An import by any other name........

Driving around is a time when my mind wanders, not that it is a function that is totally confined to the time I’m driving around.   I hate to admit it but as I sit at red light it often happens that when a car catches my eye, it’s a foreign car.   Part of the reason could be because I instantly recognize the Chevy and Ford emblems and I don’t make a mental note, but some of it is just because there are some very nice looking foreign cars.

It’s certainly no state secret that one of the biggest blows to our economy has been the lack of American car sales.  How do we combat the influx of foreign cars and get Americans to buy American?   I have a suggestion!  It certainly falls into the “every little bit helps” category, but here it is:   We simply do not allow foreign manufacturers to use American words and cities on their foreign cars.  We put a stop to the “familiarization” of the cars and trucks they sell here.

Here’s a big “for instance”.   One car that continually catches my eye is the Kia, Soul.   A funny looking, square little car that intrigues me.  Would I even look twice if it were named the Kia, Seoul???    Hyundai is also really hitting it hard with the, Santa Fe, Tucson, and Vera Cruz.   Would those cars be as attractive if they were named after the Korean cities from which they sprang?  Think about it, do you think you’d be as anxious to drive a Hyundai Daegu….or a Busan?.....maybe an Incheon?

Toyota is now the number one selling “American car”……..(insert primal scream here).  That means the Avalon, the Sienna, Tacoma and Sequoia must be very well received by American car buyers.   Think how that might change if you had to drive a Toyota Hiroshima…..or the Tokyo….or the Yokahama.  

Imagine this scenario.   A group of retired guys meet at McDonalds every morning for coffee….cup after cup of coffee.  Sitting around for hours they chew the fat about the only thing older guys have left to talk about…cars and trucks.

“I decided to trade in the old van and get something new.   I’ve been looking at a Toyota Hiroshima.  What do you guys think?” says one guy.   His comment is met with dead silence.   No man is going to admit he’s been looking at a “Hiroshima”, let alone drive one!   That’s just not gonna happen.

I must plead total ignorance about world commerce. For instance,  I can’t really say that our American made cars sold on foreign soil aren’t still named things like the “Ford Focus”, but I’m betting we don’t sell our cars in Japan under the name of Ford-Sushi…..just a wild guess there on my part.

I know it’s just a little thing, but it just might help; let’s call a spade a spade and an import an import.  Next time you’re stuck at a traffic light give it some thought….but don’t ever forget Life is Good.

How many teeth do you really need??

The day started quietly enough.   I went to work, knowing I had to leave about nine thirty for a dental cleaning appointment….which I did.   That’s when everything went wrong.

Walking into the dental office I was greeted by a young lady who checked all my information and had me sit down to wait.  (Yes…I am Diana Coon….no my information hasn’t changed….ID?, sure…..yes, these are my teeth)

Eventually whisked off for x-rays, I exchanged pleasantries with the chirpy dental assistant who admired my necklace and listened as I explained its origin.   Then off to the chair.

After putting on my nice paper bib she summoned another gal to help with “numbers”.   I vaguely remember this from earlier visits.   Dental hygienist, “two, two, three, four, two, two,”   Person behind my head, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes”.

Poking, prodding, gouging…..and then, “Oh, dear,” from the hygienist.  “I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but you’re a five,” she said.  The girl behind my head “hummed” her agreement.

So….the girl behind my head must be the” judge”?  Like most women I’d always aspired to be a 10, but fell far short of that.   But really…at my age and advanced stage of decay being a five isn’t an insult.   I’d have said a four a few years ago, but five?    I’ll take five………..

I was snapped back to reality as my x-rays flashed on the TV screen that has taken the place of the little swirly sink in today’s modern dental office.  Looking at the skeletal picture, dialogue from television forensic shows played in my brain.  The chirpy hygienist pointed out a spot on the skeleton’s teeth, explaining it was infection that needed to be treated immediately.   To wait might mean loose teeth, or lost teeth, or some of this other horrible stuff in the glossy flier (featuring the teeth of the cast of Deliverance)  she stuck under my nose.   Ugh!! 

“What do we do about this, I asked?”

“Oh I hate to tell you this…..but I need to use my deep digging hydro sonic water thingy.  (cha-ching!)  Then I put antibiotic in there, (cha-ching)  and you get a super duper, industrial strength tooth paste and rotating brush that you use fourteen times a day,” I think she said.

“Crap,” you know that was me.

So, as luck would have it, her next appointment had cancelled and she had plenty of time to use her deep digging hydro sonic water thingy on me.  Seems my luck had changed.  (That is a deeply sarcastic remark, in case you misinterpreted it)

The deep digging hydro sonic water thingy is only used after painting your gums with some icky stuff that makes you numb and drooley.  I’m not trying to bore you with all these dental terms, but that’s what it is.  It also shoots a stream of water that the chirpy hygienist assured me would be taken away by the sucking hose she hung in the corner of my drooping mouth.   She obviously has not had the deep digging hydro sonic water thingy treatment, because I nearly drowned.

