We were in Lenox, Massachusetts earlier this week and we stopped at The Inspired Planet, one of my favorite places on this earth. If you do not feel spiritual already, you certainly do upon entering. If you do not feel inspired when you are in this place - I hesitate to call it a shop because it is so much more than that - perhaps inspiration is not within your grasp.
The building is actually set into a sort of slope of land, and if its door was round, you would think you were about to enter the home of Bilbo Baggins. In order to arrive at this door, you must follow a dirt path through a whimsical sort of arch, past odd bits of sculpture, and around to the back. At this point, the path slopes downward to a door almost entirely hidden by vegetation - a "seek and thou shall find" sort of entrance. Inside is a hodgepodge of tiny rooms, some on different levels, rather like architectural afterthoughts. Asian music plays. Crammed into these rooms are artifacts, icons, postcards, symbols, carvings, textiles, jewelry, tribal, folk and religious art, talismans, bits of history, and articals from celebrations and every day life in cultures around the world. Here and there, glass cases hold tiny, rare items.
But the biggest treasure at The Inspired Planet is its owner, Dudley L. He knows the use and history of every single item in his shop, no matter how arcane, and he shares his knowledge generously.
I bought a marble from Bali, a mother-of-pearl spoon from some tiny Indonesian island, a turtle made from a strange exotic pod, silver earrings, incense from Mexico and Java and several postcards from far, far away. I didn't buy another dozen or so items that piqued my desire and curiosity. I left, happily, with a small bag of treasures and a large dose of inspiration.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Microrave
A few nights ago, after a long day of doctor visits, cleaning, cooking, and facebooking, I decided to relax with my favorite kettle corn and a book. At my advanced age, this is one of my favorite nighttime pastimes. Never, in my wild, ill-spent youth would I have believed I'd be content with a book and popcorn, but there it is. I have joined most of my peers in boring, sedate old age. Alright, alright, I hear you all - I'm not sedate.
But I digress. Back to the kettle corn which I put into the microwave. I listened to it merrily pop as I got into my flannel nightie. But when I tried to remove it from the microwave - and this is really the whole crux of microwaving, the removing - the door would not open. I called my spouse for help. Picture, if you will, the two of us - I in my nightgown, he in his sweats, I armed with a fondue fork, he with a butter knife, as we pried and banged and jiggled. Nothing worked. The door remained firmly shut. I could smell my kettle corn, so near and yet, so far. I went to get the big gun, ie, the hammer. Percussive maintainence has often worked for me. I gave the door latch a couple of good whacks. I heard the microwave chuckle as I whacked my thumb.
That didn't work either. There was only one thing to do and we sucked up and did it. We went to K-Mart and bought a new microwave. Let me just say here that this is not my favorite way to spend an evening. My favorite way to spend an evening would be to be getting a massage while on the phone to my agent telling her I simply could not fit another book signing into my schedule. I'm just saying...
So we hooked up the new microwave and put the old one, still containing my perfectly popped kettle corn, out on the curb. The next morning, it was gone. Who in their right mind, upon seeing a microwave oven disposed of on the curb, takes it home? Who thinks, "Oh, someone left a good microwave on the curb. I could use that!"?
I can only hope they managed to open the door and enjoyed a fine, if slightly cool, bag of kettle corn.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Why I Hate Baking: Reason #117
I am in the process of writing a family cookbook. A few weeks ago, I decided to take it to work (As any nurse knows, bringing in work from home is a sure fire way of ensuring an incredibly busy night) and I removed all the loose recipes so I wouldn't lose them en route. I put all the loose recipes - somewhere.
