My 5-year-old could do that

Hey! Happy New Year Everyone

 I'm a new person now that it's 2012
 and here is a list so you can keep up

1) I have decided to expand my compassionate bent towards all animals. Proof?


   a)  Decided to not euthanize cat. Even though she sounds like a banshee and has some sort of incurable disease that causes her to walk as though she's on deck during a particularly rough channel crossing. 


   b) There are squirrels the size of dogs running up and down the trees outside and I didn't have ungracious
thoughts. Or call animal control. Instead I beat it upstairs and hid under a comfy blanket.
       By the way, did you know that woodpeckers are a federally protected bird so you can't kill them? However if you read a bit further in the woodpecker statute, one can actually 'harm them' if one has a federal permit. [note to self - one may need a state permit as well] Since woodpeckers have been known to peck away at the space shuttle (no further information forthcoming), I guess they sort of have carte blanche. So  c) I, too, shall be magnanimous. 

Debris field outside Shuttle after Woodpecker attack
or
 Installation at SF MOMA?*

2) I wont cause scenes in public. Proof?







   a) I almost broke down in front of the painting of Saint Sebastian by Mantegna  and barely caught myself when I heard a teacher, who was leading a group of students with 'Ukiah Wrestling' sweatshirts (Go Wildcats!!) through the gallery saying that this was an early oil painting.......WRONG WRONG WRONG. From the 1974 section of my brain, the words Tempera on Panel broke through.  I don't know if I almost cried because the painting was beautiful, that it brought back memories from a delirious year in Florence or that I had retained a nano-smidgen of information from putative** college years.

  b) I almost broke down, but the screaming kind, in front of a sculpture that was titled, I swear to god,


'Artificial Rock' 

and it looked like THIS (yes I'm shouting)

Do I LOOK stupid?

This is a test.  Five Panels. Art or not. Go.

I know this is childish and churlish but honestly - I see gorgeous, rich paintings of Giorgione,Titian and Veronese and then head off to the Best Buy/Chipotle/Jamba Juice strip mall and see things that could be at home in an exhibit of Objects Trouves, my mind distends and I question my entire existence.


3) ..........I already forgot - exercise?  find meaningful work?  move to Tatertotville, MO?


Glad to be back




* Neither - it's a shoe on a beach. Found Art.  So there
**Putative - favourite word these days- used to describe, among other things, boyfriend.

How do you say 'Birthday' in English?

A serious post.

Seriously

Oy.
Birthday season arrives on November 18th and ends on January 23rd.
Eight out of ten (that's 80%  if I do any math at all) immediate family members stuff their birthdays into this time period. And I'm not including Thanksgiving, Christmas and/or  חֲנֻכָּה‎ (I left in the vowels to help you out).
That's Chanuka, Chanukah, Chanukkah, Channukah, Hanukah, Hannukah, Hanukkah, Hanuka (Hawaiian), Hanukka (Finnish), Hanaka (Japanese), Haneka (Inuit), Hanika (Danish), Khanukkah (Lion King).

Kindly, the two dark-haired beauties of our tribe, removed themselves from the rush of indulgence and stay aloof until April and July. But enough about them.


חֲנֻכָּה ‎ in Israel, when I lived there as a tot, was nothing like Chanukah here.  We did it the Sephard way.  Jelly donuts and sitting on the cold limestone floor playing games with nuts and stones. At least by the time the candles were lit I spoke Hebrew. I was a proper and polite North Londoner plonked down into Jerusalem.  Then popped into school.  At that time, half the class spoke English.  The country was only 15 years old and the population was more European than anything else. My two best friends were from New York.  I suppose I could have got away with not learning any Hebrew but a) I had a crush on an Israeli boy in the grade above me and b) the fact that my parents couldn't speak or really understand was just too delicious to pass up.


