Pardon My French

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves perched on the brink of the very last weekend in July, believe it or not, with August and its famous dog days right around the corner on Wednesday, as impossible as that might seem. It's not actually impossible that it could be August already, but it does seem somewhat improbable that the month's justly famous dog days could be any more incendiary than what we've already suffered through in July - in fact, it said in the newspaper that so far, the month is on track to become the hottest July in history, since they first started keeping records way back in the distant past. (Of course, you couldn't prove it by me and our old friends the dinosaurs, because back in the ancient days of roaming the vast unformed land masses, we only had 3 categories of heat, which were "warm," "hot," and "lava.") August would have to go a long way to top that, and I can tell you that it certainly would not win any popularity contests if it did, especially where the lava is concerned, by golly. Speaking of things that nobody wants, it was due to an unfortunate scheduling conflict that we were not able to enjoy our annual excursion to the lovely Cranbury Park in Norwalk this time around, and we had to do without the storied Round Hill Highland Games, alas. Our lives were poorer without the color and pageantry of the event, with its rainbow of tartans, the skirl of bagpipes, the folk dancing and native foods that turn this bucolic corner of southern Connecticut into a wee slice of Scotland for a day. The festival is usually held on the Saturday closest to July 4th, and this year, I was hopeful that it would be on June 30, but they opted for July 7 instead, which was the first day of my vacation - and being well over 100 miles in the opposite direction, it was impossible for us to be in both places on the same day. So, like the absent cheese fries at the beach, the Scottish Games are another pleasure that we will have to look forward to next year instead - that is, as long as they pick another time than my vacation, bonnie lads and lasses. Meanwhile on the post-vacation front, I've managed to make good progress on my camping laundry so far, instead of the usual menacing lumps of moldy clothes in towering piles everywhere for weeks on end. Even better, I actually have about half of my gear re-packed where it belongs, and put away in the attic, only this time, hopefully safely distant from the confounded varmints who chewed on it last time, and thanks so very much not. There's still a bit left to do, but at least it's not the same overwhelming profusion of paraphernalia that makes the D-Day invasion look like a spontaneous romp in the park, and the coronation of English monarchs pale in comparison. In fact, at this rate, I expect to have everything all packed away and ship-shape well before the first snowflake falls - although with our old nemesis Comrade Mischka at the helm of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, that outcome is always in doubt, and I ought to know. And while we're on the topic of camping, it's the Little Bay Plaza where I go to The Deli for my fill of their locally famous egg salad (yum!) which is a taste treat of creamy goodness that never fails to delight. This tiny strip mall is smack in the heart of a bustling part of town, right on the corner of Route 25A and North Wading River Road, and across the street from the massive King Kullen shopping center, which sports a wide array of merchants fulfilling all the needs of consumers near and far, and 24 hours a day besides. In contrast, Little Bay Plaza has a mere handful of storefronts, and none particularly noteworthy, including a bank, pizzeria, liquor store, cafe, dry cleaner, the aforementioned delicatessen, and the plaza's namesake, Little Bay Realty. You would think that at 7:00 PM on a weekday, nothing would be simpler than parking in front of the business of your choice, and hopping inside for whatever you need - but you would be very wrong, because when I go there now for dinner, there isn't a space to be had for love or money, and for such a small cluster of stores, it has a good-sized parking lot. So don't tell me about the economy, all of you nay-sayers and prognosticators of gloom out there, because this parking lot tells me a different story, and there's no arguing with success when I see it. (I also don't mind saying that I will park on the grass if I have to, because nothing will stand between me and The Deli's scrumptious egg salad while I'm on vacation, and no lack of spaces will deter me from my goal.) In any case, my dinner destination happens to be located next to a beauty shop, and I couldn't help but be pulled up short by the sandwich board they had placed outside of their door, which enumerated their many cosmetic services as follows: ================== Nails Waxing Massage Facial Permanent French ================== I'll admit that I don't know everything about the salon business in these modern times, and while I'm on board with the first four options, that last one has me totally baffled. In fact, I never knew there was such a thing as "Temporary French" that a person could be, so that salons would offer the permanent version as an enticing alternative. I'm so very much not in the ballpark with this feature that I can't even imagine what body part it would be performed on - hair, nails, lips, eyes - and frankly, every idea that I come up with that it might possibly be, has extremely disturbing connotations. Why, the very thought of it might make a person like myself stop speaking French