Pump It Up

"Pump it up" does not refer to an aerobic routine, body building, implanting anything foreign in the body, or even  balloons.

It is the name of a franchise where children under age ten go berserk.

Last weekend I attended my first "Pump It Up" party for our granddaughter's fifth birthday.  Twenty-six party-goers gathered in the lobby, where they ran from end to end, careening into each other.  A staff member herded them onto a carpeted area to watch a safety video.  No movie, no entrance.  Silence ensued - during the movie.  The attendant crowned our granddaughter "Princess" and asked her to lead the procession into the abyss.  First, though, they had to wait for a previous group to exit.  Parties were scheduled every half-hour.  While waiting, the attendant morphed into a cheerleader.  "Who's the Princess?" she yelled.

In unison:  "Emma!"

"Who??"

"Emma!!!" 

The kids were psyched into a frenzy.  Around their necks they wore glow sticks to identify them inside the black chasm. Strip lights outlined bouncy structures.  Parents and grandparents ran through the expanse to find their darlings, but the darlings had been swallowed.  "They'll be asleep by six tonight," I said to no-one.

There were four bouncy houses in this room (each held ten), an inflatable slide two stories high, riding toys for those under three years, and air hockey.  An attendant monitored each structure.

One of our grandsons came down the slide immediately behind a girl twice his size.  He tumbled into her at the bottom, where they both exploded in ludicrous laughter.  Then he rolled over the inflatable barrier and fell onto the mat below.  His neck tilted at an unnatural 90-degree angle.  I rushed to help him, sure he'd never move again.  He started back up the steps before I even reached the mat.

After thirty minutes, a loud speaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the next room.  More inflatable structures, but higher.  I was grateful for a bench near the exit, where I withdrew into my coat, tortoise-like.  It muffled the high-pitched squeals.

An interminable thirty minutes passed before the loudspeaker announced that party goers should line up to proceed to the "food court."  Here Emma took her place on an inflatable throne, her crown still intact.  Staff members served pizza, water bottles, pretzels, cheese doodles, and cake.  Did these kids really need more sugar??

"What do they charge for this?" I said to my daughter-in-law. 

"Four dollars a head for the hour and a half, up to twenty-six kids.  But then you have to select a food package."

"A food package?"

"Yes, and I had to bring our cake."

"What are the food packages?"

"You could select hot dogs and that would cost a lot more.  And you could add more hours for an additional cost per kid."

Why hadn't I thought of this?

Most Thankless Job

Few volunteer jobs are as thankless as the presidency of a condominium, especially if there are five hundred or more units and a staff of fifty.   There are tales of police at condo meetings when the residents threaten to attack each other; or hours deliberating a pillow fabric for the main lobby or shade of green for new plantings (everyone's an expert!); or law suits against developers who took off when the building lost its balconies in a hurricane. The following actually happened at a Florida condo recently.

Mr. Habib was Libyan and Mrs. Habib was Italian.  Mr. Habib was a perfect "Jack Sprat," ramrod straight and a size 32 waist.  Mrs. Habib would have been a perfect "Mrs. Sprat," except she had a hump in her back.  Both were in their eighties.

One day the girl who came to clean Mrs. Habib's apartment ran from the building crying.  Later around the pool, Mrs. Habib explained she'd found her husband and the housekeeper in a closet together.   "She's history!" Mrs. Habib said.  Mr. Habib was not.

After a month, Mrs. Habib approached the condo president.  "I want that guard Molly fired!" she said. 

"What happened?" said Mrs. Kaliff, the president.

"I found Molly in the supply closet with my husband."

"Mrs. Habib, I will certainly investigate your accusation.  However, Molly's the head of our security team and has worked here for over twenty years.  She had a sterling resume and I've found her to be extremely trustworthy."

"I want her fired.  Besides, she sticks her tongue out at me when I go in and out of the building."

Mrs. Kaliff had a meeting with Molly and the building manager.  "Please document everything, Molly, every time Mrs. Habib phones you or speaks to you.  I will document her conversation with me.  And inform your entire staff they are not to enter that apartment unless Tom (the manager) is with them."

Another month went by when Mrs. Habib called security one morning.  "There's been a robbery!  Some of my necklaces and earrings are gone.  I always leave them in a certain drawer and they're gone!  The only one who could get in here is that Molly.  I'll bet she'd love to have some of my things."