Last night, I took out the 8 ounces of cream cheese and the 2 sticks of butter for Cream Cheese Wreaths. I did not, however, remember the entire recipe and being too lazy to look for it, I brought up a recipe on the internet. But wait - the internet recipe calls for only 3 ounces of cream cheese. I messily remove 5 ounces of cream cheese from the bowl and put it back in the fridge. I then proceed, with great difficulty because - did I mention this? - I hate baking - to mix the cookie ingredients. But before I fashioned them into little frigging wreaths, I checked the recipe to find out at what temperature to preheat the oven. And as I am checking this, I see, at the bottom of the page, reader's comments. Readers who all complained about the typo in the recipe. The typo that called for 3 ounces of cream cheese when it should be 8. The dough I mixed is missing 5 ounces of cream cheese - the exact amount that is now as hard as a rock in my refrigerator. And let me tell you - watched cream cheese does not soften. Did I mention yet that I hate baking?
Last night, I took out the 8 ounces of cream cheese and the 2 sticks of butter for Cream Cheese Wreaths. I did not, however, remember the entire recipe and being too lazy to look for it, I brought up a recipe on the internet. But wait - the internet recipe calls for only 3 ounces of cream cheese. I messily remove 5 ounces of cream cheese from the bowl and put it back in the fridge. I then proceed, with great difficulty because - did I mention this? - I hate baking - to mix the cookie ingredients. But before I fashioned them into little frigging wreaths, I checked the recipe to find out at what temperature to preheat the oven. And as I am checking this, I see, at the bottom of the page, reader's comments. Readers who all complained about the typo in the recipe. The typo that called for 3 ounces of cream cheese when it should be 8. The dough I mixed is missing 5 ounces of cream cheese - the exact amount that is now as hard as a rock in my refrigerator. And let me tell you - watched cream cheese does not soften. Did I mention yet that I hate baking?
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
I Should've Known Better then to shop the day before Thanksgiving
If there was a grocery that allowed entrance only to persons of average or above IQ, I would shop there. Even if this store were considerably more expensive, I would still shop there. Saving my sanity, peace of mind and sense of well-being and equilibrium would be well worth the higher price.
I am writing this on the day before Thanksgiving. I have just returned from grocery shopping. I went because today is my regular shopping day. But what were all these other people doing there? It appears that half the population of Torrington -and I am not casting aspersions on T-Town's collective IQ but read into it what you will -anyway, it looked like half the town of Torrington had a revelation this morning that went something like "Oh! I'm having 14 family members over for dinner tomorrow! Perhaps, just perhaps, I should purchase a turkey and I should purchase it at the exact time that Linda Baldwin will be shopping."
I'm just saying...
But it's not just the crowd that gets me - and here's where the whole IQ thing comes into play. If you, a shopper, park your cart at the side (or more likely, the middle) of the aisle and then you stand at the side of the cart, you now have the aisle effectively blocked off. Thus - and pay attention here because this is the crux of the matter - No One Can Get By. If you are shopping with a friend and you park your carts side by side, No One Can Get By.
While I detoured to avoid just such an aisle blockage, I came upon a huge spillage of glass and peaches in aisle 4, and this reminded me of another helpful shopping tip. There are no grocery fairies. If you spill something, unless you notify a store employee, no one will come to clean it up. That's just the way it is. Try to remember it.
Now let's progress to the frozen food aisle. I always shop with people who obviously, open the freezer door only to think, "Oh, I have no idea what I want or why I opened the door. Let me stand here for several minutes and ponder this. Perhaps, just perhaps, something will come to me." Let me explain something here. I'm sure everyone realizes that the freezer section doors are made out of glass. What they don't seem to realize is that the reason they are made out of glass is so that you can see through them. What a concept! You don't have to open the door and steam up every window in that section. Go ahead. Try it next time. Glass. See-through. Remember.
While I was waiting for a window to de-steam, I attempted to drown out the sounds of a child's tantrum. Why oh why can't they leave these beastly urchins home?I hate to say I don't like children but - I don't like children. I especially don't like children who make noise.
And while we're on the subject of children, let me give you Moms a helpful hint. If you are letting your darling steer the cart and he has just rammed said cart into the person in front of you in the check out line, unless the line moves or you tell him to stop, he will continue to ram the cart into the person in front of you. This isn't rocket science.
In closing, if anyone does ever decide to build a store that bans the clueless, let me know. I'll be in the express line with my cart before you can even say "Attention Shoppers".
