Wanted: Job that would fulfill all wanderlust requirements

I am feeling the pressure. The towel rack I ordered is in at Crate & Barrel. They just left me a message. 

The towel rack I fell in like with, during one of my many travels and stays at certain properties my husband had jeweled status at, is ready for pickup. 

I'd noticed the display rack out of the corner of my eye while purchasing a shower gift at C&B last month. 
Previously, attempts  to purchase one like it on line or hide it in a carry on (just kidding) had failed me. So I was happy to find one that could be obtained without jail time. 

The towel rack -- which was back ordered, but not a problem -- opened up a line of conversation with the C&B associate who helped with the ordering process. I told her I had seen it at home and abroad while traveling, but never in their catalogue. And then our discussion drifted to traveling.
She had lived abroad before children and we got off on a tangent about Paris and Amsterdam, from where I had just returned, to talking about my next stop -- Las Vegas -- where you can pretend travel. Like EPCOT. And the air-conditioning is better. 

I could see the wanderlust in her eyes. My daughter gets that look when she tells people she wants to visit all the continents before she turns 25. I usually get wistful while reading travel sections and mags and while watching PBS. 

She asked me if I travelled for business or pleasure and I explained Europe this time was to visit my tumbleweed daughter -- who is working as an au pair to improve her French, while squeezing in weekend travel adventures, before returning to the states to go to graduate school. Las Vegas was to relax, and write, while my husband was conferencing. 

Somehow our conversation jumped to travel expert Rick Steves and how he always gives a different perspective to the cities he visits. Something I try to do on each of my adventures. 

I chimed in that I could offer Steves a new perspective to travel. Travel for middle-age women worried about their ankles swelling. 

She suggested I contact him. I admitted I checked the careers on his website every once in a while. Most times they are too techy for me. 
Now that we are empty nesters there would be time for a job. 

The perfect job, besides blogging --which hasn't been as lucrative as I had hoped, would involve travel. Even with my phobias of highway driving, glass elevators and ridiculously high escalators I do manage to get places on vacation. 

Okay so we probably took a few more double decker buses in London where there weren't working elevators at the Tube stations.  I lived thru my Iguazu waterfall adventure (again a blog for another time).  
Another niche audience, besides middle-age women wary of swollen ankles, might be travelers with phobias.

I love sharing travel tips and ideas with friends and family. 

I used to think the perfect job, after leaving newspapers, would be a segment producer for Oprah's show. Of course I would joke with friends that I would need limo service to get to and from the city and a salary that would make giving up coffee group, book group, and all of my other activities negotiable. 

Oprah ended her show. Maybe she was jealous of my life. And no offers for me to replace her came forward. So I blog.  

My daughter was recently making fun of me for taking a sabbatical from my blog sabbatical. I noticed her travel blog has not been updated. 

Thank you loyal readers for being patient. I am going to cut this blog short and contact Rick Steves.

AVAILABLE: Travel segment producer for niche middle-age woman audience. 

You never know. 
Then I can go pick up the towel rack at C&B.

Holy Mac-arons

I am that person who always looks at the dessert menu before choosing which entree I will order. 

I will balance a whole day of calories to fit in a special dessert. 

I eat chocolate, though not always dark and more rarely white, every day for medicinal purposes. 

While visiting my daughter, who is living in the City of Lights, last month, where she is operating under the auspices of being an au pair for an authentic French family, I signed up my sister and myself for a macaron baking class at Cook'n With Class, a cooking school in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. 

Forgive the length of that last sentence. I am still operating on a sugar high that two days of jet lag could not dissipate. 

My sister/travel pal and I were on an eight-day Paris/Amsterdam adventure. 

You might say we were once again living vicariously through my daughter, her favorite niece, and taking advantage of this student of the globe's language and orienteering skills. 

 This  was our third trip to see what the kid (also my missing in action IT girl) was up to. We had visited her in Spain when she was studying abroad two years ago and last year caught up with her while she was interning in Chile. 

My sister puts up with my snoring on these visits. And I try to navigate our travel plans around her low tolerance of museums. We love hop-on, hop-off tour buses to get an overview of our destinations. We rely on my daughter's recommendations and our concierge staff to not only take advantage of the obvious tourist attractions, but to go off the beaten path -- literally in Iguazu to see the waterfalls between Argentina and Brazil. 

I promise you loyal readers that trip was a blog unto itself and I shall sit and write it someday before the details become too fuzzy or exaggerated. 

Back to the macarons (I am spelling the cookie this way because it is the way our culinary instructor Briony Laberthonniere typed it in the note and recipe she sent after I graduated from the three-hour baking class). 
Macaroons ROONS in the states. Macarons RAHNS in France. There was no coconut in the French treat.

We booked the class when our trip to Normandy got cancelled and my sister dug her heals in when I suggested we check out another museum. I'd Googled the cooking classes for something to do between meals while my daughter was working. They also offered shopping with the chef outings that would then produce lunch and dinner gastro experiences.There are other baking classes in their catalogue.
My sister and I had spent the previous day marching up and down drizzly Montmartre on a very good "free city tour" and visiting the Mona Lisa with a few thousand fans. So I was looking for something a little more relaxing and different to polish off our Paris stay. 

We'd already tasted our way thru a few boulangerie and dessert menus.

So after lunch at the local boulangerie, near our boutique hotel, where we shared an amazing eclair, we waved goodbye to the daughter and taxied off to our baking adventure. 

