Hold That Thought

Hello World, Happy New Year! Here's hoping that 2013 will be a wonderful year for all of us, especially hard on the heels of the late and very much unlamented 2012, which managed to wear out its welcome long before its time was due, and I can assure you that the dinosaurs and I were not sorry to see it go. Now the new year is spreading out before us like so many bright shiny presents, just waiting to be plucked up and enjoyed, full of promise and undimmed by the bitter disappointments of yesteryear. It's true there is some concern among suggestible folks that the number 13 will prove unlucky, but frankly, after some of the calamities and chaos of last year, I'm not exactly sure how the new year could manage to get much unluckier than that - barring invasion by alien spaceships, collapse of the world financial structure, or Biblical plagues like raining frogs, boils and locusts. I guess what I'm trying to say is that 2013 will not have to go far to be an improvement over 2012, and that's not just a lot of hurricane punch, believe me. Speaking of new and improved, Bill and I took the opportunity to try out a different nail salon last week, and it was the geographic opposite of our previous establishment. Although located nearby on the same block in town, they could not have been more different. The first place featured a bevy of young Russian ladies, all turned out in the latest fashionable duds, with plenty of long legs and cleavage to go along with their perfect hair and sparkly jewelry. The salon was a bit on the dowdy side, with care-worn furnishings, and a mix of new and old elements that really didn't mesh well together. The atmosphere was all business, but some of the girls could be friendly if you drew them out. The other salon seems brand new and shiny, with fresh paint, bright lights, and plenty of matching furniture on all sides. It's not wider, but is much longer than the Russian salon, and the walls are full of decorative mirrors that give a sense of being even more open and spacious overall. Jumping to the other side of the Iron Curtain, this new place is entirely Chinese, and the difference is striking. First of all, if your interest is in short skirts and cleavage, you can give up on that idea right from the start. The slim China dolls gather their hair in careless ponytails, and the dress code seems to consist of nondescript blue jeans with plain hoodies and matching aprons, that do nothing to enhance their sex appeal, I can tell you that. Chairman Mao would be so proud. They don't appear to speak any English, and mostly point at things to get you to pick a polish color or tell you where to sit, so if you haven't brought a companion along with you, you can certainly be alone with your thoughts, or perhaps a magazine instead. Although both salons have flat-screen TV sets mounted on the walls (the Russians have the edge here, with 2 large sets, compared to the small one tucked in a corner of the Chinese place) you very rarely find them turned on, or to show anything worth watching. I had a manicure and pedicure, and was very happy with both, although I must admit that my nails have seemed extremely inscrutable ever since. Also in the realm of other new things, alert readers may recall that one of the victims of Hurricane Sandy on the home front was the venerable storm doors outside of the front French doors in our living room, which were tugged loose from their moorings during the height of the tempest, and shattered when they slammed against the stucco on the side of the house. It's true that there was broken glass everywhere, but the door frames were still intact and standing in sturdy formation as they had for decades, and we thought it would be simple enough to just replace the glass panels and get on with our lives. Au contraire! (That's French for "I'll take Door #3, Monty!") We couldn't find anyone who was willing to put new glass in our old door frames, and finally gave it up as a lost cause. We prevailed upon one of the contractors who had worked on our porch project, and he came over and removed the old frames, then fabricated all new Plexiglas panels to cover the door openings for both the front and rear French doors, to protect the outside of the doors and keep out the chill. They came out very nice, and although they don't open like the previous doors did, they have the advantage of being good and snug, clear as crystal, and a solid barrier against the elements. So that was a solution we weren't expecting, from an unlikely source, and the next hurricane that comes our way is going to have its hands full with that new Plexiglas, by golly. In other construction news, the roof replacement continues apace, and our diligent roofers made short work of the giant Dumpster in our driveway, and it was soon filled to the brim with debris of all sorts, and no room left to squeeze in the least little thing. One day when I was getting dressed for work, along came a huge and lumbering carting truck, which summarily scooped up the giant container onto its back and hauled it away - and I will not say, while I waved a dainty lace handkerchief at it from the upstairs window and brushed a sorry tear from my cheek. I was certainly surprised when I came home later and found in its place, the trash company had replaced it in our driveway with what I could only describe in comparison as a tiny Dumpster, that was a fraction of the size of the enormous original one. Presumably, the roofers must have decided that since the project was more than half finished, they weren't going to need a second container of the same size, but could make do with something on a smaller scale. I said to Bill that I don't know anything about refuse, but I certainly didn't see how they were going to get our entire garage roof into the new little Dumpster, besides whatever was left to do on the house, and as far as I could tell, they hadn't even started on the garage yet. I suppose it's fair to say that they know better than I do about things like this, but I'm thinking that poor tiny Dumpster really has its work cut out for it now, and that's not just a lot of shingle with a shimmy and a shake in the alley, believe me. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but notice that recently our local newspaper ran a cover story about pop singer Bruno Mars releasing a new album, "Unorthodox Jukebox," featuring an eclectic mix of songs in various genres. They quoted him as saying: "I've always wanted to make music like that -- that could be spread out, and can't be pigeon-held to one thing." Now, I defer to no one in my admiration of pigeons, and their namesake holes rank very high in my estimation. But I can tell you right now that I draw the line at cobbling together a term like "pigeon-held," presumably as a misbegotten past tense variant of "pigeon-hole," then making a very errant left turn to "pigeon-hold" (rather than "pigeon-holed" as it should have been) and from there, it's basically just a hop, skip and a jump - and Bob's your uncle - and suddenly we find ourselves covered with "pigeon-held" right there on the front page of the newspaper, of all things. Well, the dinosaurs and I will not stand for it, not to mention, the stool pigeons, it goes without saying. What's next - after someone peeps through a keyhole, would they be key-held? Would someone taking advantage of a loophole, then be considered loop-held? Arriving at their destination after passing through a wormhole, would space travelers be worm-held? The mind reels. It's at times like this you wonder if the whole world hasn't tumbled down a rabbit hole, and frankly, the pigeons and I need that about as much as a hole in the head. Or should I say, head-held. Elle