I am writing this on the day before Thanksgiving. I have just returned from grocery shopping. I went because today is my regular shopping day. But what were all these other people doing there? It appears that half the population of Torrington -and I am not casting aspersions on T-Town's collective IQ but read into it what you will -anyway, it looked like half the town of Torrington had a revelation this morning that went something like "Oh! I'm having 14 family members over for dinner tomorrow! Perhaps, just perhaps, I should purchase a turkey and I should purchase it at the exact time that Linda Baldwin will be shopping."
I'm just saying...
But it's not just the crowd that gets me - and here's where the whole IQ thing comes into play. If you, a shopper, park your cart at the side (or more likely, the middle) of the aisle and then you stand at the side of the cart, you now have the aisle effectively blocked off. Thus - and pay attention here because this is the crux of the matter - No One Can Get By. If you are shopping with a friend and you park your carts side by side, No One Can Get By.
While I detoured to avoid just such an aisle blockage, I came upon a huge spillage of glass and peaches in aisle 4, and this reminded me of another helpful shopping tip. There are no grocery fairies. If you spill something, unless you notify a store employee, no one will come to clean it up. That's just the way it is. Try to remember it.
Now let's progress to the frozen food aisle. I always shop with people who obviously, open the freezer door only to think, "Oh, I have no idea what I want or why I opened the door. Let me stand here for several minutes and ponder this. Perhaps, just perhaps, something will come to me." Let me explain something here. I'm sure everyone realizes that the freezer section doors are made out of glass. What they don't seem to realize is that the reason they are made out of glass is so that you can see through them. What a concept! You don't have to open the door and steam up every window in that section. Go ahead. Try it next time. Glass. See-through. Remember.
While I was waiting for a window to de-steam, I attempted to drown out the sounds of a child's tantrum. Why oh why can't they leave these beastly urchins home?I hate to say I don't like children but - I don't like children. I especially don't like children who make noise.
And while we're on the subject of children, let me give you Moms a helpful hint. If you are letting your darling steer the cart and he has just rammed said cart into the person in front of you in the check out line, unless the line moves or you tell him to stop, he will continue to ram the cart into the person in front of you. This isn't rocket science.
In closing, if anyone does ever decide to build a store that bans the clueless, let me know. I'll be in the express line with my cart before you can even say "Attention Shoppers".
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Working Girl
I was born and raised in New England. In other words, fate dropped me right into the middle of the Protestant Work Ethic (I believe fate, as well as love, is blind and thus did not realise that I was both Catholic and unethical). Even so, I bought the work ethis thing hook, line and sinker.
"Treat every job as if it were the most important job you'll ever have." my father told me. "Work hard and get ahead."
I heeded his advice, more or less. Sometimes, it was hard. At one memorable place of employment, a watch company who shall remain nameless (Timex), my entire job consisted of putting orange stickers on white boxes. It would have been piecework if there had been enough white boxes to go around, but there were not. Grown women would fight to grab boxes. "I can do this," I thought, "there is no shame in honest labor." I lasted 5 weeks.
Towards the end of week 5, I went home for lunch. Now this being the 60's, the days of Peace-Love-Dope, lunch consisted of a sandwich, a cup of Lemon Tie-dye Hippie Yogi tea, and...well, .. let us say I returned to work more than a litle impaired.
I sat on my stool. Actual chairs were thought to breed relaxation and carelessness - wouldn't want to miss the top of that white box. I looked at the rows of women already at work. Their hands flew, their mouths hung open, their eyes....oh God, their eyes, their vacant eyes.... I fled.
But that, I think, was just my worst job. I've had many others in my attempt to find my niche. I was a ski information telephone operator, a cashier, a nurse's aide, a short order cook. I jumped out of cakes (good pay, bad, bad, men). I worked in a laundry putting clothes down a chute. I was a day laborer, a weaver, a waitress, and a nurse. I worked at a machine that put a little long thing into a little round thing, always suspecting that the supervisor had some Freudian problems and just liked to watch. For quite some time, I worked in an LDRP unit at a local hospital.
