Y is for Yawn

Posted on by

11

New Thoughts on Words

MPj042775200001

Aging & Attitude

Conversation. . . is the art of never appearing a bore, of knowing how to say everything interestingly, to entertain with no matter what, to be charming with nothing at all  Guy de Maupassant

The Florida sun, hot and heavy on our heads and shoulders, does not dissuade us from sitting outdoors at Flagler Beachfront Winery. Late in the day, the sun will set behind the renovated “little blue building” and create shade soon. The owners Ken and Kelly planned it that way. Their tag line Come for the wine, stay for the view sums up the intent. Wine is made on site and customers buy wine by the glass or bottle, and order from a tapas menu of grilled flat breads with Brie & Prosciutto or Artichoke and tapenade, to name a few of the food choices. Select grapes from Ken’s 100 acre organic family farm in Ohio, and other vineyards around the country, are used to make their label Beachfront Wine. Ken and Kelly are working owners and a four-year old son is under foot.

Mr. Wonderful, my husband of 42 years, places our order, and we get comfortable for the view. I chat away about what I cannot remember and Mr. Wonderful yawns. A big yawn and uses both hands to cover his wide-open mouth, “I must be tired after playing golf in this heat.”

I think nothing about it and continue, picking up for his lack of participation, when he turns his head distracted by the conversation at the next table. He is not listening to a word.

“Am I a yawn? A bore.”

Yawn is an involuntary reaction to fatigue or boredom.

Since even I cannot remember what I was saying,  conclude the conversation is tedious, monotonous, humdrum, and ho-hum.

“How do you keep the music playing?”  A Tony Bennett song, creeps into my head.

What to talk about?

Weather is a safe topic, changes every day, but unless you are a meteorologist, discussing rain only takes a few minutes.

Politics, World News?  Both seem risky. That leaves us with humor.

So I say to Mr. Wonderful, “Did you remember to take the garbage out?”

….just saying

Related articles

X is for X Marks the Spot

Posted on by

14

New Thoughts on Words

X_Marks_the_Spot_FilmPoster

Aging & Attitude

   We are familiar with the expression, X marks the spot, used to reference lost treasure on a map, and the signature line on important documents. There is even a film by the name X Marks the Spot . The story concerns a newspaper reporter indebted to a gangster for raising the money to save his little girl’s life.

   In the computer age, however, the X of concern appears in the upper right corner of unwanted advertisements and pop-ups and nearly caused me a nervous breakdown on Friday.

   The nightmare begins when I log on to Word-Press to edit my next post, and a Shutterfly advertisement appears across the top of the work page. I had opened an account the previous evening, to compile a photo birthday book for my granddaughter, Alexandria. I think it is  pretty nervy of them, and feel overwhelmed, as more ads and pops up appear blocking my screen vision and ability to type. The dominant pop-up is an upgrade browser for Firefox.  and I attempt to upgrade, but cannot,  because VIPRE, identifies it as a bad file. I X out of every ad, but they immediately pop open again.   Are you following this?

   Let me recap; I cannot use my computer because I do not have the upgrade that Firefox requests and VIPRE is blocking the file.

   What to do? Call iyogi with whom I have a contract.

   After about an hour, iyogi detects 68 infractions using Malwarebytes.

   “How can that happen?”  I ask. Two days ago, I purchased VIPRE, an upgrade antivirus and firewall.

   The technician’s reply, “Madame, such infractions can only be avoided by purchasing Windows 8. “Madame would you like me to do that now.”

   Tension comes between us when I accuse him of trying to sell something. He is indignant at the suggestion and adamant that he is not a salesperson.

   I had Windows 7 three days ago. and no pop-ups or advertisements.

   What is different?  I opened a Shutterfly account, and switched to VIPRE.

   When the air clears and the infractions, cookies and temporary files removed, I make the mistake of commenting, I thought my computer  was  scheduled to do fragmenting, etc. and would check the settings.

   “Madame I can help you with that. There is a program, Keylogger, that will do all of that for you. Would you like me to install it now?” Said the tech.

   I politely answered, “No thank you.”

   “Madame, you simply do not understand how computers are working.” He persists.

   I get off phone saying, “My husband is in the kitchen waiting for me to cook dinner.”

   That he understands.

   Truth is, Mr. Wonderful cooks dinner.

   I question my decision to pay for and install VIPRE and phone to cancel the anti-virus program.  The purchase is within thirty days, so there is no problem.

