Good grief! It seems as though everything I do these days stirs up some ancient song and today is no different. I've been needing winter dress ankle-boots for several years now. About twelve years ago I purchased a pair of Liz Claiborne dress winter ankle-boots, stylish boot-cut with a side zipper, from my favorite-no-longer-in-existence store, Marshall Fields. As old and ratty as these boots became, they were boots that my very fussy feet really liked and with some black polish, I could get by with them as long as no one got down on the floor and gave them a close look. A few years ago I came to the realization that the boots were seeing their better day so I purchased a pair of boots that were comfortable, sort of in the same style, but had zero fashion to them. I always felt like I had gray hair, wore foam curlers at night and held my purse on my lap while clutching it fiercely. I was so self-conscious about my no-style boots that I wore my old boots most of the time. But......last year the lining finally gave out and every time I pulled my feet from the boots, bits of black liner came out with my socks.
It was time.
I informed Capt. SO at the end of this past winter season that I was due for new, stylish boots and it might take a ride into the Chicago burbs to find a pair of boots that were both stylish and comfortable.
Today was the day. Not to go into the Chicago burbs but to head to our local, larger mall and see what there was to see. I started at Macy's and the young man who waited on me tried desperately to sell me just about every pair of ankle-cut boots the store had to offer. I held to my knowledge that my feet (heels in particular) are very fussy. I knew I could not wear anything with higher heels - much as I would like to think that I was stylin' - but I know better. I regretfully had to decline each suggestion he came to me with. Note that I also looked ridiculous in my capri pants and mid-calf socks that I brought along because those are the kind of socks I would wear with winter ankle-cut boots. Still I persisted and eventually I had to tell him thank you very much but nothing is working. He looked crestfallen but was probably glad to see me go.
I trekked on down to Bergners where I thought I'd just peruse the shoe section to see what there was to see and, low and behold, I spied a pair of Scandinavian-made boots, whose label I am familiar with and know that my feet like. I was alone, with no sales clerk there to "assist" me so I could check and dismiss at will. This floor-sample boot passed my heel-cushion push test and so I headed for the first available clerk. This was his lucky day. I donned my socks, caring not that I looked frumpy at best, put both boots on, and.....voila! They fit and felt good. Sale made even though they were pricey little suckers. It took him all of three minutes, maybe, and he got a commission.
He's happy and so are my feet and, most importantly, my boots are stylin'. I will no longer feel like I am Queen Elizabeth in her sensible brown oxfords and I will no longer have to clutch my purse in my lap. This only took about thirteen years to accomplish.
Do you think I rushed things?
Ancora imparo
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
That Old Devil Moon
"Old Devil Moon" was a popular song in the late 1940's from the 1947 musical, "Finian's Rainbow". The song title came to mind tonight as I was walking home from a meeting that was held nearby. The sky is clear enough tonight to have a clear and unobstructed view of the moon, stars, satellites, and constellations. Granted, there is so much ambient light in the sky surrounding my area that a person can see only a minute portion of all the celestial orbs. If you travel north to remote areas of the Northern Hemisphere you are bedazzled by stars on a clear night. While this is not the far north, it was still a treat to walk under the light provided by a half moon. On my way over to the meeting, when there was still daylight, I could enjoy the vivid colors that are a hallmark of the fall season. Maple trees are especially splendid-looking this fall, as are the chrysanthemums that dot the flowerbeds in my neighborhood. Even the air still smells fresh as the "smolderers", as I call the people who do not know how to properly burn leaves, have not yet begun their "smoldering". Once this misguided process begins there is often a rancid smell that permeates large areas, making enjoying the outdoors a challenge at any time of day or night.
One of my favorite fall experiences is the aroma that comes from apple orchard apple-cider doughnuts. Who can resist the flavor and texture of a freshly fried (unfortunately) apple-cider doughnut? Soon it will be time for me to make my annual trek out to my favorite apple orchard and eat my once-a-year doughnut. The doughnuts may be artery-clogging but I reason that one per year shouldn't be too injurious to my health.
Wild turkeys are still lurking about in large numbers this fall. Their flocks traipse through yards and across highways - often slowing or stopping traffic as vehicles wait for the clumsy-looking birds to cross multiple lanes of busy roadways. They are even comfortable roosting on residential roofs at night and resting on people's patios and decks, soaking up the sun during the day.