This was my first experience with real job predjudice - not against women, everyone was female, but against differentness. I noticed right away that all the employees of this department were young, blonde WASPs with a husband, a minivan and 2.2 kids. I tried to fit in. No, I take that back. I've never tried to fit in anywhere. But I did try to demonstrate by my actions that just because someone is different, that doesn't mean they aren't good at their job. I worked my buns off. In the end, I found that my small, dark, mixed-race self overrode my value as an employee. When I graduated from nursing school eigth in my class, they let me go. Although nearly all of the staff nurses tried to intervene on my behalf, the blonde WASP unit supervisor with the husband, minivan, and 2.2 kids was not about to let doing the right thing stand in her way. But that's alright. I learned, along with how to put in a foley catheter, that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
For a while I attended a CETA secretary school. This was a school set up by the government for people who were too dumb or too unmotivated to get through high school. It was a three month program. I finished everything in three weeks, except for typing which requuires a level of manual dexterity that I do not possess. They didn't know what to do with me. At first, I spent class time pecking at my typewriter, bored. Next, I became the designated person to take the students who arrived drunk and walk them around the parking lot until they sobered up. Finally, I taught the math class after the math teacher was laid off. Armed with my new secretarial skills, I left school and immediately got a job as a private duty nurse's aide.
Private duty aide work is not hard. You don't have to do much and you do get to read. However, the job usually involves contact with sick people and small dogs. It did not take me long to decide that I did not want to spend my life with sick people or small dogs. I quit.
"Treat each job as if it were the most important one you'll ever have." How do you do that when you're a waitress in a donut shop? Does doing a good job consist of scrubbing the coffeepots and counters until they shine and keeping the donut case filled? Or does it consist of sucking up to the customers so they'll purchase one more cup of coffee? In due time I discovered that I did not enjoy scrubbing or sucking. I collected my pink slip, which fetchingly matched my uniform, and moved on.
I have been told, "Never work for a boss who is less intelligent than you." Puh-leese. Where do we find such a person, such a gem of authority? We're the ones who have to take those aptitude tests. We're the ones putting pegs into holes and in the time it takes to complete one of those tests, twenty people in America have been promoted past their level of competence.
I work now as a Labor & Delivery nurse. I like this because someone else (the woman in labor) does all the work. Also, they've made me night charge nurse. Yes! I, too, have been promoted past my level of competence. You know, it's not half bad.
"Treat every job as if it were the most important job you'll ever have." my father told me. "Work hard and get ahead."
I heeded his advice, more or less. Sometimes, it was hard. At one memorable place of employment, a watch company who shall remain nameless (Timex), my entire job consisted of putting orange stickers on white boxes. It would have been piecework if there had been enough white boxes to go around, but there were not. Grown women would fight to grab boxes. "I can do this," I thought, "there is no shame in honest labor." I lasted 5 weeks.
Towards the end of week 5, I went home for lunch. Now this being the 60's, the days of Peace-Love-Dope, lunch consisted of a sandwich, a cup of Lemon Tie-dye Hippie Yogi tea, and...well, .. let us say I returned to work more than a litle impaired.
I sat on my stool. Actual chairs were thought to breed relaxation and carelessness - wouldn't want to miss the top of that white box. I looked at the rows of women already at work. Their hands flew, their mouths hung open, their eyes....oh God, their eyes, their vacant eyes.... I fled.
But that, I think, was just my worst job. I've had many others in my attempt to find my niche. I was a ski information telephone operator, a cashier, a nurse's aide, a short order cook. I jumped out of cakes (good pay, bad, bad, men). I worked in a laundry putting clothes down a chute. I was a day laborer, a weaver, a waitress, and a nurse. I worked at a machine that put a little long thing into a little round thing, always suspecting that the supervisor had some Freudian problems and just liked to watch. For quite some time, I worked in an LDRP unit at a local hospital.