The manager called the police.  Mrs. Habib filed a report.  Molly had not been on duty the night of the "robbery."  The missing items were found several days later in a locked box under a guest bed.

After another month, Mrs. Habib called security again.  "Help!  My husband is under our bed and I can't pull him out.  Please come get him."

Tom and the security guard left him there.  They figured the poor guy deserved a break.  A family member drove Mrs. Habib to her doctor for evaluation.

Charley and I live in a small condominium complex in Florida, where the residents like each other and one lady who lost her marbles went to live with her daughter.  It's dull by comparison.

Matches Made in Heaven

Back in the days before enlightenment, a jock would determine whether a date was marriageable material by giving her a sports quiz (a la the movie "Diner").  If the date knew the answers, she graduated to a second degree of difficulty and got a second booking.

Each region tested for local sports folklore. We all know that Beantown is bonkers over anything that ends in "-ball," so the questions went something like this (and these were the easy ones):



     1.  Who was the Red Sox player who gave the World Series to the Mets?
     2.  What is the city where the Sea Dogs play?
     3.  What is Carlton Fisk's nickname?
     4.  What was the original name of the Pats' stadium?
     5.  Who won the most games coaching the Celtics?
     6.  Who was the best Bruins defenseman of the 70's?

Chauvinistic?  Of course.  Women learned a few things about sports and then gave the men their own quiz (and these were the easy ones):
     1.  What was the name of the series starring Peter Falk?
     2.   Who shot JR?
     3.   How old was Captain Kirk in his last appearance?
     4.   Describe the article of clothing that was The Fonz's trademark.
     5.   Who was the star of "Giant?"
     6.   What was the nickname of Archie's son-in-law on "Those Were the Days?"

The fun was in the exchanges.  If a man passed the first round, he might be faced with an advanced degree of difficulty on a future date:
     1.  What is Foie Gras?
     2.  Define a "clutch."
     3.  Name a Russian dancer who defected to the U.S.
     4.  Who were the feuding families in "Romeo and Juliet?"
     5.  What is a CZ?
     6.  What has the longest gestation period of any living creature?

With on-line dating today, e-matches are based on profiles.  Here are some questions a computer might ask to determine possible matches:
     1.  Are you a legal citizen?
     2.  What is your gender?
     3.  What is your gender preference?
     4.  What is the age range you prefer to date?
     5.  Do you have a police record?
     6.  How many hours a day do you spend on electronic devices?
     7.  How many times have you read "Shades of Gray" or any part of the trilogy?

I'll repeat myself.  The fun was in the exchanges - telling about ourselves and listening to a date tell about himself.  One's true measure never appeared in a profile.
    