People who are fond of outdoor decorating begin hitting their stride around this time of year, moving from bales of hay, scarecrows, goblins, witches and pumpkins to Thanksgiving-themed decorations, finally climaxing in blow-up reindeer, Santas, and the occasional creche.
Meanwhile that old devil moon keeps making its monthly appearance on a predictable schedule as it morphs from a teasing sliver to a bright and beaming circle of light that brightens an evening sky like nothing else can.
Ancora imparo
One of my favorite fall experiences is the aroma that comes from apple orchard apple-cider doughnuts. Who can resist the flavor and texture of a freshly fried (unfortunately) apple-cider doughnut? Soon it will be time for me to make my annual trek out to my favorite apple orchard and eat my once-a-year doughnut. The doughnuts may be artery-clogging but I reason that one per year shouldn't be too injurious to my health.
Wild turkeys are still lurking about in large numbers this fall. Their flocks traipse through yards and across highways - often slowing or stopping traffic as vehicles wait for the clumsy-looking birds to cross multiple lanes of busy roadways. They are even comfortable roosting on residential roofs at night and resting on people's patios and decks, soaking up the sun during the day.
People who are fond of outdoor decorating begin hitting their stride around this time of year, moving from bales of hay, scarecrows, goblins, witches and pumpkins to Thanksgiving-themed decorations, finally climaxing in blow-up reindeer, Santas, and the occasional creche.
Meanwhile that old devil moon keeps making its monthly appearance on a predictable schedule as it morphs from a teasing sliver to a bright and beaming circle of light that brightens an evening sky like nothing else can.
Ancora imparo
The PP Disorder
We all know what the "Peter Principle" is. (My apologies to those people named Peter.) In general, the "Peter Principle" is when a person reaches his or her highest level of incompetency. In one way, or another, we have probably all reached our individual "Peter Principles" along the path of life. I do not believe that even young adults can escape attaining multiple "Peter Principles". This distinction can come at any point or in any occupation. Even tasks, hobbies and interests are not immune from some form of incompetency. For me, the litmus test is whether or not I can sense that I may be approaching my highest level of incompetency before I reach the pinnacle of embarrassment - both to me and others.
Today's comic strips for "Dilbert" and "Get Fuzzy" showcase impending or attained "Peter Principle" grand prizes. In "Dilbert", the boss announces to ASOK that he has been named "Employee of the Month", which according to the text, was in October of 1929. In other words, the distinction is meaningless and farcical and may imply that ASOK has already reached his "Peter Principle" pinnacle. In "Get Fuzzy", the cat, Bucky, who is always dissing the dog, Satchel, has declared that he can be "Batcat" because he found a dead bat and can use the wings to empower him to become "Batcat". Poor Satchel, the dog, who is often portrayed as seemingly dim-witted, -informls Bucky that the wings are too small and, besides, "Batman had a tool belt with cool tools." The next frame shows Bucky, the cat, donning a tool belt that may weigh two or three times the cat's weight. He puts on the belt and promptly falls over backward, telling the dog, as he lays prone, "I forgot scissors. Go get me some scissors."
Isn't Bucky, the cat, like many of us? We know the bat wings are too small and that our belt is too heavy but we continue to ask for, invite, or allow more tools to be put on our belt and suddenly we discover that we can no longer remain upright. Is this not a form of personal-Peter Principle? How is it that we cannot recognize the signs of impending "Peter-Principle Disorder"?
I am hoping that "Get Fuzzy" will show us how to escape this age-old disorder and am hopeful that the solution does not involve a live bat.
Ancora imparo
Today's comic strips for "Dilbert" and "Get Fuzzy" showcase impending or attained "Peter Principle" grand prizes. In "Dilbert", the boss announces to ASOK that he has been named "Employee of the Month", which according to the text, was in October of 1929. In other words, the distinction is meaningless and farcical and may imply that ASOK has already reached his "Peter Principle" pinnacle. In "Get Fuzzy", the cat, Bucky, who is always dissing the dog, Satchel, has declared that he can be "Batcat" because he found a dead bat and can use the wings to empower him to become "Batcat". Poor Satchel, the dog, who is often portrayed as seemingly dim-witted, -informls Bucky that the wings are too small and, besides, "Batman had a tool belt with cool tools." The next frame shows Bucky, the cat, donning a tool belt that may weigh two or three times the cat's weight. He puts on the belt and promptly falls over backward, telling the dog, as he lays prone, "I forgot scissors. Go get me some scissors."