The last time my sister and I baked together we were trying to save three batches of cookies for a cookie exchange she was going to. That year for a birthday present I sent her a proper dough stirring spoon, because her utensils literally don't cut it.
A champion brownie maker, pro bake sale mom and pie artisan I have plenty of utensils in my kitchen. At least I thought so until aproning-up for the macaron class and realizing we would be weighing ingredients for accuracy purpose and using professional sifters and strainers I don't have at home. I also don't keep almond flour handy in the pantry. Obstacles, obstacles, obstacles.
I was not intimidated by the project, despite the fact we would be measuring in liters not ounces. I wasn't even shaken by the fact the eggs had already been separating for days, awaiting our decision over whether we would make the meringue for the macarons the French way or the Italian way.
The five Americans registered for the class voted unanimously for the Italian way. This did not offend our instructor, a native Aussie, who had explained the different prep methods to get the perfect meringue for the task ahead.
I have been making my own very popular chocolate chip meringue cookies the French way, sprinkling in the sugar. The Italian way you liquefy the sugar before adding it to the peaks. By liquefying the sugar you have much more control.
I will not bore you with too many other details about the afternoon's baking. Even after we mastered the piping of the petite puffs and later the filling and coupling of the cushions, we were awed by the experience. Three different ganaches gave them their distinct tastes. The outer shell, had one taste but we made them in three different colors, brushing gold dust on the salted caramel filled pastries.
Each of us packed up a baker's dozen of the delights to take home. Orphans were taste tested by the class and I think we really surprised ourselves.
My sister's set made it safely back to Philadelphia. I shared my box with the concierge at my hotel, then sent the rest of my macarons home with my daughter to let the family she works for sample them.
How do you say thumbs up in French?
On the taxi ride back to our hotel, before meeting one of my daughter's friends for dinner and dessert (but of course), I figured out each macaron cost about $12. Yes, you could buy a dozen at Costco for under $9 for Mother's Day last week.
Trust me they do not taste the same. The experience, however, was priceless.
I am not claiming that our batches were as good as those you might purchase in Paris at Ladur'ee.
The experience, however, was priceless.

***

I have attached the link to the cooking school if you want to step up to the challenge. 

Join Cook'n With Class on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/facecwc for the latest news and Paris activities.

I am trying to upload the recipe and a troubleshooting file but I will need help from my IT Gal.

The rules have gone to the dogs for some people

Where to start?
Even the man who opened the door for the woman with the accessory dog knew it wouldn't sit right.
This was not Europe. Theirs was not a working dog.
"What will you do if they don't let you bring the dog in?" he asked as he opened the Starbucks' door, for her, the dog and the two children tagging along with them.
"I'll go outside,'' she said.
The rule follower in me couldn't believe what I was hearing, let alone watching, as I followed them inside for my caffeine fix.
She sat down at the table closest to the door as the man and the two children got in line for breakfast treats and beverages. I waited patiently behind them. 
Seething. 
I tried to reel it in. I could hear the voice of one of my closest friends telling me to ignore it. It was not hurting me. Looking around I could see other customers acknowledging the dog, ignoring the scenario.
Hey, it doesn't hurt me to watch infants put salt shakers in their mouths while their parents text and talk at a restaurant table, but I let the waitress know to remove the compromised condiment container before the next unsuspecting customer reaches for it.
I've mellowed, even though I have moved a few years closer to losing that filter we all try to engage until we get old enough to ignore it completely.
The old me, the me that got cursed out and was once told to mind her own business after suggesting a less-than-attentive dad have his toddler sit down in the grocery cart instead of allowing her to stand to reach something out of realistic grasp on an end stand, would have confronted dog-toting woman.
Time has taught me that people are crazy, so I really don't like to confront people unless I see someone in danger.
FYI, I have watched a child a few feet away tumble out of a grocery cart. It's not pretty.
The dog in the Starbucks on this subzero day was not really endangering anyone. I've seen children with drippy, glazed donut faces touching everything in sight, being more dangerous.
The owner was, however, breaking the law.
The woman made no attempt to really hide the dog under her arm. Not even when the manager, who had already had to ask someone to take their dog out earlier that day, went over to break it to her that dogs are not allowed inside unless they are working dogs.
The woman said she would go outside and wait in the car; the rest of her party was still waiting for its complicated drink/breakfast order to be complete.
But, she still sat and chatted with a person she knew, modeling behavior in front of the children.
 I was still waiting to get my coffee. I had opted for decaf.
As I was leaving and she was still talking to her friend, the dog gave me a look. It's beautiful face begging for sympathy.
Maybe he was a working dog after all.

Bucket list motivation

I was sad -- not surprised -- that David Letterman announced he will be retiring next year from hosting CBS's "Late Show."
Sad because David Letterman has been a constant in my TV-viewing life, since he was on in the mornings.
I used to wake up and eat breakfast while watching NBC's "The David Letterman Show" on my black and white portable TV, during my cub reporting days in Florida. 
Most people I know don't remember Dave used to be on in daylight.
Motivated by his humor and shtick I'd head to work with a smile on my face and some "Davisms" to share with my fellow newspaper co-workers.
I am not surprised that Dave is retiring. I know how hard it is to be funny. That's why you have not seen me crank out this blog on a consistent basis. It's hard to be funny, and I'm writing for a much less demanding audience.
Can you imagine having to come up with an entertaining "Top Ten List'' five days a week, let alone an entire hour each night of fun and crazy?
Dave's been pretty funny for more than three decades. He is the longest-serving late-night host in TV history.  Aside from quintuple bypass surgery, a writers' strike, and switching networks, Dave has not missed many days of work. 
 Thursday he told CBS president and CEO Les Moonves, his boss, he will retire sometime in 2015, when his contract is to expire.
The timing was good. He had outlasted Jay Leno, who left NBC's "Tonight Show," this year.
Dave, 66, has not yet been obliterated by the youthful Jimmy(s), Kimmel and now Fallon, in the current fight for the highly coveted late-night audience. But I have to admit, I have not watched as much Dave as I have Fallon in the past month. 
I will have to move attending a "Late Show" taping toward the top of my bucket list now that Dave has set a deadline. I can't tell you how many times I have looked on line to get tickets, and or dropped by the closed box office during trips to New York.
Even last summer I strolled under that iconic marquee at the Ed Sullivan Theater, and thought I would try again the next time.