It was the only pure AHA! (sp?) moment I ever had.  The moment I 'got' Hebrew.
At about the three week mark into my private lessons, after struggling over some reading, my teacher pointed to the bowl of fruit that was on top of her 'fridge.  'Name the fruit', she said. 'Quentin Crisp', I said, 'It's an apple'.  'Wrong', she said in that brackish tone some Israelis like to put on.
'Not an apple', I murmured, 'hm'.
And then it happened. The heavens split open, the curtains rose, my spine got all tingly, I was raptured - I named all the fruit. In Hebrew.  Then the bowl, 'fridge, contents of 'fridge, Mr. Fork and Curly Spoon - I was blind but now I saw.  It was ecstasy.  I bounced down the stairs; lo and behold - I could read all the shop and street signs.  I could fumble for my bus money like the best of them. I could run pass the house of the witch on Rehov Jabotinsky with real, understandable terror while blurting out childish invective. I felt at home.
And then it all went away. Back at home I didn't need Hebrew. At all.  So it was back to Latin.  Hebrew was delegated to the storage locker of my brain. I still cocked my head to the side, à la chien, whenever I heard Hebrew being spoken but nothing really got through. I do expect, however, that the second my feet touch Israel's soil (whenever that may be), the door will be unlocked and I'll be completely bi-lingual once more.


Now wasn't I a clever thing - learning a language that didn't use our alphabet.  I fumbled through Italian, French, a smattering of German and with what ease would I make the transition to America?   No prob.  Same language.  Same alphabet.  They had Saks, we had Selfridges.  They had Land O' Lakes, we had the Lake Country. They had Disneyland, we had Butlins.  Actually scratch that. Butlins was far creepier than any Disney Haunted Mansion.  Trust me.  Nick Cave described it as 'Auschwitz with Curtains'  but he was born in Australia so take that with a grain of salt.


Of course, language comprehension is a strategic plus when travelling, or in my case, moving to a foreign country.  And I had functioned well in the states.  A year in Berkeley.  But I was 3 years-old, so that doesn't count.  Then, Arlington, MA, where I could have been put into third grade but opted for second grade (lazy, unambitious streak matured early).  At that time - I did want to fit in as evidenced by my sorrowful refusal to understand why, on Halloween, dressed as Sleeping Beauty, everyone guessed who I was due to red hair and English accent.
It was THE move that picked up on the otiose side of my character (see - I do still use my rudimentary Latin : otiosus, "idle, at leisure," from otium, "leisure."). THE move that I thought was only supposed to last four years. 
Did it start badly?  No - although I suppose it could have. Two days after arriving into Ur-California house (bungalow), I started high school.  Not only did that mean that there were boys (horrors?) but that it was about 85 degrees by 10 am.  At least the yanks used Fahrenheit and lbs & oz I didn't think to myself. 
I showed up on campus in an all-wool ensemble.  And I don't just mean grey pleated skirt, socks and sweater.  I really mean that I was also wearing my perfectly usable vest (under-shirt?) and panties.  Or knickers, if you prefer.  All wool.  But never mind that - I was too overwhelmed by the 'rally' and not knowing if I were a frosh/soph/jr/sr. So I clambered into the bleachers and sat down next to a real California girl.  Shiny, green hair (from swimming) and perfect white teeth.
I was transfixed by the cheerleaders and pom-pom girls yelling at us to 'kill the cougars' or 'dunk the donuts'.  California girl was transfixed with my accent.  And a star was born. 
I had burst onto the scene and was surrounded by people coming up to me asking me if
a) I knew the Beatles (well I did have some of Paul McCartney's fingernail clippings (that's a different story for a different time) and
b through z (pronounced 'zed') how did I say: water, birthday, Leicester.  Did I drink tea? Did I ever go to Buckingham (pronounced incorrectly) Palace? What was it like driving on the other side of the road (I was 13)?   Pip Pip Ducky Lorry, what?
The only downside of the day was when I asked for a rubber. Which I prefer to understand as a tool to erase pencil markings.  My classmates had never heard of a French letter.  Too busy wondering if I spelled Labour the way I did. 
 I was instantly popular for being who I was.  In reality, who they thought I was.  Rather than blend in and learn the ways of the Iowa test (I passed the US history with flying colours just by guessing. My history started with King Alfred and a pancake and ended up with the Industrial revolution.  We skipped over the period from 1603 - 1837. One guess as to what we skipped), I took the easy way out and played to my little English girl status. Kept everyone in stitches with my pronouncements which were translated as wit. I floated above the lot of them not learning anything at all that could actually help the transition. 
America meant having choices.  England was a road already selected.  And I liked that road.  I knew what I was expected to do and how. I didn't have to prove myself in England or America but here, everyone defined me the way they wanted; a cartoon Carnaby Street denizen.
Just call me Lady Biba Brittania
It's taken me 40 years to understand this.  And guess who turned the lighbulb on.  A transplanted Israeli.