altogether. Permanently. Meanwhile in other news, it is with deep regret that I have to report the unthinkable in these environs, and there well and truly is no joy in Mudville, alas. We have witnessed the end of a brief but shining era in New York sports, and when shall come another, we may all wonder in vain. Yes, hoops fans, the sad fact of the matter is that media darling Jeremy Lin, who electrified the local sports scene with the Knicks like a bolt out of the blue, has chosen to re-sign with his original team, the Houston Rockets, leaving a Lone Star-sized hole where this runaway publicity juggernaut used to be. So there will be no repeat of the wildly outrageous Lin-sanity from days gone by, as untold pipe dreams have been dashed on the rocky shoals of mundane contract negotiations, and the veritable cornucopia of atrocious puns relegated to the scrap heap of history, along with the souvenir T-shirts and caps of yesteryear. The plucky Knicks will have to make do with who they've got, and satisfy their ardent fans with actual results, and not just a steady diet of hollow flash and charisma from now on. Of course, we all wish the young man well as he returns to his roots, and he may be all they could hope for deep in the heart of Texas, but it will never be anything like a bite of Big Apple Lin-sanity, I can tell you that, Clyde. Also on the subject of celebrated persons, many of us at the employer of last resort were surprised last week to receive a broadcast email with this arresting subject line - =============================== Congratulations to Andrea Falco on being named a Paul Harris Fellow =============================== Here I'm thinking that the lovely and extremely feminine Andrea (who I happen to know personally) would want no part of being named any sort of fellow, and as a matter of fact, it might not be out of the question for her to run screaming in the opposite direction instead. But apparently, this is some sort of honor that the Rotary bestows upon worthy recipients, in recognition of their humanitarian work in the community, and I'm sure we can all rally around that idea, and I don't mind saying, I am unanimous in that. But you wouldn't think it would take a whole suitcase full of brains for someone at the Rotary to designate this accolade "The Paul Harris Humanitarian Award" or something, rather than just go ahead and call any old thing a "fellow," whether it's a man or a woman, a teenager, nun, infant in arms or a seeing-eye dog, for heaven's sake. ("Please join me in welcoming Paul Harris Fellow Sister Mary Elizabeth Anne Kelly, our Lady of Guadalupe!" I mean, really.) When I saw her later in the hallway, I greeted her with a hearty, "Hey, fella!" and asked if it was okay for me to introduce her as Paul Harris from now on. She laughed. I commended her on her lifestyle change, and said this would certainly be a new twist. Of course, if this was Little Bay Plaza, it would be a Permanent French Twist, don't you know. Elle

Say Cheese

Hello World, Good morning, campers and camping fans alike! I am back once again in the bosom of my family from adventures in Vacation Land, and lived to tell the tale, which is not to be taken for granted, believe me. We left on Saturday morning, when much of the country was gripped in the sweaty paw of an intractable heat wave, and I can tell you that it was a long hot drive out there, and setting up two campsites in those conditions was more a test of endurance than we were really prepared for, and this is not our first time at the rodeo, as they say. We basically threw together the tent and spare tent, and then hurried to the beach, because as Bill kept pointing out, "It's the water that makes it all worthwhile." Well, the water did not disappoint, but unfortunately in every other way, our luck finally ran out. Apparently out of the blue, this year the evil minions at the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historical Preservation decided to tear down and replace the entire bathhouse on the boardwalk, and even though we found signs at the beach assuring us it would be finished in "summer 2012," it was obviously still a long way from being complete in the middle of July. This unwelcome surprise limited the amenities at the beach to just about the water, the sand and the lifeguards, as we and everyone else had to do without the concession stand, gift shop and bathrooms for our entire stay. I said to Bill that if they had at least let us know when we registered (online or at the Registration building when we arrived) we could have been prepared to bring our own lunch, or even better would have been to drive a hot dog truck down there for the duration. This was a low blow indeed, especially since we had been pining for their yummy cheese fries since last year, and now we were left high and dry with nothing instead. Of course, Wildwood beach is always a special place, but without the bathhouse, it was a far cry from the magical paradise that we had been anticipating, alas. It was a long hot walk back up from the beach, and even hotter when we set up the rain fly and clothesline at the campsite, so we were glad to make our way to Coram and check into the Gaslight Motor Inn, where we have stayed the last few years. It was just as quiet as we remembered it, and with a first floor room this time around, it was also very convenient. The shower was a welcome relief after a challenging day, and we looked forward to dinner at Denny's, which is a new treat in our vacation experiences lately, thanks to the recent appearance of the franchise in nearby Centereach. Not so fast! It turned out they were