Monthly Archives: October 2011

Public Service Announcement

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1200_1006_IMG_3203Yogurtini, the self-serve frozen yogurt franchise, has a happy hour from 3 to 5, Mondays through Thursdays, 20% off.

Haven’t been? Oh my – give it a try. You control the lever(s) and add as much or as little as you want of rotating yogurt flavors such as mango, blueberry tartini, chocolate, key lime and birthday cake batter (a top seller).

As if that’s not enough, you then walk right by a serving table with dozens of things you can sprinkle, dribble or spoon over the top. Choices range from fruits to nuts and all things in between including gummy bears.

Finished? Put the cup on a scale in front of the cashier and pay the piper.

Yogurtini isn’t the only frozen yogurt franchise, there are a number of them, all cashing in on the same concept. Left on their own, customers tend to dish up heftier servings, experiment with toppings and leave humming, I Did it My Way.

Awkward

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This happens to me every once in a while. I’m in the grocery store or standing in the movie’s concession line and come face-to-face with someone I know and draw a complete and utter blank on his name.

I say something like,  Howyadoin? How long ‘sit been? Yeah, you haven’t changed one bit. Yeah, sure. Ha. Ha. Still up to the same thing?  I’m thinking, Whaaat? How do I know you? What in the hell do we have in common? C’mon, gimme me a clue!

We finally come to the end, “Nice seeing you again, take care.”

Awkward. But not anywhere near as awkward as this.

He’s standing in the foyer of a hotel in Manchester, when he spots a distinguished looking woman whom he knows that he has met, though he can’t remember her name. As she walks toward him, she says hello.

He returns the greeting and as he does he vaguely recalls that she has a brother. Hoping for a clue, he asks,

“Well — So how is your brother?”

“Oh, he’s just fine,” she replies.

“Good to hear,” he says. “And is he still in the same job?”

“Oh, yes,” she answers. “He’s still the King.”

(Sir Thomas Beecham, British conductor and wit, 1879 –1961)

Fast, Faster, Fastest

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If I want to rev’ up and get a bunch of things done around the house, I put on a house-party music mix and crank up the volume. Admit it, so do you. One of my new favorites,  Jog.fm, makes it really easy to find new tunes.

(I know, I know. The name is an instant put-off. I don’t jog, either.)

But this site is for anyone who wants to find music to help keep up or ramp up any kind of exercise, like cleaning or gardening, or walking or dancing in the kitchen.

Sign in and add the name of a favorite song/artist that motivates you to move; the site automatically figures the beats per minute of the selection, say –100 beats. It’s easy to find new music to maintain that pace: select 100 beats, scroll down, preview and choose songs for your brand new playlist. One click will send you and your playlist to Itunes if you want to buy on the spot.

Up the challenge for yourself by choosing faster paced music. What a painless way to find new music to love. And let’s face it, something about exercise should be painless.

Color Me

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If I could wear only one color, it would be black. I’d put on a black cashmere sweater set and black flared wool trousers. I’d slip a black leather vest over the sweater and add a black beret with an ebony pin stuck on the side. I’d throw on a black sequined scarf and tie it in a big floppy knot in the front. Then, I’d shrug into a black leather jacket and slip on flat-soled ankle boots to match my black messenger bag. And then — I’d add a long unbelted black trench coat.

Viva la fashion.

Tag Lines

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A middle-age woman in jeans, a t-shirt and a short, white veil was sitting at the center stage table at Knucklehead’s last week when singer/story-teller Tom Russell was the headliner. Later, we chatted while waiting at the back counter for a couple of pre-show brisket specials.

“So,” I said. “The veil must mean something?” “My bachelorette party,” she quickly confided. “What happens at Knucklehead’s stays right here,” she said slamming the counter with the flat of her hand. “Yes, indeedy,” I said to her back as she grabbed her order and headed back to her table.