I'm so confused

Through the 2-way mirror.
What you found there
and why.

Discuss

Dear Applicant,

Thank-you for considering _______ as a potential employer/employee. Your resume has been reviewed and we are simmering with excitement to interview you for the job of  _______.  In order to get the address for an in-person interview, we need you to take this assessment test so we can determine if you really 'get' us.

The test is timed, the answers are not.

Please                   begin                                                         

                      

                                                                 now

1.  You are applying to the position of OM.  What is this?

a)  University of Mississippi

b)  The restaurant and lounge in Harvard Square
c)  A Panentheist

d)  The very first Olympus camera  (bonus points for knowing year of introduction)

2.  How do you spell 'Humor'

a)  Humor

b)  Humour

c)  Yuma

d)  Wit

3.  PG loves us (as stated in our introduction).  Who and/or What is this PG?

a)  PG:EuroTLX

b)  PG Tips

c)  Pelham 'Plum' Grenville Wodehouse

d)  I don't know

4.  Let's say you have a list of numbers you have just imported and some of them are those so-called negative numbers (mirror negatives). Your job is to convert these to valid negatives that someone will recognize. For the purpose of the exercise we will make the range A1:A100. In cell B1 enter this formula; = Substitute (if(Right(Trim A1))="-",R(T(A1,A1),"-","",2)+0
 
a)  Ask me something I don't know*
b)  Yes
c)  No, thank-you
d)  6
e)  Chicago

* why don't ya


5.   Is Ivor Lewis an oesophageal lesion, the Postmaster General or that grump down the street




6. Why should we hire you?

a)   I could wear lots of hats
b)   I level people with snooty accent
c)   I went to school yet learned nothing
d)   I can't punctuate
e)   I like free lunches
f)   All of the above
g)   None of the above
h)   Some of the above

End of Part I

The Federal Government wants to know some things. Please use a check mark to indicate your answer:

Are you a guy or a gal

Yes ( ) No ( )

Race
Tropic of Cancer ( ) Tropic of Capricorn ( )

What are you

US citizen ( )  

MI5 ( ) MI6 ( ) Mossad ( ) Chairface Chippendale ( )

what was it

    

     

How much Text
 would a
 Brailler Text
 if a 
Brailler
 could Text Text?

Yes, I'm just as confused.  But honestly, after not working for six months my mind has really gone downhill.

Not brought up to work. Not brought up to do anything really (and sooooooo glad to have passed that ethic down to my children) so am completely surprised that I actually enjoyed having a job. Well not as over-joyed as if I had been bunking down in my bed-sit in Hampstead and working in the theatre, but never mind that now. 

Where was I.  Ah yes, I was actually going to write about ME, like, REALLY ABOUT ME. Like all those blogs I read that are mind-numbingly (spell check has that as 'fumbingly') boring. 


Why?


Because I was overcome by the urge to try and wrap my head around my Braille teacher casually mentioning that she was having a spot of trouble mastering swipe-text (or as Android prefers - Swype. Which begs the question, 'Is there an app for middle english translation').