Memories of '78

     It started around mid-morning with large, wet flakes.  Every New Englander knew what that meant -no sweat. Small, dry flakes meant something prolonged.  Right!
     "Aother winter storm with heavy snow," the forecasters said.  They didn't dignify the storms with names back then.  As soon as I'd heard "heavy snow," I'd gotten canned goods and cold cuts to last a few  days.  The same for milk, water, toilet paper, and pet food.  I'd filled the cars with gas and brought in wood from the garage (seasoned and dry) to keep the fireplace going, in case the power went out.  Oil burners need electricity.  The four of us would hunker in sleeping bags in front of the fire with the dog in the middle, if we had to.
     Schools let out early that day, February 6th.  By 2:30 the flakes were accumulating an inch an hour and seemed to be intensifying.  Our two boys hadn't shown up.  I called Charley in Providence.
     "There's no sign of them," I said.
     "I'm sure they'll be there any minute.  I'm going to get out of here, too."
     "Go now!  It's coming down much harder and the wind's picked up."  Charley was like the captain of a ship -  making sure the multi-national company was secure before he abandoned his office.
     Without the technology of cell phones, all I could do was wait.  At 3:00 a seven-year-old and an eight-year-old tumbled into the garage.  "The bus got stuck at the top of the street," older bro said.  "We all had to get out and push it."
     "It's up to our waists at the end of the driveway," little bro said.
     The electricity didn't waver, thankfully.  We watched hurricane-like swirls on television, except that hurricanes gather strength over water.  We were eighteen miles inland. 
     One of the neighbors pushed his car down the cul-de-sac and abandoned it in our driveway.  By dark, it was completely covered.  At 6:00, still no Charley.
     The phone rang.  "I'm back in the office," he said.  "I got to the car but there's nothing moving.  It took three hours to go two blocks.  I pulled into a parking space on South Main and walked back."
     "I don't know why you stayed so long!  At least the boys made it home."
     "Who knew it would be so heavy?  I have a couch in the office and a bathroom."
     "What will you eat?"
     "I don't know."
      By morning the sun was shining, but the wind chill was near zero.  Drifts rose to the second-story windows.  According to the television, our town had been in the eye of the storm with a snowfall of fifty-four inches.  I called the boys to help me push the door open so I could wedge myself out to dig a path for the dog.  There was no other sign of life.
     Charley had no toothbrush and no underwear, but he'd worn his heavy, lined ski boots to work.   "I found some food," he told me on the phone.
     "What did you eat?"
     "Girl Scout cookies.  Their headquarters are next door."
     For three days, I shovelled and dug while Charley checked in by phone.  Our house still had electricity and heat, but the indicator on the oil tank had moved below one-quarter.  Roads were impassable.  Neighbors pooled food and booze and rotated houses for parties.  Charley slept on his couch and ate Girl Scout cookies.
     On the fourth day, an apparition walked out of the blinding glitter.  An abominable snowman, Charley had walked on tops of cars to get out of the city.  Then he'd sat in the cab of a snowplow across the Massachusetts border and finally on the back a snowmobile into northern Rhode Island.  His hair was matted and his breath smelled, but he looked gorgeous.
     "Please don't ever ask me to eat a Girl Scout cookie," he said.
    On the fifth day, payloaders from upstate New York rumbled down our street.  Their tires rose above the ski ramp kids had created over the abandoned car.  We shovelled the banks the payloaders built at the end of driveways and had a few runs down the manmade ramp.  When Charley went to retrieve his car in Providence, the city collected  $150 in fines.

What are your memories of the '78 blizzard?  Write them in the box below.
    
    
    



    

Toward Publication Again

OK, so a writer toils away for hours, days, months, years, in her office while the sun shines and people are inviting her to do fun things like play golf or go to a lecture or even shop!

Why?? Because it's something she loves to do more than anything else (except maybe a game of tennis), and she believes she's good at it. Herein is the crux of the matter: how does she KNOW she's good at this craft?

In other words, "Am I crazy??" How do I know that what I've written is actually good? Especially because I keep learning from writers' groups, editors, blogs, and newsletters every day?!?

Friends and family don't count, though my husband will always get the first look at any rough draft before anyone else. I trust his general reaction; we were in college together forty-five years ago and I know that our training in critical analysis served as the basis for his success, as well as for other writers, such as Doris Kearns Goodwin (also a graduate of Colby College).

After a thumbs-up from my husband, I proceed to ask him pointed questions about the flow of the story, the development of character, point-of-view changes, the time sequence, etc. He can usually provide some pretty obvious answers.

Then it's time for an objective opinion. In my first venture into publishing, I took the first one hundred pages of my manuscript to a sportswriter for The Providence Journal, since my memoir was the saga of our two sons in the Red Sox minor league system.  He perused the pages in front of him, suggested it should be a more intimate mother's story, and declared, "You've got to publish this!" He then gave me the names of two reference books to purchase, which would help me develop a proposal for literary agents.

So I sat at my computer for another six months and revised and revised some more. Then I decided to get another objective opinion. Purely by networking, I found a "reader" for a literary agent right in my backyard, who happened to be excited enough about my first draft to become my first editor. In addition, he was a published author.  He told me I had a unique story and a readable one and concurred with my first mentor: "You must publish this!"

When the revisions were completed, I spent six months on a query letter along with a seventy-page proposal for the literary agent my "reader" worked for. In fact, he personally delivered my package to the agent. I waited and waited and waited  - another six months went by, to be exact.  I received a two-line rejection letter. Eighteen months later, I had received seventy of these!

But somehow I kept believing I had written something worthy of publication. After all, I had two professional writers who had told me so! That stayed with me through all the rejections, through all the networking that proved useless, and through the months searching for an independent publisher. Yet I had never published anything before. I didn't have a "platform."