Isn't Bucky, the cat, like many of us? We know the bat wings are too small and that our belt is too heavy but we continue to ask for, invite, or allow more tools to be put on our belt and suddenly we discover that we can no longer remain upright. Is this not a form of personal-Peter Principle? How is it that we cannot recognize the signs of impending "Peter-Principle Disorder"?
I am hoping that "Get Fuzzy" will show us how to escape this age-old disorder and am hopeful that the solution does not involve a live bat.
Ancora imparo
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Reminiscent of Peter, Paul and Mary
"Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing? Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?"
A shrinking number of people will recognize these lyrics from a tune by the American folk-singing group, "Peter, Paul and Mary". The trio, made up of Mary Travers, Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey, had an active career spanning about fifty years, and produced a prolific body of work. Their song, "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?", was an example of their signature sound and oft thought-provoking lyrics. This group seemed to never sing a word that was not part of a conscious stream of earnest angst - or so it seemed.
For instance, in the song "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?", the lyrics evoke a certain sadness, fatality and finality as the verses lead from the innocence of youth through a labyrinth of life and grief back to innocence. The lyrics begin with "where have all the flowers gone - young girls picked them everyone" to "where have all the young girls gone - gone to husbands everyone" to "where have all the husbands gone - gone to soldiers everyone" to "where have all the soldiers gone - gone to graveyards everyone" - to "where have all the graveyards gone - gone to flowers everyone" back full circle to "where have all the flowers gone".
For some reason of logic, unknown to me, this song popped into my head today when I learned of yet another restaurant's closing in my area. A restaurant that I had frequented on occasion (obviously not enough occasions) and that I ate at last Saturday night - the restaurant's final night of business. The other two women I dined with - and myself - had no inkling that within hours after we left, the doors would close for good. The crowd was reasonable in size, the food excellent, and the waitstaff attentive. Zero clues were evident that the establishment was in its final hours of business. I think the only clue as to the real state of the restaurant's financial health was the condition of the once trendy and upscale women's bathroom, which over the past year, had been allowed to become seedy in appearance. This always surprised and perplexed me but, since the food was good, I overlooked this perhaps important detail.
And so I ask, "Where have all the flowers gone?" "Olive", you will be missed.
Ancora imparo
A shrinking number of people will recognize these lyrics from a tune by the American folk-singing group, "Peter, Paul and Mary". The trio, made up of Mary Travers, Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey, had an active career spanning about fifty years, and produced a prolific body of work. Their song, "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?", was an example of their signature sound and oft thought-provoking lyrics. This group seemed to never sing a word that was not part of a conscious stream of earnest angst - or so it seemed.
For instance, in the song "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?", the lyrics evoke a certain sadness, fatality and finality as the verses lead from the innocence of youth through a labyrinth of life and grief back to innocence. The lyrics begin with "where have all the flowers gone - young girls picked them everyone" to "where have all the young girls gone - gone to husbands everyone" to "where have all the husbands gone - gone to soldiers everyone" to "where have all the soldiers gone - gone to graveyards everyone" - to "where have all the graveyards gone - gone to flowers everyone" back full circle to "where have all the flowers gone".
For some reason of logic, unknown to me, this song popped into my head today when I learned of yet another restaurant's closing in my area. A restaurant that I had frequented on occasion (obviously not enough occasions) and that I ate at last Saturday night - the restaurant's final night of business. The other two women I dined with - and myself - had no inkling that within hours after we left, the doors would close for good. The crowd was reasonable in size, the food excellent, and the waitstaff attentive. Zero clues were evident that the establishment was in its final hours of business. I think the only clue as to the real state of the restaurant's financial health was the condition of the once trendy and upscale women's bathroom, which over the past year, had been allowed to become seedy in appearance. This always surprised and perplexed me but, since the food was good, I overlooked this perhaps important detail.
And so I ask, "Where have all the flowers gone?" "Olive", you will be missed.