Anyway, I was more than a chy fash* when she started talking about her playlists.  I didn't know where to think/look.  How does ......no, wait...I mean....I don't even know how to get the damn music onto my 'phone............how does a blind (okay - 'non-sighted') person even...I.....I just couldn't get my brain to start thinking about this.  I didn't know how to ask and anyway was dumbfounded  by the fact that while giving me this fantastic piece of information, she was cleaning out drawers and re-arranging files....
Did I mention she's BLIND?


Yeah - so I'm learning Braille, kinda.  It's hard.  But loads of fun to go sit in a totally wireless cafe in Palo Alto with my Brailler (also totally wireless) and practice the alphabet.  I'm really super A through M then I run into brain problems.

SO - I don't know how anyone over the age of forty can get a job these days.  No, nothing to do with the economy especially here (see previous posts) where every restaurant is overflowing with mini-moguls and their ilk. And their ilk.
And their ilk sure ain't me, baby.
The problem is the job posting itself.  
I can't even figure out what the title means sometimes.
I mean, honestly, what would YOU think if you saw this -


 PMS knowledge with OPERA?


I'm not making that up.  And I do know a LOT about (the) Opera.  And PMS. And I remember knowledge. And  I know what 'with' means.


But if one tries to do any research, you either get to Hospitality websites, Peri-menopause relief or, my favorite

Which kinda fits with the Menopause theme.


Or suddenly I'll get an email that says that I'm a perfect candidate for this job:


 -手机游戏开发工程师 / Mobile Developer Beijing.




Very disconcerting.




Time for                                (wait for it)

 And don't even get me started on why I had to change the background to Regency Pink

* (a) Little Confused - Middle English or  maybe I'm just making a gallimaufrere**


** Russian word galimatya, presumably akin to gallimaufrey

A lousy $25 million and there's no flippin' aviary??

July 31st and fireworks fill the sky.  Fabulous!  I suppose fireworks aren't just for that 'special' day anymore.
Not just July 4th.  
Desecration of the national holiday (horrors!) started years ago with fireworks/concerts on the 3rd.
This year, the rumore (that's noise in Italian.  If anyone can think of a noisier country lemme know) started officially on the 2nd.
Bastille day isn't on July 14th in certain parts of France (more on that particular story a different time).
I missed World Sauntering Day--June 19, and totally blew through Anti-Boredom Month--July 1-31


What, WHAT, WHAT is happening?
London is holding the summer Olympics??  Israel is running amok due to cottage cheese prices?  My children are about to get a step-mother, step-siblings, my ex wants me to relieve him of his 3 cats AND I'm supposed to care about Spotify.com and Google +?  
It's all too much.


Too,Too much.


But not quite as too-too as the house down the road that is selling for $25 Million.  Now that may not really raise an eyebrow to anyone who knows about home prices in the San Francisco Bay Area. For instance $45 Mil. for one of the most coveted Gold Coast Pacific Heights Mansions - the usual 7 bedrooms, 4 stories, 2 grand ballrooms, tennis courts, indoor pool, view of the entire Bay and Pacific.
Okay, so probably more than a family of four could afford.
They could always look around Palo Alto where the average price for a house within walking distance of downtown is a mere $4.3 Mil. with 4 bedrooms and, according to the listing, has 'unrivaled style & elegance'.
It's also within spitting distance of Mr. FaceBook himself, whose house has, like, TOTALLY displeased all humans far and wide as evidenced by this headline in the Wall Street Journal, 'MZ modest new home disappoints at $7 million'.
For sale, closer to home, on over 12 acres of land, a house of 11,000 sq.ft. with an unassuming 6,500 sq.ft. guest house.  A steal at $59.5 Mil.
So, if I do my math correctly (and I don't) it seems to me that the price per acre here is anywhere from $3 mil. to $14 mil.


So what you may ask?  
I can't afford to buy cat litter or fill up my gas tank.  And with a generation of You Tube/FB/Yelp/Twitter/Shutterfly/Google etc. ad nauseum billionaires beating down the doors, why should I even care about their massive waste of money?  And don't lecture me about people doing what they want with their own money.  We know who they are.  But I wander off point. 
So ANYHOO, there is a house just a few doors away, that we call the marshmallow house. 