But I had a flow and my readers really cared about our sons in their quest toward the major leagues.

Here's a thought I kept in my head from literary agent Nathan Bransford: "Not every talented writer is a published author, but (nearly) every published author is talented."

Well, my book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, was published in April, '09, by independent publisher Barking Cat Books (a division of New River Press). No, I didn't ever find a literary agent, and yes, I did hours and hours of speeches and book signings over the next year.  I was chosen as one of ten authors to participate in a "Local Authors Day" at the Delray Beach, Florida, Public Library.  I appeared on Fox TV in Providence, R.I., on NPR, and on radio talk shows across the country.  The book was reviewed in print in Boston, Providence, and Florida.

Now my second book is ready.  It's called A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS (WHO STILL HAVE THEIR MARBLES).  It's a handbook based on the bizarre and often laughable antics of my parents in their eighties and nineties.  But the "rules" also apply for negotiating through hospitals, rehab centers, and nursing homes.  There's even an Appendix where terms like "Medicare" and "Medigap" are defined, with websites and phone numbers.  A SURVIVAL GUIDE been professionally edited twice and is ready to go. 

But my first publisher went out of business!!  So ready to go where?

Ready to go through all of the above process, all over again.

Why would I want to put myself through that again, you ask? 

Because I have to write.  My inner life depends on it.  And publication means validation.

Take my advice:  pick up a pen and jot down what's happening to you.  Jot down your family history.  Jot down funny conversations.  Jot down what you see out your window.  Maybe you don't want to see your words in print, but someday your inner life might depend on it, too.

Dating Checklists for Seniors

     Online hunts for dates have never been more frenzied, often consummating in farcically bad bagel dates, unnecessary credit card bills, or unkept promises.  It can be a frustrating and lonely experience for millions, as well as a humorous experience leading to friendship and self-awareness.  Assuming an online dating profile includes some skin and an "About Me" section of no more than four lines, the following should help those on the hunt.

Checklist for Women Over 60

 1.  Is his photo hanging in the post office?

 2.  Did he pass the background check a private detective performed for you?

 3.  Does his online photo bear any resemblance to the person in front of you?

 4.  Does he have unclipped hair hanging from his ears and nose?

 5.  Did a companion in uniform drive him to the "meet and greet?"
 

 6.  Does he live with his children?

 7.  How many times in five minutes does he say, "What?"

 8.  How many times in fifteen minutes do his children call him?

 9.  Is duct tape holding his clothes together?

10. Does he part his hair down by one ear so that two longish strands can be swept over the top of his bald spot?

11.  Can you count on one hand the number of times he uses the word "I" in fifteen minutes?

12. Does he ask which side of the bread to put peanut butter on before adding jelly?

13. How many casserole dishes are stacked in his freezer with labels in handwriting that curls
      and loops and has a heart underneath?

14. Does he tell you his excitement this week was having his pocketed cell phone on "Vibrate?"

15.  Does he reach across to straighten your knife and fork when you've finished eating?

Checklist for Men Over 60

 1.  Does her on-line photo bear any resemblance to the woman standing in front of you?

 2.  Has she had so many face lifts that her chin protrudes like a fish hook?

 3.  Does she drive at night?

 4.  Did one of her children build an addition to his/her home for her or does she share a
      bathroom with four grandchildren?

 5.  Are sagging tattoos peeking from her clothing?

 6.  Do you feel you are in danger with her?

 7.  Have her boobs sunk to her navel, but in remembrance of Woodstock she refuses
      to wear a bra?

 8.  Does she have a cold sore on her lip that she claims is a pimple?

 9.  Are there cat  hairs on her clothes (a sign a cat will be in her lap, not you)?

10.  How many times in thirty minutes does she show you photos of her grandchildren?

11.  How many times in fifteen minutes does she interrupt you?

12.  How many times in fifteen minutes does she contradict you?

13.  Does she talk about her world travels and then leave a 10% tip?

14.  Are there cookbooks in her kitchen?

15.  Are there visible rashes?



Can you add to the checklists?  Just write in the Comments box below.
To be continued.................................................................................

Re-entering the Workout Zone

     The gorging has to stop.  Time to reacquaint myself with the machines at the fitness center.  The following is a reprint of a blog I wrote over eighteen months ago...still applies.
    