***

Dave's body is not even room temperature (I hear the studio is kept at near-freezing) and people are talking about who will replace him. Since no one will ever really replace Dave, I hope TV execs at CBS will do something different and put a woman behind that late-night desk. Women, after all, make up more than half the audience. I hope they won't overlook Tina Fey and Jane Lynch.

I will take a pass, because it just is too hard to be funny all the time. 

Don't try to pass along that train pass

Tuesday my son stepped on the train and used my husband's monthly Metra pass to ride into the city without aggravation.
I can't say I have had the same luck.
Who would have thought a monthly Metra pass would not be gender neutral?
Who would have thought it mattered whether a male or female butt took up a seat?
In the words of one of my dear friends "why does it matter whose (expletive) butt is in the seat if you have a monthly pass?"
"You can't use this pass,'' the conductor informed me last month when I attempted to meet my husband in the city.
"What?" I said, a bit embarrassed to be called out in front of peers in the quiet car. "You are female and the pass is marked male.
"$6.25 please."
I scrambled for change in my wallet and a little dignity.
My husband, who drove into the loop that day so we could drive home together after dinner, had given me his pass to "use" his Metra seat.
A nouveau-commuter, he had not noticed the M and F boxes at the top of the monthly pass. The M had been marked, with an X, with a permanent marker. My husband also had not noticed --as did I -- or chose to ignore -- as did I -- that the pass is not transferable. 
Ten-day passes were always good for that purpose.
Unless you are a same-sex couple, or son of a father, or mother of a daughter, etc., a picky conductor is going to cramp your flexibility.
There is no photograph of the commuter or finger print to guarantee the monthly pass is not transferable. Just an M and a F and in this case a big X on the corner.
It does not matter how many times service is interrupted or discontinued due to weather during the ticket's tenure. It does not matter that you purchased ridership for 60-61 passages and you only really used 40 if you are consistently riding five times a week.
It did not matter that my husband did not ride into the loop the day he let me ride in.
It matters where the check is marked on the M or F space.
Of course if you purchase the monthly pass from a non-gender-discriminating machine instead of a ticket agent, or thru your company's Flex-Payroll program, it is not marked at all.
So earlier this month, with my husband's new unmarked-monthly pass in my pocket, I was going to attempt to use it and meet him in the loop.
I was surprised to see the same conductor approach me for my fare. I was afraid -- because I am a rule follower -- to hand her the unmarked pass. I was also afraid she would recognize me and confiscate my husband's $160 pass, or worse mark the F with permanent marker so he would have trouble using it the balance of the month. 
I had my unfair fare, ready, in my sweaty palm.
"$5.75" she said, not making eye contact.
"Oh?" I said, thinking last time the same train, same time cost me more.
"$5.75"
I did not know if she was pegging me for a senior fare or if I had just experienced one of the reasons the rail line, which is still WIFIless in 2014 (a whole other blog), is in financial distress.
INCONSISTENCY, not people riding on other people's monthly passes.
I justified my not arguing up the fare with her by justifying in my head that the seat I was sitting in had already been paid for.
More than once.

Just how cold is it?

If there is one thing people in the Chicagoland area can agree on, it is that we are sick of the weather.
Sick of the snow. 
Sick of the ice.
Sick of the slush.
Sick of the snow blower and shovel.
Sick of the slush freezing into more ice.
Sick of the salt-shortage stories.
Sick of the record-breaking snowfalls and temperatures.
Winter is not one category that I care to win a competition in.
Those of you hoping we will soon surpass the third snowiest winter statistics, get a hold of yourselves.
Watch what you wish for.
For those of you keeping track of our record-setting sub-zero days, knock it off.
Isn't one sub-zero day enough?
The only upside to the cold side of Chicago, is that crime drops.
Remember when the weather was on the 8s on the Weather Channel and at the 18-minute mark of the local news?
Now it is the lead, it is the center, it is the topic that makes the sports crew cram results into agate-sized air time.
Weather is breaking news. Something I don't understand since the TV stations forecast the impending storms for days before it becomes breaking news.
When we moved here 17 years ago from Florida, people thought we were crazy. My husband's former employer thought I was joking when I asked for a team of huskies and a full-length fur coat as part of our relocation package. After this gray, cold, snowy winter I am beginning to believe I am going crazy.
Life goes on in Chicagoland when it is winter. People here don't clear off the grocery store shelves for a two-day event like they do on the East Coast. Here they shovel paths to their barbecue grills.
While growing up in Philadelphia, schools closed on the first inch or two in a forecast (maybe because we walked to and from school back then). Our local schools here have closed a record four times this year. My friend Lynne in Virginia said her daughter has had more snow days since she moved there than Lynne, a native Chicagoan, had in her entire life.
Virginians, like Pennsylvanians, run to get bread and milk in the house just in case the weather would strand them.
My mom, before moving into assisted living and then passing away a year ago, was one of the worst offenders of that panic purchasing. She didn't even drink milk, but would have my sister or someone else rushing out, to make sure she had milk in the house.
You do not want milk, or a ton of other perishable provisions, in the house if you are going to lose power for a few days. My sister just found that out when she was plunged into polar darkness for nearly a week in her suburban Philly home.
Another perk of living in the Chicagoland area is you can keep your groceries in the car for hours while driving around or even days if the power goes out. Don't try that in Orlando. Even in winter (it was going to be 85 degrees there today).
While the weather here is killing the retail economy, travel agents are all a flutter. Despite our major airport canceling 7.5 percent of its flights this winter, people are getting out of Dodge. Why they have come back is beyond me.
My husband and I will make another attempt to visit friends in Arizona later this month. Our first plan to escape the weather here for a weekend, was foiled three weeks ago by a plane cancellation. I had the optimistic pedicure and everything packed when the flight notice came in that afternoon. Ironically, not a flake or flurry going on here or in Scottsdale that day. But the weather around the rest of the country mucked up our departure.
The airline called it an equipment problem. Maybe the equipment was snowed in on the East Coast and the aircraft could not get into Chicago.
Guaranteed blizzard later this month when we attempt to escape for Scottsdale II.
My friends in Florida, who have done periodic health checks on us this winter without making jokes about the weather, have offered to host us. We just have not been able to get there.
One of my dear friends asked what I've been doing to stay sane. I recently traded my Sebring Convertible for a new SUV so we can get over the end of the driveway, where the snowplows sock you in.
Even when it is cold and gray you have to get out of your house for fresh air. Sometimes I go out to get the mail. I have been going to the fitness center and Starbucks.
I drink a lot of coffee (decaf because my eyes have been twitching), I watch too much TV. I read, I nap, I snack, I have become a house cat. Sometimes I write.
Today my friend D and I went for a reflexology massages. Her birthday gift to me. It was a good way to get the circulation going and got me away from the house. I don't think I would have enjoyed the outing if I had been sweaty. It was a good plan to go on a day when you were numb walking into the business.
Yesterday, while eating fantastic charred grilled cheese sandwiches (just like the ones I make at home) and homemade soup (is there a better winter lunch?), at my friend Sarah's house, we made an executive decision to get out of her house, pick up our friend Joan, and go to the movies.
Twisted: Went to see a sing-along version of "Frozen." Just wasn't cold enough outside.
We were the only three people in the theater. We watched most of the credits before forcing ourselves to go back outside to the car.
Breaking news: It may hit 40 degrees here tomorrow.
Sad news: It could snow again Saturday.

