Sartrebright

Before you think I'm going all existential on you, let me assure you I'm only getting grammatical. What's wrong with the following sentence?

Have less cavities when you brush with Sartrebright.

If you think it seems correct, please read no further.

For the last few months, I've noticed the use of "less" when "fewer" is called for, on commercial television, radio and even in my dining room. A strict grammarian, who'll go unnamed, said that his dentist took on less patients so he could give them better service. "Less patients, or less patience?", I teased. I'm not going into a grammar lesson here because I don't want to bore you even further, but I will tell you a little about Sartrebright.

Sartrebright is a toothpaste used mainly by French intellectuals which is why you've never heard of it. It comes in a distinctive black tube and the paste is gray. My college roommate and I made this up one night. We thought it was hysterical. I'm pretty sure it was a school night so there was no substance abuse going on. Just silliness.

You have fewer things to do in college than later on in life, unless you're me. Then your grammomometer
goes off at the slightest infraction.

Let's just keep that between you and I.

A Wee Dram to Robert Burns

This was Marty's idea via an article in The New York Times. I filled in the details.

Scottish poet Robert Burns celebrated his birthday last Friday, January 25. He's pretty old. Our New Hampshire friends were in for the weekend and were game. First we did a scotch tasting which included 3 single malts. We had an appetizer of lamb pies, Forfar Bridies. They were rich (lots of butter in the pastry) and lamby. For dinner, I made one of my specialties, Scottish Hot Pot, which includes stew beef, veal sausage, potatoes, apples, port wine, tomato paste and thyme. It's rich and delicious, perfect for a cold winter night. I don't know what the Scots would drink with this, but we trusted a Malbec.

We read some verses, including Auld Lang Syne, but we also read a poem about William Wallace's bloody fight to drive the English out of Scotland. Wallace is a supposed ancestor of mine. I have a tartan scarf I bought in Scotland, which I drag out on celebrations like these.

1/23

Before My Morning Joe

Although I've been celebrating since the weekend, today is my birthday. When asked what my date of birth is, to confirm my medical identity, I always say one two three and the year. The year makes it much more noticeable as a cool birthday, but I can't tell you what it is lest you try to steal my identity.

That is, if you want to steal the photo of me above and try to get a transfusion or pick up my prescriptions. What can I say? I look really bad in the morning with my bedhead. But it's funny, too. When I saw how ridiculous I looked, I had Marty take a picture. Yes, my face is really that puffy. My eyes are almost always half closed because of dryness. When I put my special lenses in, I can open them almost all the way.

On Saturday, my friends Jeffrey and David came from NYC and we had a great time cooking, drinking and eating. Dessert was a mocha dacquiose that Jeffrey made. After shrimp wonton hors d'ouevres (homemade), Caesar salad, roast duck with blueberry sauce and artichoke/spinach risotto, it was difficult to go on to dessert, but we managed. I had another slice of the cake for lunch on Sunday.

Monday night, Doug took us out for dinner at a really nice restaurant in PA. But first, we drove to his house and had cocktails. It's just not my birthday without an extra dry Beefeater martini with a twist of grapefruit. Tuesday, I repented. I more or less had a liquid diet all day until I broke down around 5 pm and had cheese and crackers. And a few slices of pepperoni. For dinner, we had roast Cornish hens with leftover blueberry sauce and risotto. I should add that I went to yoga Monday.

This morning, I slept late (8:20 is late for me), made my way toward the scent of fresh coffee, saw how ridiculous I looked and posed for the hag shot above. To treat myself, I went for a massage and then had my hair washed and blow-dried at a local salon. I now look like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but for the puffy face.

I spoke with my son in NYC and skyped with my son in Denmark. We'll be meeting a group of friends at a Japanese steak house midway between us, about an hour or so away. Maybe I'll have a better photo to show you tomorrow.

White Noise

Why did I never read White Noise by Don Delillo? I found a copy in a local hospital waiting room, and snatched it up even though I was still plodding through Telegraph Avenue. I think I started reading another Delillo book a long time ago and it turned me off. Now I'll have to go to the library to investigate the rest of his canon.

Written in the mid-80's, the novel examines modern angst, specifically the fear of death. You'd think it would be a heavy read, but it's filled with silliness and the absurd. Jack, the main character, teaches Hitler Studies at a small liberal arts college. His wife Babette teaches seniors how to walk and sit properly. Babette's problem is that she involves herself in a shadowy experiment in which she becomes addicted to pills alleviate the fear of dying.

One of our biggest modern fears is that a nuclear power plant will have a meltdown. Today, we worry more about chemical attacks from terrorists, but this was 20 years ago. One night, two rail cars smack into each other and a huge flume of toxins are released into the air. The town evacuates, but Jack has slightly more exposure to the poison when he stops to get gas. This gives him something else to worry about.

The white noise of television and radio 24/7 lulls the characters into a less fearful state, until it doesn't. Frightening facts pop up all day long. If Dellilo were writing this book today, electronic sounds would have to be taken into account. Instead of lulling, all those beeps, ding dongs and electronic rings keep us tied to our devices. We can never rest.