This was my first experience with real job predjudice - not against women, everyone was female, but against differentness. I noticed right away that all the employees of this department were young, blonde WASPs with a husband, a minivan and 2.2 kids. I tried to fit in. No, I take that back. I've never tried to fit in anywhere. But I did try to demonstrate by my actions that just because someone is different, that doesn't mean they aren't good at their job. I worked my buns off. In the end, I found that my small, dark, mixed-race self overrode my value as an employee. When I graduated from nursing school eigth in my class, they let me go. Although nearly all of the staff nurses tried to intervene on my behalf, the blonde WASP unit supervisor with the husband, minivan, and 2.2 kids was not about to let doing the right thing stand in her way. But that's alright. I learned, along with how to put in a foley catheter, that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
For a while I attended a CETA secretary school. This was a school set up by the government for people who were too dumb or too unmotivated to get through high school. It was a three month program. I finished everything in three weeks, except for typing which requuires a level of manual dexterity that I do not possess. They didn't know what to do with me. At first, I spent class time pecking at my typewriter, bored. Next, I became the designated person to take the students who arrived drunk and walk them around the parking lot until they sobered up. Finally, I taught the math class after the math teacher was laid off. Armed with my new secretarial skills, I left school and immediately got a job as a private duty nurse's aide.
Private duty aide work is not hard. You don't have to do much and you do get to read. However, the job usually involves contact with sick people and small dogs. It did not take me long to decide that I did not want to spend my life with sick people or small dogs. I quit.
"Treat each job as if it were the most important one you'll ever have." How do you do that when you're a waitress in a donut shop? Does doing a good job consist of scrubbing the coffeepots and counters until they shine and keeping the donut case filled? Or does it consist of sucking up to the customers so they'll purchase one more cup of coffee? In due time I discovered that I did not enjoy scrubbing or sucking. I collected my pink slip, which fetchingly matched my uniform, and moved on.
I have been told, "Never work for a boss who is less intelligent than you." Puh-leese. Where do we find such a person, such a gem of authority? We're the ones who have to take those aptitude tests. We're the ones putting pegs into holes and in the time it takes to complete one of those tests, twenty people in America have been promoted past their level of competence.
I work now as a Labor & Delivery nurse. I like this because someone else (the woman in labor) does all the work. Also, they've made me night charge nurse. Yes! I, too, have been promoted past my level of competence. You know, it's not half bad.
Friday, April 17, 2009
My Name is Linda and I'm a Facebook Addict
Forgive my absence, dear readers, but I've been - I'm so ashamed - on Facebook. It started innocently enough. Every now and then, I'd get an invitation to join, which I would respectfully delete. But when I noticed that so many of my co-workers were on it, I thought, "What the hell. What could it hurt?" Like addicts the world over, my co-workers just smiled and encouraged me. Oh if I'd known then what I know now. Email and blogs are mere gateway drugs because Facebook is, for sure, the heroin of cyberspace.
The addiction is immediate. "Hellooo..." said Facebook "and who is this beautiful, scintillating woman who has just logged on? Would you like to send someone a useless gift? Help save the rainforest? Did you know 3 of your friends think you're stupid?"
I didn't log off for hours. Hours! And I might have stayed on longer if the smoke alarm hadn't gone off because I was burning dinner.
I've only gotten worse.I have taken the stupid, pointless quizes, sent and received granny pants, small animals and half-eaten cookies, and found out that my stripper name is Boom Boom Luscious Lips. I have "friended" people I don't like and who don't like me. I've seen photos of people I went to high school with and let me tell you - when you graduated in 1972, that's not neccessarily a good thing!
But the worst ( I have no shame left. I'll tell you every sordid detail), the very worst, is Hatchlings. For those of you who are not Facebook addicts, Hatchlings is an application (they call all these little Facebook games applications, although what one is applying for, I don't know) where one searches various placces on Facebook for virtual eggs which then "hatch" into a variety of virtual creatures which then have to be fed more virtual eggs, thus ensuring that one could conceivably play this game forever. Sure, I could just stop, but if one doesn't feed the hatchlings, Facebook lets you know that your little creatures are virtually unhappy. I was raised Catholic. It doesn't take much to make me feel guilty.