Movie Madness

I have seen every movie this year that has been nominated for a major Academy Award.
I dragged my husband to the animation short films yesterday at our local arts theater.
I made my friend go back there with me this morning to see the live action nominated short films.
I do not go to the movies as an excuse to eat fresh popcorn.
I go to the movies because I love the movies.
I got the movie-loving gene from my late mom.
I know I have passed it on to my daughter who, when in the same zip code as me on Christmas Day, shares in the tradition of a movie triple header and Chinese food. We deviated from that this year -- the Chinese food -- and are putting it back to committee for a vote next year.
So here are my selections, in the categories people care about -- my apologies to the documentaries and best foreign language films -- before the stars saunter down the Red Carpet and dear Ellen DeGeneres entertains us for three-plus hours.
The envelope please:
Animated feature film: Frozen
Best animated short: Room on The Broom - UK
Best live action short: Aquel No Era Yo (That Wasn't Me) -Espana
Best supporting actor: Jared Leto - Dallas Buyers Club
Best supporting actress: Lupita Nyong'o - 12 Years a Slave
Best actor: Leonardo DiCaprio - The Wolf of Wall Street
Best actress: Cate Blanchette - Blue Jasmine
Best director: Alfonso Cuaron - Gravity
Best picture: 12 Years a Slave
Off to make popcorn!!!

An Olympic Postpartum Posting

Is anyone else suffering from a post Winter Olympic Games hangover?
For more than a fortnight I have used my obsession for the games as an excuse for not sitting down to write this blog.
It was nice to be missed. My loyal readers at the fitness center and Starbucks, two of the few places I frequented during my personal DVRfest of winter sports, kept asking me why I wasn't updating the blog.
I won't miss living on the edge of spoiler alerts and early A.M. wake up calls to watch prelim events that really misled me as to the outcome of medal rounds. But I will miss the "live'' competition.
Have I mentioned I always wanted to report on an Olympics, before retiring from the newspaper business? Oh, yeah I think I did. 
I'm sure I will mention it again before I retire from this blog.
I need to get over it the way Shaun White (my wayward pretend professional snowboarding son) has gotten over not medaling at the Sochi experience.
My real son and I, avid X-Game followers, knew what tricks White honed on the half pipe before the sport took off in popularity and all the current medalists cut their teeth on White's tricks. 
Of course I would always tell my real son not to try any of the snowboarding or skateboarding tricks at home. I let him live vicariously through the gravity defying feats we watched on TV.
White, not my real son who is premed boy plodding through midterms in the South for another week, seemed to be back to normal on his visit with Jimmy Fallon this week on "The Tonight Show." 
I figured White, a two-time Olympic gold medalist, who holds the X-Games records for gold medals and highest overall medal count, would pick himself up. He was still thrilled - despite pulling out of one event due to course conditions and finishing off the medal stand in his favored event - to be at the Olympics and a member of the team. 
While I'm on White and the Olympics, I want to mention something my real son mentioned that he learned this semester in his Ancient Athletes history class. 
When the Olympics were first organized, they only gave out gold medals.
Don't go intimating that your local Olympians and national treasures are losers or disappointments because they came home with silver and bronze medals. For crying out loud, they got to go to the Olympics.
They still don't give participation trophies for going to the Olympic Games. You do, however, get a lot of clothing, photos and memories. And once you are an Olympic athlete, you are always an Olympic athlete.
In some sports the odds are stacked against the athletes because of scoring systems that no one really understands. Why does everyone always act so surprised when there is controversy in the skating competitions?
I was never going to let my children participate in sports where adults could subjectively mar them for life. In this house you raced against the clock, had to make the basket, had to hit the ball or the birdie. Okay, there were a few missed calls behind the plate and at the badminton boundary lines over the years, but we kept it in perspective that our children were not playing in the Olympics. The Olympics ARE NOT an easy level to advance to if you are an American playing badminton.
Going to the Olympics IS NOT an easy feat for any athlete to achieve. Although some of the Scandinavian and German families, who come back year after year, from much smaller countries, have figured something out.
Americans have figured out how to win lots of medals in non-traditional events -- especially ones we invent.
Speaking of the Wheaties "Breakfast of Champions" box, American gold medalists free-style snowboarder Sage Kotsenburg and alpine skier Mikaela Shiffren are on the 2014 boxes.
Shiffren, 18, became the youngest Olympian to ever win her event. Kostenburg won the first ever gold medal in men's snowboard slope style.
Despite their awesome achievements, I wondered if they would have been displaced if the men's and women's ice hockey teams had won gold medals?
Today I was picking up my husband's pants at the dry cleaners and saw Olympic hockey jerseys on the carousel. Hoping there was not a HIPA agreement on dry cleaning, I asked the woman behind the counter if they might belong to one of our hometown Olympic heroes, or her family members. Even after looking at the name on the tag she had no idea.
I'm moving on.