woefully unprepared for us at Denny's for whatever reason, and we had to do without our favorite meals and drinks that we always enjoy. For our first Saturday on vacation, this certainly was a strange and unfamiliar wrinkle in our typical food options during the day, that had been consistently predictable up until then, and no kind of improvement, that's for sure. The park was crowded and noisy over the weekend, but by the time Bill went home on Monday, it had really emptied out, so I and the tattered remnant had the run of the place to our hearts' content. There were plenty of squirrels (both gray and black) for peanuts, but no chipmunks anymore, which is one of the things I miss most about Wildwood now, compared to even just the recent past. There were blue jays and crows in abundance, and I even heard chickadees and flickers in the trees, but I never saw a grackle until the very last day when we were packing up. On the unexpected side, I was surprised to spot a gopher in the bushes at the beach, and I don't know which of us was more startled when a tiny gray mole wandered out from under the tent in broad daylight. I found this year's version of what I have come to describe as "The 7:30 Deer" as usual in D Section when I come back from dinner, and like their predecessors, they are so tame that they will stand right there as you take their pictures, and merely flap their ears at you while they chow down on the various underbrush they find to their liking. It could be said that the "blurry deer pictures" are replacing the traditional "bad chipmunk pictures" that have been the mainstay of my family's camping experiences over the decades, but the purist in me still insists that it's really not the same thing at all. Meanwhile on the clandestine front, I thought the spy site would be C-16 on the corner behind me, but I discovered later that they were just a very well-behaved middle-aged couple with extremely quiet habits, and I never heard 2 peeps out of them the entire time, although they were often at the site puttering about or relaxing, in between their forays for hiking, jogging or sight-seeing. The spies turned out to be in D Section instead, and were easy to spot because they were right on the outside circle, so I went past them at least twice a day. The site sported a tiny tent with matching camp chairs, and the usual tell-tale signs of no car, no kitchen, no beach towels, no grill - and it goes without saying that I never clapped eyes on a person there the whole week. This may be what they call the New Camping, like New Math, but as far as I'm concerned, it's just the same old spy game. During the week, the park was empty and really quiet, and the weather was perfect every single day - although admittedly, some days it would have been considered oppressively hot, if I had to go to work in it, rather than going to the beach. The water was clear and cool, but not as calm as it usually is, and it was an interesting change of pace to have actual swells or choppy surf with strong currents, like swimming at some unfamiliar beach, instead of the glassy stillness that Wildwood is so famous for. In fact, it may have been too much for one family that I spotted there later in the week, who went to all the trouble to actually bring their own kiddie pool all the way down to the beach with them, which for me, strikes a new high (or perhaps low) in the annals of outrageous camping oddities through the years. Although when it comes to outrageous, I think Bill would agree with me that taking the prize for that this year, hands down, would be the campsite along the inner circle of C Section, where they brought their own satellite dish and propped it up on a makeshift platform of boxes and boards, no doubt to the great appreciation of their neighbors during their stay (NOT) and which arrangement was so precarious that when it remained behind after they left, the park staff hurried over to dismantle and cart it away before the relentless pull of gravity turned it into a public menace. Of course, that meant that the raccoons had to find somewhere else to get their fill of "Keeping Up With The Kardashians," but frankly, I though the protest signs were just way too much. Here was perhaps my favorite moment from the whole week. It was at 6:00 PM on Thursday when I was leaving the park to have dinner, and noticed that they had put out the "Park is Full to Capacity, No Sites Available" sign outside of the entrance. Mind you, I had just walked through the campground on my way back from the beach, so I can assure you that at that time, there were exactly 4 people in C (of which I was one of them) and 2 people in D. There was not one single solitary soul in all of A, from one side of the section all the way to the other, and if there was anybody in B at all, I never set eyes on them, so it certainly could not have been more than one, if that. A person who saw the capacity sign while floating over the park in a hot air balloon, would have been forgiven for finding its claims fanciful in the extreme, if not downright spurious, and I ought to know. By Friday night, the joint was jumping, making me start longing for the peace and quiet of home, sweet home once again. Bill showed up bright and early on Saturday morning, and it didn't take long to have both campsites all packed up and ready for the next inhabitants. We checked out and went back down to the beach for another day in the sand, and it was not nearly as crowded as we would have expected, considering that the park was mobbed, and the weather was beautiful. When it got late enough for us to start thinking about dinner, we