 Not only does it look as though it's a polystyrene 'smore, but it took about 10 years to build (egad! it might be a 'wired' house, how totally embarrassingly 5 years ago that is).  Building would start, then suddenly stop.  Then 2 years would pass and a window would go in.  Then a palm tree.  Then nothing.  Then a chimney.  Either the owner was riding the market like a crazy person or had a massive case of the ADHD's. Or just came to the realization that the house was ugly as sin and the only thing to do was get massively drunk  and blackout.
Maybe they were a family of pirates.  I don't know.


Then, all of a sudden, with no sign of life and no signs of sale readiness, I saw in our local rag (it's glossy. don't ask) that the marshmallow house was on the market.


Look what it's got!


Operational glass panels  (well that's good news)
Central vacuum with kick-vacs in the kitchen (what's a kick-vac or am I just hopelessly behind the times?)
Rocky Mountain hardware throughout  (?)
A grand receiving area introduces textured limestone slab floors (Floor, I'd like you to meet Area.  Area - Floor)
Three sets of French doors to the front are featured  (you're going out a chorus girl but you're coming back a star!) 
Commode  (HELLOOOOOO! It's 2011!)
Floating limestone counter  (sometimes it's in the 3rd floor master suite, other times coyly hiding behind the dryer)

Dramatic circular floating staircase (very Harry Pottter)

A driveway of paver stones winds past the front entrance culminating at the underground garage (and then what do the paver stones do? Protest?)

A separate closet room is outlined with concealed hanging and drawer space (I don't even know what that means) 

Oh alright, to be fair, the house does have a pool and a cinema. And an elevator.  And a garage for six cars. And a sauna and wine cellar.  And a Miele espresso machine with cup warming drawer. So why am I obsessively annoyed and horrified by this manse?
Because it cost twenty-five Million dollars (the price on Osama Bin Laden's head by the way)?  I should be thrilled that property values seem to be spiraling upward again.  Maybe some lunatic will offer $40 Mil. for our house (as some lunatic did during the previous boom.  But he was Australian so was probably just a stickybeak Strine out for the arvo and off his face come to give us Pines an earbash, what).
$25 Mil. and no helipad? No topiary? No diving board? Because it's hella ugly?  Nope.
Because it's on less than an acre? YES. That is my friggin' problem.
For some reason, unless the interior is actually coated with gold and the appliances are made of rhodium, I truly don't get it and it makes me very very very cross.
The house is not set back from the street. THERE ISN"T ROOM.  Driving by, one can see the neighbour's fence, yes a fence, not even a wall.
Does Oprah hide out there?  Is it actually the Library of Congress?  The final resting place for the Shuttle?  The Temple of Artemis moved from Ephesus?  Maybe Christo does the linens?

Oh.


Never mind

Am I mistaken in thinking that cakes are usually a 3-D affair?

Just a brief note before I expound on Opening Night at San Francisco Opera's Ring Cycle.


I was having an online conversation with a woman from Dallas.  A woman who had asked my advice on travel to Mexico, specifically to Playa Viva (see previous video post). Within her long and funny question she mentions Carvel.
This throws me for a loop and I stop thinking about the drug cartels and state department warnings mainly because I'm thinking ,'Carvel? CARVEL?? Who knows about Carvel anymore? Does it still exist?'

I just checked.  And it does. 


And they have 3-D cakes. See:

 WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Aren't all cakes 3-D?


 My time-dimension-pseudo science/general knowledge level gut, feels like there's a trick in there that I can't figure out and since I can only count using my fingers, anything that whispers


                                                                    "Time-space continuum + (ice-cream) + cake=3-D"

 really puts me in a tizzy.

More about the Nibelung and the $25 million house for sale down the street later.


Now to rummage around for some ice-lollys

it's really dark but at least the mosquitos wont eat my head