Not a remote chance of bringing home Olympic gold

"I can't remember when I've done something so fun," my friend said as I opened the door. 

With that she clamored into the foyer, clutching the still cold newspapers from her driveway and her breakfast cereal, bowl and all. 

The sun had not yet come up over Buffalo Grove and the coffee was brewing. 

We were going to watch the U.S. Women's Olympic Ice Hockey Team play Team Canada, before she had to go to work. It was 6:30 stateside. I was and still am having trouble trying to figure out what time it was/is in Sochi. 

I offered to make blintzes in honor of Russia, the host country, as we prepared to cheer for our hometown girl Megan Bozek and her teammates against the Canadians, our neighbors to the north. Kimberley said not to go to the trouble with the blintzes. 

She scarfed down her oatmeal squares, I a yogurt and we rushed into the family room to watch the puck drop. 

Lots of these morning viewing parties were going on across the country. Bozek's elementary school opened its doors early so the students could watch the game together and cheer her on.

The time difference and 24-hour spoiler alerts are agonizing to us Olympic watchers. Last time I got up this early for a televised event was a Royal wedding. Didn't need any spoiler alerts for that event.

In the good old days of my writing/editing career I would throw Americas Cup viewing parties with sailing friends. Generally we were just rolling in to watch the early-morning broadcasts from Perth. 

I dazzled Kimberley with my remote control savvy, turning on the TV and finding the right HD channel on the NBC sports spectrum. I was recording the game on the DVR so my husband could watch it later. And so I could replay anything NBC didn't replay ad nauseum. 
I had no idea I had put a delay on the recording and we were actually watching the game a good 20 minutes behind its live showing.

Coffee in hands we got involved in the game. Veteran sports moms, and good friends, we were now cheering for other moms' daughters.
Bozek is actually Kimberley's neighbor and a peer of our own four daughters, who are stalking her on line from Paris and the southern cities they now live in. 

If it had been at all feasible, geographically, economically, and timely, I know Kimberley would have been in the Sochi stands. Covering an Olympics had always been a goal of mine as a sportswriter.
I met and wrote about a lot of aspiring athletes, a few who accomplished the goal and even a few Olympic medal winners in my career.

Meantime, we were sitting in the family room, chewing our nails, clutching our coffee mugs and wishing for a U.S. victory. Between periods we discussed broadcaster Bob Costas' eye infection and the "disappointing" performances of our favorites in other Olympic events. We were sad for Shaun and Shani, who were denied their third gold medals. We were trying to put it in perspective that despite NBC hyping the heck out of our heroes, there might be other athletes (even teammates) who would outperform the best athletes from the Vancouver games four years ago.
After a scoreless first period the U.S. women scored the game's first goal in the second and we were riding the rush and the caffeine buzz as the game headed into the third. Despite my protests (I am very superstitious about people changing their seats and disrupting the momentum of the game), Kimberley had to go to work. As she drove to work she listened to the game in her car. I had poured my third cup of coffee and settled in to cheer on my own.
"Why are they saying Canada has scored two goals?'' Kimberley queried from the car (I am going to assume she was parked at work and not calling and driving at the same time). 
I didn't know but I immediately grabbed the remote and saw that when fast forwarded, the U.S. was in fact down 2-1 in the third.
Crap, we had been watching behind the live action. Worse, it wasn't going to get any better. Canada rallied to win the game, 3-2.
The U.S. women will play Sweden at 6:30 a.m., Monday, in a semifinal game. Canada plays Switzerland in the other semifinal.
Kimberley will be out of town. I will most likely watch the game against Sweden alone.
We're hoping for a rematch between the U.S. and Canada in the gold medal game. We're also hoping for a better outcome.
And I am hoping to master the TV remote.

#KillTheGroundhog

Those of you who know me, know I would never really hurt an innocent animal (mice and snakes in the house, are an exception).
The Groundhog has got to go.
Stand down PETA! You are dealing with a woman who just doesn't want another six weeks of winter. A woman who wrenched her back this morning while learning to use a snow blower (because she should not be shoveling), so that she could make a much-needed haircut appointment.
Made it up and back on a handful of Advil and sat down to write this before a muscle relaxer does its magic.
I had already been thinking about the need for the big rodent's demise before the Chicagoland area got 50-plus inches of snow and started to refer to the Polar Vortex as the new state of the union.
The additional 6-8 inches that socked in our already shrinking driveway today only added to my frustration. Worst winter in memory (of course I did get to live in Florida for 18 years, where a hard frost is a reason to panic) . 
When we moved to the Midwest from Orlando 17 years ago, one of my new friends here couldn't believe it and would call me after every first snowflake to question why we moved here.
Weather aside, it has been a great relocation for our family. 
My real Florida friends have also stopped calling me between blizzards to see how the weather is up here.
That not-so-new-anymore Chicagoland friend now knows better than to rub in the weather. A hardy native, she is also willing to hunt down the groundhog.
Punxatawney (Pa.) Phil, in all his furry glory, "saw his shadow" on another gray overcast Feb. 2-day and sentenced us to six more miserable weeks of the weather that has packed an extra 15-20 pounds on a lot of my stay-at-home friends. My neighbor told me her Weight Watcher friend said she is suffering from "Polar Vortex eating." I feel her pain.
Couldn't have been the fact they woke Phil from his snug burrow and surrounded him with inquiring minds and intrusive cameras and lights that sent him down under for another six weeks?
My hairstylist and confidant pointed out that she heard the groundhog only had a 48% accuracy rate. Professional meteorologists at AccuWeather find Phil has only a 80 percent accuracy rate. NOAA National Climatic Data Center claims Phil has no prediction skills at all.
I am glad to see this is being researched and debated by finer weather watchers than I.
Several other groundhogs compete with the Pennsylvania prognosticator each year. In Washington DC they use Potomac Phil, a stuffed stand in, to make their own winter prediction. This does not surprise me.
I had to cancel my coffee group coming over for coffee and conversation this afternoon because of my back pain. Too bad they won't get to see my great haircut. Most of them were already out and about running errands and carrying on as the people around here do, despite the weather. It takes more than a few feet of snow to stop Chicagoans.
That is unless O'Hare shuts down.
My sister and 600,000 fellow Philadelphians are suffering without power right now. Might not be back up for a couple of days with all the downed trees and power lines.
A neighbor helped her exhume her car from the garage and she is hoping to get a train into the city to get a shower and be closer to her office for work tomorrow. You don't want to know what she has been texting me about the groundhog.
You know that expression let sleeping dogs… ? Next year let's let sleeping groundhogs do the same.