The whole procedure was not painful, or if it was it was masked by the icky stuff that makes you numb.  It is, however, the dental equivalent of water boarding.  Three times I got choked and had to stop, sit up, and fight to regain my breath.   They must not teach you the artful interpretation of gurgling noises in today’s dental school.   If they would only take the doggoned TV screen away and put the swirly sink back some of this could be eliminated!  Eventually I signaled and grunted to the chirpy hygienist that I would like the TV to be turned off.  Personally, I find annoying to have aggressive people with six pack abs trying to sell me an electronic belly stimulator when I am fighting for my life.

Eventually it was over, and the chirpy hygienist proceeded to show me how to floss, brush, turn on the new toothbrush, turn off the new toothbrush, mix the swishy stuff,  floss with the new dental floss, and a few other things that didn’t register either.

Did I forget to mention that this “uh-oh” pocket of infection is attacking a tooth that supports a bridge in my mouth that cost only slightly less than the Brooklyn Bridge to replace?   I thought so.    That’s something to look forward to, now isn’t it?   But first we must get this infection cleared up before it attacks my heart, my mind and other parts of my anatomy that are too personal to write about here.

And so, today dawned with my freshly lacerated gums aching, and me bumbling around, trying to remember what she told me about how to turn this on, off and what the speeds mean.   I now know firsthand that high speed will put tooth paste on the bathroom ceiling if you don’t shove it into your mouth before you hit the green button.   Live and learn……or read the instruction booklet.

Fixing that pocket of infection that was pointed out to me on the little TV screen, and replacing the bridge that has to be redone to accomplish the final work?……about four thousand dollars.    Having teeth that are mine….priceless.

And now to all my friends:   The canisters will be going out next week to area retailers.   Please give generously when you see the big white cans with my picture on them.   I appreciate your help…..Life Is Good

The Coffee Connection

There was a time in my not too distant past when I secretly chuckled at the sight of people standing in line at Starbucks.     After all, who in their right mind would pay four bucks for a cup of coffee?

 And then there is that intimidating language barrier.   I’ve only recently learned what a “barista” is……and I still haven’t figured out what “latte” actually means.   Is that the foamy top or does that refer to the lighter color when you add milk??    And all that really only scratches the surface.  What about espressos, cappuccinos and macchiatos…oh my!!  If you stand in line, trying to decipher all this stuff, with a crowd in back of you there is definitely going to be a riot.  I had decided I was just too lazy to become a coffee snob, so it was Maxwell House for me.

And then came Keurig.  It started innocently enough as a Christmas gift from our kids.   I figured it wouldn’t be my favorite appliance, but what the heck.   Little did I know this thing produced the crack cocaine of coffee, and I would be totally hooked.

It’s been a year since I said goodbye to Maxwell House.  No….I don’t stand in line, but I buy the little “pods” of coffee that hold the brown elixir I have become so addicted to by the case now.   Oh yes, by the case.

Last week we were having breakfast in a restaurant and my husband and I both turned down coffee refills.  Nothing tastes right any more unless it’s been squeezed and steamed and swooshed through the silver Keurig machine that sits on my countertop at home.   The first person out of bed in the morning at our house is responsible for turning on the pot.   If I’m still in bed I wait till I hear the pot makes it moaning “ooooh oooow” sound informing me it is now possible to get a good cup of coffee should I decide to get out of my nice warm bed.   The coffee is so good it gets me moving every time.

You might think I’m getting a commission from Keurig….I assure you I am not.  I am not happy with myself because this feels a lot like some strange addiction, and that goes against my grain.   I get that small tug of worry when I see the bottom of the box of coffee pods looking up at me….and that seems to be happening a lot more often.   I thought we’d drink less coffee, making it a cup at a time it would seem logical, right?   Wrong!!    It’s a trick.

So….I have gotten over my smug “who’d stand in line for a cup of coffee at four bucks a pop” attitude.  I realize I have a problem.  I am hooked on Green Mountain, Nantucket Blend coffee from my wheezy, cranky, Keurig coffee machine.  It’s not something that makes me proud, but there it is….but before you judge me try a cup yourself.  And then get used to carrying a thermos, buying coffee by the case instead of the can….and feeling like a dope.   It’s that good.   And life is good…….

A far away winter.....

We have been fortunate so far this year, the weather has held out beautifully.   The small amount of snow we've  had hasn't been much to deal with, and many days the sun has been out, making it a great time to walk and enjoy the outdoors.  Walking in the chilly sunshine makes my mind wander....

Sitting in a nice warm house it's easy to forget that not so long ago the world was not quite as comfortable.  The bite in the air takes me back to a childhood that was not temperature perfect.

Growing up, our house had one large register in the living room wall, and that was it.  Close the door to the bedroom and you might just wake up with frosty eyebrows.   When the furnace kicked on we would soak up as much heat as possible, almost always cuddled under a throw to watch TV.  The room would not have passed muster with Martha Stewart, because it was arranged around that heat vent all winter long.  Each evening after school I'd arrive home to the smell of something cooking, the front window steamed and frosted inside from top to bottom.  Mom would give me heck for scratching my name in the icy crust.