     For twenty years I have been working out at least twice a week.  I actually hate it, even if I see plenty of people there that I know.  What I love is the feeling of self-righteousness when I leave!

     I march with determination to a stairmaster machine.  There are only two at the YMCA where Charley and I belong.  Neither of these machines will acknowledge my presence digitally, because I refuse to "walk" the stair all the way down before "walking" floorward with the next foot.  Instead I do quick half-steps in an attempt to ignore the aloof mechanism.  I am penalized by having to clock myself.

     I like quiet when I go there.  I do not want to listen to Stephan the Romanian dispensing stock tips from his treadmill for a discussion with the people on either side of him.  I do not want to listen to Tom's tales of romancing the brunette in the sauna after he got off work the previous evening.  I do not want to get involved in Tulia's decision to leave an abusive relationship to join a church group, where she might meet the love of her life.

     I begin my stair-stepping when a disruption explodes in front of me.  A woman has monopolized the treadmill and two other members are waiting.  Both of those waiting have signed in and have seen that the woman has been on for forty minutes - a violation by ten minutes!!  "How long have you been on there?" the man asks.  Perhaps a workout will dissipate his aggression!

     "I'll be finished in five minutes."

     "You can't be on that long!  There's a time limit of thirty on that machine."  The man goes to the attendant.

     Patrick doesn't want to ruffle feathers on his watch.  He explains in quiet tones to the woman, still treading, that she'll  have to relinquish the machine because others are waiting.

     "Then I'll take my business elsewhere!" the woman yells at him.  Patrick shrugs and retreats to the front counter.  The woman remains for the last five minutes she came for.

     I proceed to a big rubber ball.  I choose the red one, smaller than the others, because I believe I'll get more benefit from sit-ups on a smaller ball.  I have no idea where this idea came from.  I place my towel over the top and begin twenty-five of these babies, resting before I attempt the next twenty-five.  As I begin the second set, I feel the towel and my butt slipping downward.  I ignore this, because I just want to finish the damn things!  Before I know it, I have landed on my back on the floor with the towel next to me.

     I slink off the floor to the area designated for free weights.  The YMCA has undergone a transfer in management.  The new manager is a young man, intent on attracting members from the body-building set.  In tank tops, with tattoos rippling like pythons over straining muscles, these young men have taken positions on every bench.  I don't want to be anywhere near them as they grunt and heave.  I retreat to the far end of the gym, where one small bench remains vacant.  I pick up my miniscule five pounds of lead and conceal them against my thighs.

     Once finished with the free weights, I enter the center of the gym.  It is here that Jason, our new manager, has redesigned the space so that the weight machines "float" across the center, giving the illusion of a larger gym.

     The problem is that people over sixty do not want to be out in the middle of anything.  We want to hug a wall or hide in a corner.  I climb on the tricept machine and am staring into the eyes of a guy twenty years younger, just six feet in front of me.  He is running a marathon on his treadmill, while he watches me struggle.

     I wipe the machine and figure I'll return to that one later.  I proceed to the leg extension machine.  The woman who has relinquished it is five feet ten and weighs approximately two hundred pounds.  She wears black gloves without fingers and a bandanna around her head.  The bandanna is dripping onto the floor.  I head for the paper towels and disinfectant spray.  Once I've wiped the machine down (Patrick should be monitoring!), I try to dislodge the metal arm holding the foot pad.  I want it to fit my legs, not hers.  It won't budge.  She has jammed the arm.  I strain until I have deep ridges in my palm.  "Damn Amazon!" I seethe, heading for Patrick.

     When I finish there, I wipe the machine again.  Because Jason is now the resident interior designer, there is literally one foot between machines.  I slide sideways between the leg extension and leg curl machines to hang my workout chart from the clip on the side.  Just as I am in the shape of a wedge of Iceberg lettuce, the Amazon heads for the leg curl machine.  I do a U-turn to the mats to start my stretches.

     The mats are wet.  I have my towel, which I place under me while in the yoga "prayer position."  But I hesitate.  Is it sweat or is it disinfectant on the mats?  I don't take any chances.  I spray them and wipe them dry, just in case.  I do it again when I've finished.  I was going to clean some kitchen shelves when I get home, but I've done enough wiping.  I wash up and head to McD's for a frappe!