There she was, Miss America

Miss America was a lot taller when I was a child.
Being in the same building, the same common area and the same auditorium with Nina Davuluri, Miss America 2014, briefly on Saturday, was a larger than life experience for me.
I was nearly as giddy as Amy Farrah Fowler when Sheldon gave her a tiara on The Big Bang Theory. But I reeled it in.
Davuluri was at our community high school to headline its World's Fair and promote her platform and philanthropy.
The high school was raising money for Circle of Women* as part of its Student Diversity Council's two-day program to appreciate foreign countries and cultures. The Iran booth was next to the Israel booth. This year there was a North Korea booth to match the South Korea booth. The China delegation had ping pong and mahjong tables at ready. And there was food of all flavors and singing and dance performances followed.
I went as the guest of my friend whose daughter was behind the South Africa exhibit. In the seven years my children attended the high school I never went to the event. Miss America's attending was probably what lured me there.
Growing up in the Philadelphia area, the Miss America Pageant was one of my favorite seasonal events. Despite signaling the end of summer, it ranked up there with the Mummers Parade and watching "The Wizard of Oz." I never dreamed of being in the pageant, but I sure always wanted to attend it.
I'd walked the same Atlantic City boardwalk growing up, the contestants still parade down. You knew it was the end of summer when the stores and restaurants began taping photographs of the contestants in their windows.
Once, with a nearly third-degree sunburn, I dragged my grandmother a good hour down the boards to try and sneak inside the Atlantic City Convention Center -- the epi-center of the most important pageant in the world. 
The Miss America Pageant was conceived in 1920 to extend the summer vacation season at the Jersey Shore beyond Labor Day Weekend. In my house it meant TV dinners in the 60s and 70s with my Grandma Fisher (mom's mom) and watching way past normal bedtime to see who would be crowned America's "ideal" young woman.
The contestants from all 50 states, the District of Columbia and Puerto Rico, were like Barbie dolls that had come to life.
My grandmother and I would of course always root for Miss Pennsylvania but we had other favorites. The talent competition was our favorite part. I liked the baton twirlers and singers, she loved the piano players. Davuluri performed a Bollywood fusion dance in the talent segment.
I remember thinking Miss America, at 20-21, was really old. Now I feel really old thinking that I could be Davuluri's mother.
I'm sure the current Miss America's mother is kvelling about her daughter. Davuluri, 24, whose platform is diversity and cultural competency, is one of only 93 women in the country who can call herself Miss America.
She was at Lincolnshire's Adlai Stevenson High School on an official crown-on-her-head Miss America visit, one of thousands she will make during her 12-month tenure that puts about 20,000 miles on her each month. She is never in one city for more than 18 to 48 hours.
You can actually book a Miss America appearance on line on their official website.
I am not a fan of reality pageant shows. I really am not comfortable with the whole bathing suit issue. But those of you loyal blog readers know I am not comfortable with bathing suits at all.
Davuluri, who mentioned to a whole room of teen-agers that she has dealt with eating issues in her life, defended that suit segment of the competition as a way to show how healthy and fit contestants are. She insists proper eating and fitting in an exercise routine even on her busy schedule helps her maintain.
The reality is the Miss America Pageant has handed out $45 million in scholarship money to its contestants. Davuluri won $50,000 with her title and crown. Thru the pageant system the former Miss New York has accumulated $91,000 in scholarship money to offset her undergraduate degree in brain behavior and cognitive science at the University of Michigan. She has already completed post-baccalaureate work and plans to go to medical school in 2015.
The way she captivated the audience and educated us on the hard work that went into her becoming Miss America, I found myself secretly wishing that she would run for the U.S. Senate.
Davuluri is the first Miss America of Indian descent, the second Asian to wear the crown. I only mention this because of all the crap from the crazies she took after being crowned. Somehow being born in Syracuse, NY was not American enough for a certain segment of the population. 
She was raised by grandparents in India before moving back to the USA to live with her parents in Oklahoma, Michigan and New York.
English was her second language, when she moved back to the states from India. On her journey to becoming who she is, she had to deal with racism and discrimination until she found her comfort level, and a few more "brown" people like herself, in college.
She has launched a social media campaign to encourage constructive and civil dialogue on diversity issues. The daughter of a physician and IT specialist, she has also promoted STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) to high school and college students. 
There she was, looking like every one's daughter in very high heels and comfortably holding a microphone. Earlier, before taking the stage to talk about perseverance, she took photos while wearing her crown for the Diversity Council's charity.
The crown has four points on it -- representing the pageant pillars: style, service, scholarship and success. Miss America gets to keep the crown she had pinned to her head the night of the pageant, when her reign ends. The organization holds onto a copy just in case it gets, misplaced, stolen or broken, while she tours.
Even when it isn't on, Davuluri embodies those pillars.

* Circle of Women is an organization that builds and supports secondary schools accessible to young women in developing countries.