A lot of scenes in the novel take place at the local supermarket, where people socialize and truly seem to enjoy choosing their food. This is the one "real" place in the book. In the final scene, however, Jack walks in to find that the entire store has been rearranged. Nothing makes sense. Elderly couples walk around in a daze, becoming more and more anxious. Life goes on, with Death chuckling in the background.

The Deerhunter

My dog must sleep lighter when my husband isn't here. Buck suddenly wakes up and starts softly woofing. He paces the bedroom, agitated, coming over to sniff me. Then he runs downstairs and starts barking. Since I'm not afraid of intruders, I try to ignore this behavior. It happened a couple of weeks ago and I stayed in bed. He eventually came back upstairs and went to sleep.

When Buck did this last night, I wasn't in a very deep sleep so I got up to see what all the commotion was. I looked out the door to see deer prancing about. Apparently they were having a party at my expense. I thought about letting Buck out to scare the crap out of them, which they probably already sprinkled all over my property, but I didn't want to run around outside chasing Buck down the street wearing only my pajamas. I went back to bed, as did Buck and slept fitfully.

When I went out this morning, the lawn was littered with bottles and cans. Buck enjoyed the dark matter the deer had left behind.

Telegraph Avenue

A friend in the publishing business gave us a reader's copy of Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon. Marty started reading it and gave up after 100 or so pages. He favors action novels, and this one isn't. There's a lot going on in the characters' minds, which appeals to me, usually.

Reading this book is similar to reading a Russian novel in that most characters have nicknames. The family trees are difficult to figure out (no chart), and unless you read the book in 2 days, it's challenging to keep everything in place. What's happening? I dunno.

I didn't care about the races of the characters, but I sense I was supposed to. I think there was one white woman, a mid-wife. Her husband may have been white, too, but I have no idea. I just wanted to read the story and see if the big bad conglomerate closes down the record store, and how the baby-birthing turns out.

Telegraph Avenue has a surprisingly sunny ending, which I found unsettling.

If you collect vinyl records, like jazz, and have an interest in black culture of the 70's, you may enjoy this book.

I picked up a book at the hospital last week, White Noise by Don Dellilo. Even fiction snobs can occasionally find a worthy book among the action and the true love novels.

On the Go, Dog in Tow

My 20-year old son takes after his father. He waits until the 11th hour and then he swings into action.

This is the young man who announced the day before Christmas that he needed a suit for his visit to the World Bank. Friday he decided, yes, he needed a voltage adapter. Yesterday, the day he was leaving for Copenhagen, he decided that a digital camera might be a nice thing to have after all. The day before he said he wasn't the photographer type. We stopped on the way to the airport to pick up a camera, and he spent the rest of the trip learning how to use it. He also called his bank to inform them he'd be abroad the next 4 months, always a good thing to do when you're traveling.

We arrived at JFK at 4 pm. We took photos with the new camera and Marty and Buck said goodbye. Yes, Buck was with us, comfortably nestled in his bed with "Baby." I walked in with Harry. We were on a short line. He turned to me and said, "I should have had you give me a haircut." I don't usually carry scissors with me a on trip, but since I'd been patching Mark's jeans on the way, I had really sharp ones. "You have plenty of time before your flight. We can go outside right now and do a quick trim." His desire to have a haircut was overridden by his embarrassment of standing outside an airport and having his mother cut his hair.

Bag checked, off he went.

Next, we drove to Manhattan to see our older son, Mark. While we were waiting for him to come from his dorm, Marty took Buck for a walk and then fed him. Mark greeted him and he returned to the car and drank water. The humans then went out for dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant.

The eerie thing about the trip to New York and the trip back was that there was very little traffic. Sure, there was a wreck on the Whitestone Bridge and a short slow down leaving the airport, but we felt it was magical, as though we'd been granted something special, a reprieve from some of the frustrating things we've been facing.

We arrived home in record time. Buck took the day in stride, as though being in a car for 8 hours was normal. As long as he's with us, he doesn't care where he snoozes.

Harry should be in Copenhagen by now.

Typical Saturday

My very full morning included yoga, going to the post office expecting checks (nada), picking up a few grocery items and indulging in a massage. My therapist is excellent and knows what my body needs. After a massage, my right shoulder doesn't hurt for days.

We thought about going to see a movie in a nearby town, but decided to watch one on TV for 5 bucks. Not only was it a money-saver but we avoided the mind-numbing previews and ads. True, it's the small screen, but I find the sound in movie theaters raises my blood pressure. You're probably wondering what we saw. Looper, with Bruce Willis and other lesser-knowns. I love Bruce Willis, from Moonlighting to Diehard. Looper was filled with shattering glass and lots of gunfire. There were a few car crashes. The premise involves time travel, basically going back in time to kill bad guys, erasing them from history. The concept is pretty loopy itself. Eh, for $5 it was entertaining enough.

For dinner we had Cuban pot roast. I used a recipe that required marinating the meat for 48 hours, turning every 12. You then brown the meat and onion/garlic mixture from the marinade and simmer for 3 hours in orange juice, white wine and more oregano. Before dinner we had margaritas, chips and salsa. There's nothing like tequila on a frigid winter's night. I made rice and beans to accompany the roast, which was tender and delicious.

I'm reading Michael Chabon's Telegraph Avenue, and tried to read a few pages before going to bed, but the eyes said nay.