I could expound further on this subject, but I am beginning to feel the first pangs of Facebook withdrawal. So here is my warning - as usual, I'm the dire warning, not the good example - Use Facebook at your own risk because it will suck you right in. And if anyone hears of a local Facebook Anonymous, please let me know. I may need them when I hit bottom.
The addiction is immediate. "Hellooo..." said Facebook "and who is this beautiful, scintillating woman who has just logged on? Would you like to send someone a useless gift? Help save the rainforest? Did you know 3 of your friends think you're stupid?"
I didn't log off for hours. Hours! And I might have stayed on longer if the smoke alarm hadn't gone off because I was burning dinner.
I've only gotten worse.I have taken the stupid, pointless quizes, sent and received granny pants, small animals and half-eaten cookies, and found out that my stripper name is Boom Boom Luscious Lips. I have "friended" people I don't like and who don't like me. I've seen photos of people I went to high school with and let me tell you - when you graduated in 1972, that's not neccessarily a good thing!
But the worst ( I have no shame left. I'll tell you every sordid detail), the very worst, is Hatchlings. For those of you who are not Facebook addicts, Hatchlings is an application (they call all these little Facebook games applications, although what one is applying for, I don't know) where one searches various placces on Facebook for virtual eggs which then "hatch" into a variety of virtual creatures which then have to be fed more virtual eggs, thus ensuring that one could conceivably play this game forever. Sure, I could just stop, but if one doesn't feed the hatchlings, Facebook lets you know that your little creatures are virtually unhappy. I was raised Catholic. It doesn't take much to make me feel guilty.
I could expound further on this subject, but I am beginning to feel the first pangs of Facebook withdrawal. So here is my warning - as usual, I'm the dire warning, not the good example - Use Facebook at your own risk because it will suck you right in. And if anyone hears of a local Facebook Anonymous, please let me know. I may need them when I hit bottom.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Unsafe at Any Speed
What vengeful God decided that age and clumsiness must increase in equal proportions? Why is it that when one gets to the age where a fall has a greater chance of doing harm, one also becomes more likely to fall? This is not just my opinion. I have plenty of anecdotal evidence. I have witnessed an aging coworker pour candy into a bowl and completely miss the bowl. Another coworker fell, and I have to say, not gracefully, into a patient's crotch. My husband recently fell down the stairs. My friend Nancy, who is only a few years older than me, fell out of a chair she was sitting in (She says the chair pushed her, but I suspect she's just trying to save face).
This morning, as I was crossing a parking lot that was nearly empty, I tripped over one of those plastic speed bumps. There was an entire parking lot that was practically obstruction-free, but my aging self, like one of those GPS ''s gone awry, found this speed bump to trip over. My already-bad knees are scraped, throbbing, and swollen. My palms are bleeding. And this causes me to think - "How did I get from the lithe, graceful person I was to this unsteady, accident-prone person? I used to be fairly good on the balance beam (people who know me think I am making this up, but I'm not). Now I can't balance on land. And don't even get me started on the stiff joints or the memory lapses.
I submit that this is a basic design flaw. It's all unfair and I think God needs to rethink the way he chose to divvy up the physical agility. And God, if you're listening, I would really appreciate it if you could take care of this before I have to ambulate over any wide open spaces. I'm an accident waiting to happen.
This morning, as I was crossing a parking lot that was nearly empty, I tripped over one of those plastic speed bumps. There was an entire parking lot that was practically obstruction-free, but my aging self, like one of those GPS ''s gone awry, found this speed bump to trip over. My already-bad knees are scraped, throbbing, and swollen. My palms are bleeding. And this causes me to think - "How did I get from the lithe, graceful person I was to this unsteady, accident-prone person? I used to be fairly good on the balance beam (people who know me think I am making this up, but I'm not). Now I can't balance on land. And don't even get me started on the stiff joints or the memory lapses.
I submit that this is a basic design flaw. It's all unfair and I think God needs to rethink the way he chose to divvy up the physical agility. And God, if you're listening, I would really appreciate it if you could take care of this before I have to ambulate over any wide open spaces. I'm an accident waiting to happen.
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