat pie you have a dream job. This "pie butt" enjoyed semi-pro status when she stepped up to judge pies at the Lake County (IL) Fair for a number of seasons.
A lot of homemade pies were enjoyed and rewarded ribbons during my tenure and a handful of pie frauds (really, don't try and serve that prepared crust to a real pie judge) were exposed.
Do you know that we used to have to post "pie police"to make sure jealous entrants would not switch awarded ribbons when no one was looking? Who would have thought pie baking could be so competitive.
After several years of judging pies I learned that not every pie baker has high standards and there are a whole lot of people out there who just don't know good pie. There are cheaters who have to be challenged when they enter pre-baked pies. And as you the pie judge are chewing, you never think about where and how these entries are baked. If you did, you could never do this demanding job. Oprah and her friend Gayle King took a stab at judging food at the Texas state fair one season.
Kudos to those who bake and even more kudos to those still judging.
A perfect job for me -- besides blogging -- would be to travel for pie. Finding good pie in the USA is not that difficult. One of the best places I've ever been to internationally and highly recommend is The Queen of Tarts in Dublin, Ireland.
Last year my daughter and I traveled there for breakfast. According to the American Pie Council 35 percent of all Americans have had pie for breakfast.
You guessed it -- lemon meringue pie with tea. I've grown up, I am not a big fan of milk unless I am dunking Oreos in it.

Truthfully I have had oil changes that have taken longer...

My husband had neck surgery to kick the week off -- once again testing our marriage vows.
Luckily, that in sickness and in health clause has been activated only a few times in our nearly 25 years legally together.
Hopefully this most recent procedure will alleviate the pains in his neck (stifle those jokes about his wife please) and the tingles in his arm (remember I am the funny writer here) that have been bugging him for far too long.
A little back story:
When the neurosurgeon looked at the CT scan a few weeks ago I admired the surgeon's confidence and the Maserati parked in his office lot. With a quick glance our specialist told us "he could fix it," and we believed.
Said husband, also a health professional, wasn't nervous at all that this might not work out.
The procedure, to fuse three discs in the neck with a titanium plate and remove bone spurs and debris, was supposed to take an hour. The incision would be in the front of the neck, near his throat. The procedure was scheduled as outpatient surgery, with a room reserved at the same hospital just in case the anesthesia and pain didn't agree with the patient, and vice versa.
I planted myself in the waiting area of our suburban hospital with a stack of books and my first cup of vending machine cafe. A color-coded chart hiding the identities of the patients with numbers, updated me periodically on his location behind the double doors -- pre OP, in Surgery, in recovery, in recovery II -- and the locker room where his possessions were stowed.
We had not told a lot of people outside of out-of-town family about the surgery. Didn't want people to worry.
Have you ever noticed that when you tell some people something medical they will dis your doctor or the location you have chosen to have the work done? Really? What good comes from that karma?
Back to the back story:
Our daughter offered to take off work to sit with me "if I wanted." Our at-college son, when apprised of the day's agenda weeks earlier, said: "He'll be fine." They are so different. She is more a worrier. He is a man of science like his dad.
I was barely on my third concoction of vending machine cafe (a mocha/cappuccino with milk and sugar; did I mention it was free?), when our  neurosurgeon came out to the waiting room -- sans scrubs -- to tell me how well the surgery had gone. Truthfully I have had oil changes that have taken longer.
I put down my copy of Getting Into Medical School for Dummies and tossed my empty third cup of vending machine cafe in the trash to do a caffeine induced happy dance.
The incision was barely 3 inches long with Frankenstein hash marks. The permanent marker and glue they pasted the wound closed with should be gone after several showers. The incision should not inhibit wearing bow ties in the future.
Poof, several weeks of worrying about everything from paralysis, to his losing his voice, to the inability to travel without setting off security alerts at airports everywhere, gone in an instant.
Checking the electronic chart, I saw I still had time peruse the gift shop and make a run to the cafeteria before they would release the patient back into my custody.
My husband is such a good guy, even under the stooper of anesthesia and muscle relaxers he insisted on putting his wedding band back on his finger before needing my assistance to get dressed. Three bags of fluids and the meds made that a super human task, the re-ringing, not the dressing. His fingers were swelled up a size or two.
A couple of graham crackers and Diet Pepsi's later, he was strong enough to stand up and eliminate all that excess liquid on the nurse's command. You aren't allowed to leave the hospital unless you show them you remember what to do in the washroom. I know, TMI.
The patient wasn't interested in staying no matter how many packages of Lorna Doones they left on the table.
I know there are a few women out there who would agree that there is nothing worse than a sick husband. I may have said that myself a few cold and flu seasons in our history. Or maybe I muttered it after he caught the chickenpox as an adult working in a pharmacy back when our daughter was a toddler. And then there was the time he had his tonsils and adenoids removed as an adult to help with his sleep apnea.
A McDonald's milkshake eased the interior scratchy throat on the ride home. He was in some discomfort, but after 24 hours was pain med and muscle relaxer free. It will be a few weeks until the tingling dissipates.
We have received a barrage of calls and texts from people who were concerned about him. After 24 hours he was answering the phone on his own.
Miracles of science.