Ancora imparo
Monday, October 3, 2011
Leave Well Enough Alone
Why, oh why, do social media sites feel the constant urge to "improve" things? First Facebook got its users in a twitterpated state when their corporate "tinkerers" tinkered with the appearance, functions and screen-arrangement of Facebook. While I wasn't fond of the changes, I did not voice my displeasure because I thought "What's the use?" Now, Blogger.com is in the process of "tinkering" with the appearance and functions of its site and I do not like it one bit.
For some time now, there has been a prompt, in the upper right hand corner, that says something to the effect, "try our new Blogger interface". Now that I am home, away from the Aqua RV and my internet speed is now just slightly faster than prehistoric, I saw the prompt again today and thought I would click on it. What I found was appalling, not visually appealing, and much more difficult to navigate. Why some backroom hack thought it was a better mousetrap is beyond me. To make matters worse, I did "agree" to give feedback on my negative review of the "new and improved" Blogger.com site but when I tried to send my comments, I received yet another prompt that said "something bad has happened........" Just what every internet visitor wants to see. When I clicked on the back button I received another message that said I would be able to "stay with the old format a bit longer" - which says to me it is just a matter of time before all Blogger.com users are switched over to the new format arbitrarily and without user acquiescence.
Can't we just be left alone, in our own little ruts and familiar patterns? Why do functions and paths have to change? All I can think of is that new design teams must be hired and "old" design teams either retire, resign, or become involuntarily removed and, heaven forbid that new designers should keep what the "old" designers designed.
I am resigned to design resignation.
Ancora imparo
For some time now, there has been a prompt, in the upper right hand corner, that says something to the effect, "try our new Blogger interface". Now that I am home, away from the Aqua RV and my internet speed is now just slightly faster than prehistoric, I saw the prompt again today and thought I would click on it. What I found was appalling, not visually appealing, and much more difficult to navigate. Why some backroom hack thought it was a better mousetrap is beyond me. To make matters worse, I did "agree" to give feedback on my negative review of the "new and improved" Blogger.com site but when I tried to send my comments, I received yet another prompt that said "something bad has happened........" Just what every internet visitor wants to see. When I clicked on the back button I received another message that said I would be able to "stay with the old format a bit longer" - which says to me it is just a matter of time before all Blogger.com users are switched over to the new format arbitrarily and without user acquiescence.
Can't we just be left alone, in our own little ruts and familiar patterns? Why do functions and paths have to change? All I can think of is that new design teams must be hired and "old" design teams either retire, resign, or become involuntarily removed and, heaven forbid that new designers should keep what the "old" designers designed.
I am resigned to design resignation.
Ancora imparo
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Out Of The Mist
This morning was a picturesque one. Gorgeous, gorgeous sunlight, huge and white fluffy clouds, solid white frosty coating in low-lying areas, and a dense foggy mist arising from the river and surrounding land. Add to this picture, acre after acre of golden corn, ripe and ready for harvesting. It was a scene worthy of the greatest painter ever known and I had the good fortune to drive right through it. Even our neighborhood's giant turkey brood was out in full force, walking about with their awkward gait, elongated necks bobbing in unsynchronized rhythm. The frost was thick enough to appear as though a white blanket had been placed over the ground, seamless in its coverage and dense enough to give the illusion of ice crystals and sequins.
Driving along the suburban country road - an oxymoron, I realize - I could see in the distance a heavy, filmy mist that I surely thought must be fog, yet as I neared the river, I noted that the mist was rising from the water's surface, not descending from the sky as fog would. There were no hanging tendrils of cloud formations hovering above the ground, rather the misty, watery tulle was roiling off the water, as if a witch's cauldron had reached the boiling point over a hot fire. Ethereal in appearance, driving through the mist was quite like making one's way through the artificial cobweb material that is hung during the month of October in preparation for Halloween. Once through the mist and away from the river, the sun was out in full regalia, beaming down on the landscape like a proud papa. The veil had parted, only to reveal homes, trees, horses, fields, and fences. I wasn't going to come face to face with Bela Lugosi or a serial killer in the bogs of Scotland after all!