My grandparents homes were much the same.   One house had a big floor register that served as whole house heat, the other had a coal stove in the living room that always sported a tea kettle full of water on top of the red hot fire box.  The further you got from the stove or register, the colder the house became, and long sleeved flannel shirts were the order of the day.   Beds were layered with hand made quilts and blankets, their weight bearing down and holding you in one position all night. 

Visiting at my Great Grandfathers house was also a chilly event.  Everyone congregated in the "front room", which was heated by a fireplace.   With the door to that room closed, everyone gathered around the fireplace....taking turns standing first facing, and then backed into, the blazing fire.  I'd stand there till my skin burned, then flip around to cook the other side.  Life back then was less about comfort and more about being together....not a bad thing.

Summer was just the reverse.  There was a window fan in my parents bedroom that roared like a Boeing 747 all summer.  Assorted smaller table top fans stirred the humid air around in the rest of the house.   No air conditioning meant tossing and turning all night with a fan aimed directly at you, providing little more than white noise to block out the street sounds coming through the open windows.  Hot weather was a steady assembly line of ice cube trays and Kool Aid mixes.

Ah, but the long, hot, summer  was also time of "fine art".  Each year the local funeral home in Mom's home town would put a new picture on the fans they passed out to mourners.  It was something I looked forward to, seeing what beautiful picture would be on the summer funeral fan.  I'm sure DaVinci would have been proud to see his work imprinted on cardboard squares, stapled to the "tongue depressor" handle and used to stir humid air across the ruddy cheeks of the locals.  It never occurred to me that someone actually had to die to supply me with this small entertainment.

It didn't happen often, but occasionally the ice cream man came around our neighborhood in the north end of Mansfield.   Not the colorful, music spewing truck that tours neighborhoods today....this was the Bloodgoods Ice Cream Company.  They paid boys to ride bicycles with coolers of ice cream mounted on the front.   These "ice cream rickshaws" went all over town, a row of bells mounted over the cooler, jingling frantically as the boys peddled in the hot summer sun.  Definitely not a job that was in danger of being outsourced.

So here we are today,  hot house flowers darting from air conditioned car to climate controlled building and back again.  Like vampires avoiding the sunlight, we spend our days slathered in greasy sun block, wearing hats the size of hoop skirts and shirts that promise SPF 60 protection.  Venture out in anything less and someone is bound to look at you, cluck their tongue and murmur "melanoma".

Those were gentler days, and a great time to grow up.  We thought the sun was good for you and winter was supposed to be cold.  For both seasons our clothes came from Montgomery Ward, and no one knew anything about Gucci or Coach or Vuitton.  We did know that "Fruit of the Loom" went in the back, and if the label was on the outside of your shirt you had it on inside out.   Simple.

         Yes....I remember being cold.   And I remember being hot.   And I remember being happy.

                  Funny how taking a walk on a cold winter day can bring back memories.....

                                                                   Life is Good.
 

Name that Tune......

                                I have come to the realization that I am growing old. 

You might think by this point in my life I’d have come to terms with that, but until recently I truly had not.   Every morning I face a woman in the mirror who returns my watery stare.   I see her there, day after day, and she doesn’t change much over night, so perhaps I’ve not been paying close enough attention. 

I have slowed down, but not all that much.  I still manage to do most of the things I’ve always done, with the exception of the things I’ve come to realize just aren’t all that important.  When I changed our bed this past weekend I commented to my husband that it was the second time I can remember using pillow cases that were not lightly starched and ironed.  Is that a sign of aging or just better time management?

No….it isn’t the crow’s feet, grey hair or un-ironed bed linens that make me know I am getting old. It is the change in the background music that constantly runs through my head.

That may sound crazy, but it’s true; I’ve always had back ground music in my head.   A convertible with the top down on a bright summer day usually starts “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones playing in my head.   Before I retired I was often stressed and stretched, and “Theme from Miami Vice” streamed through my frontal lobes.  I've always known nothing makes your high heels click faster than walking along to “Let’s Give ‘em Something to Talk About”……see what I mean? 

The change began subtly enough.   “Theme from Miami Vice” was replaced by Carly Simon tunes shorty after I retired.  Then, Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” (Summer movement, of course) started playing when I was whipping along in the convertible one day.  Barbra Streisand’s rendition of “Evergreen”…..or Josh Groban crooning “You Raise me Up” started showing up a lot.   Then sitting out on the front steps at home one velvety evening I heard Susan Boyle doing “I Dreamed a Dream”.  When I finally went back into the house it was knowing this change in background music represented even bigger changes going on in me.   

Maybe I’m silly to equate the slowing of the music to the slowing of the life force, but I do.  It seems the only logical explanation for the increase in Andrew Lloyd Weber and the lessening of the Rolling Stones on my internal play list.  Just the same, it’s okay because it’s still music, and it’s still my life.  I am really just grateful the music is still playing at all.   Perhaps that’s how I will know I am truly old, when the music ceases.  Or, maybe the music doesn’t stop until we do...which makes me  wonder if my final exit song will be Peggy Lee singing, “Is that all There Is?”

Take time to listen to the music…..Life is good.