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” is some tag line. It has slipped into the American vernacular and shows up in the most out of the way places. It sums up their city — what’s bright, special and why you’d want to drop by. Here are some other city tags that I like. (Source: Tagline Guru)

Always Turned On – Atlantic City, NJ
So Very Virginia – Charlottesville, VA
The Sweetest Place on Earth – Hershey, PA
Rare. Well Done –  Omaha, NE
The City Different – Santa Fe, NM
City with Sol – San Diego, CA

And my personal regional favorite:
Where the Odds Are With You – Peculiar, MO

Sweet Alsace

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We wheel in from a 3 day road trip: there’s too much junk to carry in – in one trip, the real draw-back of road trips. The porch cats are annoyingly wailing about being under-fed, a solitary bold-face lie. The door won’t stay open without help, for heaven sakes!

And we are hungry, not for the McDonald’s dollar menu or Subway’s tired 6” subs, or the Pick 2 at Panera’s; we want something good without leaving the house and without cooking.

So I find a pizza in the freezer from Trader Joe’s, part of a bounty of goods I scooped up when I made the mistake of going there hungry. It’s a Tarte J’ Alsace, a French style flat bread with ham, caramelized onions and Gruyère cheese made by Maitre Pierre.

I fire up the oven and in it goes. It’s cheesy, chewy,  flavorful and if I had slowed down enough to make a salad it would have been a dinner for company as long as I had two pizzas and my guests liked ham. Stock up.

Flushed

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Today Sig and I took delivery of a 24’ steel grey, Mercedes Sprinter van in Austin, Texas, a long way from home. We ordered it a couple of months ago after endless nights of fretting and more fretting and finally giving up saying, “Why the hellnot?”

We spot it on the lot right away. It is the only steel grey among a herd of white. And it really is something.

We climb around in it for a while, and then go in and get about the business of finalizing things, like the size of the refrigerator, the arrangement of the cabinets, the color of the carpet, the soul of the toilet.

Sprinter first look 002Sprinter first look 005

Paul, the absolute conversion coordinator, talks about toilets: the cassette and the porta-potty. The cassette toilet is a stable, predictable fixture that makes people feel at home while the porta-potty is flexible and encourages diversity and spontaneity. The two are the same size, style and general demeanor. But water is pumped to the cassette toilet and hauled to the other.

We finally choose the porta-potty! Imaginary confetti dumps from the ceiling, we all gaze up and smile at the positive consequence of our choice.

I don’t much remember anything after that.

Missed it

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I had such celebration aspirations. But then it crept up on me and it was over. I rolled over 10,000 hits a while ago without so much as a murmur. It deserved more. I imagesCAM8OT8Iam thrilled that readers are looking over my shoulder, checking once or twice to see what’s on.

The discipline of blogging regularly is formidable. Especially since discipline is not to be found listed in the strengths section of my up-dated resume. So I was particularly poised for this event. Not to say that I was going to issue invitations or serve up tapas, but  surely, make a note.

Here then, thanks for dropping by, it’s awful nice to be red  read.

(Image from www.free-extras.com)

Snarky

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So I wake up this morning and learn Paul McCartney is married again. Since I really didn’t have a dog in that race, I didn’t think much beyond, hmmm.  But I couldn’t resist clicking to the Huffpost pop culture cache for the details.

r-PAUL-MCCARTNEY-NANCY-SHEVELL-MARRIED-large570Along with a requisite photo of the beaming couple in a shower of confetti, the article introduces the bride, an American heiress of 51, and chatters about the wedding details. Here’s the part that kills me.

The former mop-top wore his tinted hair longish for the occasion, bringing back memories of the days when girls swooned as he sang “All My Loving” and other boy-meets-girl hits.

Tinted hair?  Did this follow with … and the bride attached a flower in her artificially darkened for the occasion coiffure to remind herself that 50 is the new 40? Nope, not a single word.

I felt the same way when I first read that Mama Cass died when she choked on a ham sandwich; it was in 1974. (A giant myth, as it turns out. She died of heart failure but it was too tempting to leave out the leftover ham sandwich on her night stand.)

I think of things like this when I remember I’m not a celebrity. Have a  Happy Monday, Monday.