hit the road and headed west, young man. Since our previous outing at Denny's had proved to be less than perfection itself, we decided to try Friendly's instead on the way back, and we already knew there was one handily located near the Gaslight motel, since we had passed it numerous times while we were there. Anyone who hasn't been to Friendly's in a while might want to give them another try, because their menu has expanded to include a welter of new meal, drink and dessert options that are sure to please. You can believe me when I say that their Ultimate Grilled Cheese is everything they claim, and one of the best things I have ever put in my mouth - although I admit that I did not spoil the moment by looking at the calorie count, which is something they display so prominently on their menu that it would make anybody lose their appetite. The trip home was uneventful, and although there wasn't traffic to speak of, it still took us until after 9:00 PM to finally get home, and at that point, I can tell you that we just left everything in the cars to unpack another day. The cats greeted my return with their patented "deer in the headlights" gaze, with the implication that they didn't remember who I was, or if they did, they couldn't exactly recall if they liked me or not. Heck, I was more popular with the 7:30 deer at the park, than with the jittery felines at our own house, for heaven's sake. So that's all the news from the campground that's fit to print, and while the week had its ups and downs, overall it was a fun frolic in the woods, and a refreshing break in the ordinary routine. I'm already looking forward to next year, with the promise of a brand new (and hopefully improved) bathhouse at the beach, not to mention, the return of cheese fries, which will be even more appreciated after being deprived of them this time around. As usual, I expect it will take months to plow through all of my dirty laundry, and there will probably be snow on the ground before everything is all packed away again, but I'll still have my memories to keep me warm. In fact, I should certainly hunker down and get started on that right now, but I can hear the neighbors complaining about the raccoons watching the Kardashians at full volume, and I have to go tell them to turn it down - and personally, I couldn't care less about their protest signs. Elle

Soft Soap

Hello World, Happy July! Now that school is finally out, and we've gone past the halfway mark in the year, we know that summer is well and truly upon us once more, and there's no time to lose for grabbing all of its fleeting pleasures while we can, as they spread out before us like a shimmering oasis of surf, sun and fun. It always seems that there's plenty of time to enjoy all that summer has to offer, but all too soon, there's autumn nipping at our heels - so let that be a reminder to all, that while the treasured memories of summer may indeed last a lifetime, the season itself is deceptively transient. Of course, Wednesday was July 4, and we all know what that means. (For the KGB agents monitoring my email, and I'm sure we all realize by now that their name is legion, may I take this opportunity to say, "Declare your independence from snooping, and mind your own business!") I hope that your holiday was a red-letter day all around, and parades, fireworks and barbecues would not be out of the question under the circumstances, I dare say. I regret to report that this was not The Flag Brigade's finest hour around the old homestead, in spite of good intentions, alas. The flags were put out early, upstairs and downstairs, and with dispatch - however, it wasn't long before Bill noticed that one of them appeared to be hanging upside-down, no thanks to the cable tie that should have been holding the top of the flag to the pole, but now was nowhere to be seen. He promptly remedied the situation with a twisty-tie, and we were prepared to get on with the rest of our day in peace, without offending the patriotic spirit of the aggrieved Barbara Frietchie of lore and legend. However, there was more mischief afoot, and when the flags were brought back in later, this very same flag with its fly-away tie, now saw its eagle decoration jettison itself off the top of the pole, and plummet into the bushes below - where in spite of the fact that it was only small and plastic, still managed to shatter into many separate pieces, some of which will never be found, and I ought to know. While I do not hold The Flag Brigade responsible for this star-spangled fiasco of ceremonial protocol, I thought it was unfortunate that their sincere efforts were not rewarded with better results. And that goes double for Barbara Frietchie, I shouldn't wonder. But speaking of better results, we were just lounging about at home on Wednesday night, when suddenly the sky was ablaze with rockets' red glare, and the sound of mortar fire that set off car alarms in every direction. The fair Queen City on the Sound was presenting its annual fireworks extravaganza at the nearby Hudson Park, and while it's certainly true that we could easily walk right out of our front door and be there in nothing flat, the fact is that we never do. It turns out, this time we didn't have to, and for the first time I can ever remember, we could watch all the fireworks in their sparkling glory, right from the comfort of our own upstairs porch, and it was a sight to behold, I can tell you that. I don't know if they decided to shoot the shells in a different direction, or perhaps they were higher than usual, but I do know this was the first time we've ever done that before, and it was