Shoe repair

The sign on the door said the local shoe repair place would be closed January 17and 18. The dilemma: It was the 22nd. 

My husband had already stopped by on Saturday, the 18th, but the shop was closed. A mountain of unclaimed shoes and luggage behind its locked door. Frost on the insides of its windows.
But no cobbler,  only a locked door and the handwritten note that said the shop would be temporarily closed. 
Anyone who has attempted to pick up shoes there knows it is never open on Monday. It was Saturday (the day his boots and our daughter's dancing pumps were to be ready). Closed. Something must be wrong. 

There was no point to going by on Sunday, the day the cobbler rests. And I knew not to go by on Monday. 

The same note, that looked like it had been scribbled by Pinocchio, was hanging on the door on Tuesday. 

It was gone on Wednesday when a short parade of cars pulled up and people, including me, put on their flashers and left the warmth of their vehicles to peek in the yet still locked door. 

I don't know the man, the artisan, who has reheeled our shoes for more than a decade. Not even sure if his name matches the sign on his shop, but I was beginning to worry about him. 

No one answered the phone when I called. There was no recorded message. 

I was hoping he would be okay in a few days. 

Maybe he was mourning the closing of the strip center's grocery store. Maybe he got out of the Polar Vortex for a few days.

Maybe he got tired of rooting about the shelves of unclaimed wares, persisting til he plucked out your proper pair. According to friends, even with the claim ticket that warned patrons to pick up within 30 days, it was never certain he would find your repaired pair. 
We have been lucky. He has always made our shoes look like new and we have never lost items in the chaos of his small workspace. 

Wednesday I inquired in two of the neighboring business if anyone knew the inside story. Nope. So much for small business owners watching each others' backs.
Thursday, after voicing my concern over the cobbler's health and the well-being of my family's footwear, to my friends, I called again. Thursday morning a wheezy voice answered. 

I confirmed that the shop was open and would be open in the few minutes it would take for me to drive there. 
"Yes," he weakly said. 

I parked the car in the empty parking lot and was relieved to see the OPEN sign ablaze. Even more relieved when the door opened and that familiar smell of leather, glue and polish permeated my nostrils. 

I told him I was beginning to worry about him as he began to search for the footwear that corresponded to my weathered ticket stub. He found the pumps.

"I was in the hospital," he shared. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry,'' I replied. 
I felt horrible for him and he was now apologizing for any inconvenience.

 The boots he remembered were not yet fixed. He would have them today at noon, he promised. 

I resisted wrestling the boots away. I told him Saturday would be fine. I'd send my husband. 
And maybe some chicken soup.

More mind games

Collectively, we are losing our minds. I know this because I am writing more and more notes to remind my friends to remember to do certain things. 

Add those notes to the notes I already write on my iPhone notebooks so I can remember what I need to do each day, and you will understand the callouses on my fingertips. Note to self: paraffin treatment and manicure for birthday treat. 

My mom and I used to joke about taking Ginko Biloba or St. John's Wort or some other magical herbal treatment to improve our memories. Alzheimer's and/or dementia didn't run on her side of the family. While the bodies of the matriarchs on her side of the tree began to fail in their 80s, their minds remained sharp and intact til the end. We joked about not being able to remember the name of the supplements, or even when to take them. Sometimes, before she passed in February, we laughed about not remembering having the conversation about memory loss.

The Hallmark people are not helping me. They have not expanded the selection of birthday cards enough to prevent me from sending the same birthday cards to friends year after year. One kind friend just pointed out at lunch today that that card I picked may just be the perfect card for that perfect friend. 

Another one of my friends suggested we just resend the cards we open, back and forth, each year. For a while I was buying a lot of belated birthday cards because I could not remember dates. My iPhone has helped fix that problem.

Recently I re-received a fantastic cookbook from my girlfriend in New York, penned by Sirius radio personality Frank DeCaro, one of her dear friends. It was inscribed to me, thanking me for a Fiesta ceramic dinnerware bowl I sent Frank for his collection. 

I have never met Frank, but I remembered he was a collector. The things I do remember. Fiesta collectors have to stick together to preserve the integrity of the original pieces and colors from the 1930s. 

Funny, the reason I sent Frank the rare Fiesta piece was because he had already sent me the same cookbook, at my girlfriend's request, when it first came out. She remembered my son was a foodie and a fan of celebrity chefs. The first book was also inscribed to me. 

My girlfriend -- whose mom was also one of the sharpest, wittiest women I have ever known, until her body gave up the fight -- and I also had a good laugh when I shared the story with her about her cookbook gift that keeps on giving.  She vowed to keep a better gift/card list. I vowed to actually look at the one I have, wherever it is.
Meantime, now both of my children will inherit a copy of a very clever cookbook. 

I use staving off losing my memory as a daily excuse to do Sudoku puzzles and play Words With Friends. My children are fourth generation Scrabble players. My grandmother and mom both insisted the game swept the cobwebs away. I studied for the SAT in the 70s by constantly playing Scrabble with my mom. Even when her vision was impaired by macular degeneration (another bonus in my gene pool), she could still beat me in Scrabble.

At the peak of my sports editing days I kept track of some 75 Florida high schools' coaches and athletes for readers in eight counties. Now I find myself with four bottles of the same mustard in the cupboard because as I peruse the grocery aisles, I can't remember if I am running low at home.
Most of my book group read the book Still Alice (hold on I am Googling the author -- Lisa Genova ) a few years back. It's a story about a 50-year-old professional woman with Early-Onset Alzheimer's Disease. Most of us, along with the main character, flunked the cognitive tests peppered throughout the book's pages. We passed around dessert and chalked the symptoms up to peri-menopause. Luckily we all found our car keys, our cars and our the way back to our own homes. 
I have been trying to return assorted trays and dishes friends left at my house during the holidays. As if meshing each other's schedules is not difficult enough, if both parties are forgetting stuff, little stuff gets done.
After remembering to put said trays in the right car to deliver, I texted my friend  -- a woman I worked with for months to organize the senior class party at our kids' high school -- to find out when she would be home today for a handoff. Her text response:
"Don't know. I don't know how long I'll be at work. If I remember, I will call you when I leave."
I am sooooo happy to not be alone*.