Ancora imparo
Driving along the suburban country road - an oxymoron, I realize - I could see in the distance a heavy, filmy mist that I surely thought must be fog, yet as I neared the river, I noted that the mist was rising from the water's surface, not descending from the sky as fog would. There were no hanging tendrils of cloud formations hovering above the ground, rather the misty, watery tulle was roiling off the water, as if a witch's cauldron had reached the boiling point over a hot fire. Ethereal in appearance, driving through the mist was quite like making one's way through the artificial cobweb material that is hung during the month of October in preparation for Halloween. Once through the mist and away from the river, the sun was out in full regalia, beaming down on the landscape like a proud papa. The veil had parted, only to reveal homes, trees, horses, fields, and fences. I wasn't going to come face to face with Bela Lugosi or a serial killer in the bogs of Scotland after all!
Ancora imparo
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Countering the Movement
Did you know that it is assumed that when we walk into a supermarket the psychology of shopping takes over and our brains leave the building? You knew that, right? Well, that is what the designers of supermarkets want us to believe.
If we are to believe the psychologists who study supermarket designs, we humans are a pretty gullible lot, incapable of making decisions on our own and incapable of resisting shopping cues designed to make us do something that we would not ordinarily do on our own. It is as if we become puppets on a string or rodents in a laboratory.....according to those who study supermarket psychology.
According to these experts, supermarkets are designed to send us on a walk-a-bout through the store on a calculated counter-clockwise path because we humans are largely right-handed and we grab with our right arms and hands. Produce is displayed with the concept that if it appears to be in cardboard-type boxes, we might be fooled into thinking it just came out of the field and off from Farmer Fred's Fresh Produce truck. Even the color of lighting and plastic comes into play as our eyes try to fool our brains into thinking that certain colors reflect a higher level of freshness - which is aided by color imbued into the plastic bag or container or directly onto the produce via the aid of coloration in the lighting.
I am appalled at how easy it seemingly is to manipulate the average shopper, such as myself. Truly, these supermarket psychologists should cease their urges to impart knowledge to the world, because in doing so they simply make us smarter and harder to fool when shopping. Just think how food retailers' profits might plunge if all of us starting shopping in a clockwise pattern throughout the store OR if we began selecting brands that were higher or lower than eye-level OR if we picked items off shelves with our left hands instead of the predominant tendency to do so with our right paws.
I propose that we shoppers upend the food retail business and stop being so predictable. The next time I shop I shall begin in the middle of the store, use my left hand, find brands that are higher than my left arm can comfortably reach, buy green bananas and ignore all the produce in cardboard boxes. I will be a one-person "counter-shopper" by changing their rules of shopping to my rules.
But, we still all have to obey the rules of the road with our shopping carts. This cardinal rule of supermarket shopping shall not change, regardless of the hand I use with which to make my selections.
Ancountercora imparo
If we are to believe the psychologists who study supermarket designs, we humans are a pretty gullible lot, incapable of making decisions on our own and incapable of resisting shopping cues designed to make us do something that we would not ordinarily do on our own. It is as if we become puppets on a string or rodents in a laboratory.....according to those who study supermarket psychology.
According to these experts, supermarkets are designed to send us on a walk-a-bout through the store on a calculated counter-clockwise path because we humans are largely right-handed and we grab with our right arms and hands. Produce is displayed with the concept that if it appears to be in cardboard-type boxes, we might be fooled into thinking it just came out of the field and off from Farmer Fred's Fresh Produce truck. Even the color of lighting and plastic comes into play as our eyes try to fool our brains into thinking that certain colors reflect a higher level of freshness - which is aided by color imbued into the plastic bag or container or directly onto the produce via the aid of coloration in the lighting.
I am appalled at how easy it seemingly is to manipulate the average shopper, such as myself. Truly, these supermarket psychologists should cease their urges to impart knowledge to the world, because in doing so they simply make us smarter and harder to fool when shopping. Just think how food retailers' profits might plunge if all of us starting shopping in a clockwise pattern throughout the store OR if we began selecting brands that were higher or lower than eye-level OR if we picked items off shelves with our left hands instead of the predominant tendency to do so with our right paws.
I propose that we shoppers upend the food retail business and stop being so predictable. The next time I shop I shall begin in the middle of the store, use my left hand, find brands that are higher than my left arm can comfortably reach, buy green bananas and ignore all the produce in cardboard boxes. I will be a one-person "counter-shopper" by changing their rules of shopping to my rules.
But, we still all have to obey the rules of the road with our shopping carts. This cardinal rule of supermarket shopping shall not change, regardless of the hand I use with which to make my selections.
Ancountercora imparo
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