truly magical. Even better, since this was part of the porch renovation project, we were able to relax and enjoy the show with tranquility, not trembling in fear that all of the porches would collapse and the whole side of the house would wind up in the neighbor's yard instead. So this was our very own special bright and shiny porch fireworks, o'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming, great Scott! And while we're on the topic of unexpected improvements, it came as a shock to just about everyone at the employer of last resort two weeks ago, when a cadre of industrious workers descended on the premises en masse, and summarily replaced all of the old beat-up bathroom amenities with brand-new dispensers for paper towels, bathroom tissue and even soap, I kid you not. These newfangled fixtures are from our friends at Kimberly-Clark, and have numerous advantages over the previous Georgia-Pacific models, which I thought were badly designed, confusing to use, and malfunctioned on an irritatingly regular basis. For institutional customers like the hospital, it's customary for a large manufacturer to provide their dispensers at no cost, as long as you purchase the consumable supplies that go with them, and while this can provide some real cost-savings for cash-strapped hospitals, you can also find yourself stuck with a campus-wide plethora of dispensers that everyone hates. So I don't know if this change-over was the result of a blizzard of complaints from disgruntled employees, or just a routine alteration for contractual reasons - although I will say that it has never been my experience in 20+ years of working there, that any amount or volume of complaints has ever made any difference as far as changing anything for the better, in fact, it's been notoriously the opposite, where it usually goes from bad to worse instead. But this is one time that it didn't, at least so far, and I added my voice to the clamor of admirers for the new dispensers, especially their delightful soap, which is almost too good to be true. Why, except for the unfortunate fact that it's been about 150 million degrees in our ladies room for the past two weeks, a person washing their hands there could be forgiven for thinking that they had somehow inexplicably found themselves transported to some posh and elegant resort, where a trip to the bathroom is a treat for the senses, and not a test of endurance, by golly. Also at work, I had occasion to carry an invoice to Accounts Payable earlier in the week, since the affronted vendor had been calling me all the live-long day, every single day, not because he expected me to help him (which he did) but because he had consistently failed in his attempts to reach the A/P department by phone, despite serious effort on his part, he assured me. At least I have the advantage over him, in that I work in the same flea-bag rattle-trap as the entire Finance fiefdom, on two floors from side-to-side and front-to-back, and in fact, often run into the various and sundry bean counters in the hallways, stairwells, or the new and improved ladies room on a regular basis. So I handed the offending invoice to the A/P manager, and explained that the vendor was anxious for payment on it as soon as possible - although I diplomatically neglected to add that I would never be lonely, as long as this overdue item remained open. For her part, the manager waved it away impatiently after a cursory glance, and snarled: "What are they complaining about? It's only 30 days!" Inasmuch as the original invoice was dated May 1, and it had still not been paid by July 3, I found myself helplessly blurting out, "But it's 60 days." At that, I clapped a hand over my mouth and crept away, since it was obvious that using logic under the circumstances was likely to be of no use whatsoever. Yes, it seems that I had inadvertently stumbled upon the Achilles heel of the Accounting department, which is that it had been cleverly staffed with math-challenged individuals who not only couldn't count, but also had no clue as to what month it was - and which might sound to an impartial observer as a completely crazy idea, but for a not-for-profit organization that hates to pay bills about as much as nature abhors a vacuum, this is what you call "crazy like a fox." When I got back to my office, shaking my head the whole way, I don't mind saying, I realized that it certainly explains a lot about why we have so much trouble getting our bills paid around the ol' House o' Quacks, and it wasn't likely to get better any time soon, as long as the A/P manager believes that two months is only 30 days, and I say that as someone for whom arithmetic is not my strong suit, believe me. Well, as everybody should be aware by now, if July 4 has already come and gone, can my vacation be far behind? I think not! Tomorrow will find me out in the wilds, hopefully basking in the sun and sand, and enjoying the glories of nature on every side - not to mention, the spies, spooks and assorted covert operatives, who have become as much a part of my camping experiences as the very chipmunks, campfires and famously wandering picnic tables, that mysteriously migrate separately out of their individual campsites, and clump together somewhere else. I will be out of the reach of technology for a week, which as we all know, can be a double-edged sword, although I daresay that the KGB agents will know exactly what I'm up to, and there's probably a feature on their web site just to keep track of my whereabouts. So as the dinosaurs and I used to say back in our beatnik days, "Plant you now and dig you later, Daddy-o!" Elle