###

*After I first posted this my friend called to tell me she remembered to call and she came by to pick up her platters.
Also Brian Williams, of NBC Nightly News fame, reported on the SAGE (Self-Administered Gerocognitive Exam) test the folks at Ohio State University put together to help people detect early signs of Alzheimer's. For more information, go to http://sagetest.osu.edu/ or check out the the Nightly News' link.

The Nest is Empty Once Again

It is impossible to write from the empty nest (the focus of this blog, when I stay on task), when the laundry room is piled up and the nest is not empty.
I have not blogged for a month (thank you to the four people who noticed, not including my loyal and devoted husband). I will use as my excuse technical difficulties, travel, the comings and goings of our children and my husband's recent job change.
Today I have plenty of time to catch you all up. It is minus-15-freaking degrees outside and I am not leaving the house. I flipped a coin. Heads write. Tails clean out the refrigerator. 
Here we go.
Our daughter flew the nest Saturday, for Paris, where she will be working and studying, while waiting to hear from graduate schools. She prepared for this exodus for months so the weekend blizzard that paralyzed the Midwest was not going to get in her way. She would have helped to de-ice the plane if she was asked.
After three weeks of R&R, meddling parents and searching out summer internships, our son was going back to college in North Carolina yesterday, even if he had to run there. It was 60 degrees there.
Mother Nature did her best to sock-in my family during the past 72 hours. But we prevailed.
Adding to the anxiety of going off to au pair for a family she had only Skyped with, our daughter was not going to let "a little" snow get in the way of her Saturday night departure. The most stressful part of her travel was packing clothing for six months and three seasons without having to fork over extra luggage fees.
A savvy traveler, who has been flying around solo since middle school and battling consulates in several languages for last-minute visas, our daughter opened a credit card that would wave foreign transaction fees and give her more bang for the Euro/$$$. The card also claimed to give her a free checked bag.
Lost in translation: Free for domestic travel (like she would ever send a bag thru on a domestic flight). Travelers already get one free 50-pound bag for foreign travel. That second bag, even with the braggart credit card, $100, not so free.
Did I mention she was going overseas and away for six months and three seasons? As per usual we were packing too many pairs of boots, lots of sweaters and bathing suits only hours before, trying to now beat the airline at the luggage game. 
The space saver bags and vacuum cleaner were in play. So were a 30-inch roller bag, a 21-inch roller board, an unstructured duffel bag and a backpack.
No one could lift the duffel when we first packed it. It was obviously over 50-pounds, weighing more like 80 pounds. We did the math. Pay $200 for a bag over 50 pounds or $100 for an extra 50-pound bag. 
No brainer, divide and conquer. We arrived at the airport, where some folks had already spent three days trying to get out of Chicagoland, with one bag weighing 50.7 pounds and the other 38 pounds. Combined weight of backpack and carry-on roller board, maybe around 60 pounds. No ask, no tell. 
Kindness of a weary check-in agent -- priceless. He did not charge her for the  second checked bag after hearing the saga of the credit card and looking up at the growing number of people standing behind her in line.
After waving and saying bon voyage and blowing kisses from the security line as she stuffed her cross-body purse into the small roller board, so as not to exceed the carry-on rules, my husband and I headed for the car and began the quiet adventure home in the storm. 
As we exited the airport our son called to let us know his Sunday, 2 p.m., flight was cancelled and the airline had already booked him on a Tuesday flight. Not going to work. And, that airline's automated system was down so we could not even call them to tell them this was not going to fit into our son's back-to-school plans. 
Stuck at a railroad crossing that was compromised by the gates getting stuck in the falling temperatures and snow and sleet, my husband used a hands free phone call and his super powers from flying too many miles on a different airline to get our son on a flight Sunday morning out of O'Hare that would at least get him to Charlotte (where it was a balmy 55 degrees). 
Our son would have been happier if we had just swooped him up and returned to the airport to get him on another flight to Atlanta,  Saturday night. So would a lot of other people, as hundreds of flights were being cancelled.
Sunday we left for the airport at 4:30 a.m. to make sure our son would catch the morning flight my husband booked for him. The phone app said the flight would be leaving "on time," so we were encouraged despite being one of only a dozen cars of people out and about in the horrid weather.
We literally dumped our son at the curb and wished him Godspeed. We then drove off for breakfast, to a wonderful place our daughter once worked at that pays for her wanderlust. We were the lone customers.
While standing in an endless security line our son was already texting frat brothers to arrange back-up rides from Charlotte, should his Chicago flight be delayed.
"Delayed" was all the app allowed, as we tried to follow his departure. After several SOS texts that documented the plane's next few hours of sitting at the gate, de-icing and moving to the tarmac, he signed off to preserve his phone's battery. 
Despite the app still saying the flight was delayed, he landed in Charlotte hours later and was swept up by a friend after missing the connecting flight to Raleigh. Two hours later he dropped his single clean-clothes-stuffed-duffel in his room and all was good in Durham.
He was actually back before the original cancelled 2 p.m. flight would have had him on campus.  However, it took longer to get him to Durham than it took our daughter to get to Paris.
Just so they both are safe and happy. So many people are still fighting the weather and the airlines today.
This morning I was awoken as my husband, who twice yesterday had to clear the driveway as the snow continued non-stop in northern Illinois, could not get the garage door to close in the sub zero weather. The sensors were wigging out. I had to bypass them by holding the button in as he backed out the car and rushed off to catch a train to his new job in the city. Thank goodness he was no longer flying.
I put up a pot of half-caff. Started to flip imaginary coins.
Now I am off to clean out the refrigerator.