   Next I download free versions of Malwaybytes and turn Windows firewall back on.

   Through this laborious process pop-ups continue and even appear in LinkedIn when I post my blog.  I tell Shutterfly to close my account. They do.

   The pop-ups and advertisements continue flying across my screen. I run a total scan a second time and have 68 new infractions, all the same from address,  pup.optional.conduit A.

   Yelling “I’m going to have a nervous break-down”  I type, What is pup-optional conduit A? in the search bar and have my answer. X marks the spot.

   PUP.Optional.Conduit.A is very dangerous malware that invades into user computer without taking their permission. This PUP.Optional.Conduit.A also results in messing up the entire computer system by displaying unwanted and fake ads. This potentially unwanted program used to slip into random computers through a series of channels, like freeware downloads, spam e-mail attachments, hacked websites etc. PUP.Optional.Conduit.A using malware to block anti-virus programs. PUP.Optional.Conduit.A can change the existing registry entries, and create the new corrupt entries so that it can launch itself each time you open the windows. Since this nasty threat is very dangerous and it unnoticed. It is strongly recommended to remove PUP.Optional.Conduit.A as soon as possible to prevent further damage from it.  (Instructions on how to remove this dangerous malware on Firefox can be found here.)

   Reading  about antivirus programs , I learn malware does a different kind of damage and Malwarebytes is not an antivirus program. I remove Malwarebytes and reinstalled VIPRE as a trial member.  Now I’m using VIPRE firewall, malware and antivirus programs. 

   This morning I run a full scan using VIPRE and remove 6 files that are of moderate risk, one of which is some sort of conduit toolbar. I have no pop-ups or advertisements yet, however I am soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo  confused. Help!

….just saying

Related articles

W is for Wheels of Circumstance

Posted on by

5

New Thoughts on Words

cityrama-tours

Aging & Attitude

In 1966, during college orientation, we were instructed to look to our left, then to our right, and told one of us would not graduate. The glaring statistic stimulated conversation. Vera, on my right, was from Long Island, and had an unfamiliar accent. She escaped from Hungary as a child and remembered running across the border grasping her mother’s hand. I was watching Betty Boop cartoons while she was chased by Russians. Her experience stayed with me and is incorporated in my fiction story, “Wheels of Circumstance”, published In Florida Writers Association Collection, Volume Four.

Wheels of Circumstance

   Mama and I press our bodies flat against the frigid ground and pray the wheels do not stop. A gloved finger to her lips tells me what I intuitively know: we are in danger, and a disturbance may reveal our presence.

   The day is crisp; the strong sun’s reflection on clean snow hinders our vision. I am a fawn watching a doe’s movement frozen by headlights, mirroring the behavior.  Mama’s fudge colored eyes wide and alert do not move while her lashes flitter. 

   The wheels stop not by choice, but by circumstance. They rotate in the mud clockwise many times. When the engine shifts gear, the wheels twirl counterclockwise so fast, the steel spokes blur together. The vehicle, encumbered in mud, stalls and several soldiers jump out. I tremble, and see only soldiers’ feet in heavy boots with metal toes from where I am lying. I close my eyes at the thought of a soldier lifting his leg to kick me.

    The engine restarts and the uniformed men study the wheels as they spin again. The puddle gets deeper, a chocolate cesspool, and goop splashes, dirtying my face.  I watch two soldiers shift metal guns slung on their backs, and ready themselves to shove the vehicle from behind as a driver yells in a foreign language that reeks of anger. The noise muffles the sounds I do not make.

    The soldiers rock the truck, making the ditch bigger, and the wheels more trapped. The engine cuts out leaving a quiet sound. The driver jumps out of the cab enraged, a semiautomatic gun raised above his head, and shoots into the air and around the tires. 

   Mama rolls her body on mine, secures my mouth shut with her hand to muffle any sound, and listens to an approaching noise, another vehicle.

   The soldiers, who were pushing the pick-up yell, punch the driver and point to a deflated tire, as the second truck comes to a halt.  

   With chains and shovels, the angry team of men release the truck from the muck, and afterwards shove and slap each other in good cheer at the success of their efforts.

   I start to cry when they drive off.

   It is November 4, 1956 and what started as a birthday lunch at the University with Papa is the Hungarian Revolution.

   In the morning, we sleep late and dress leisurely for the special day.  I wear my favorite navy blue taffeta dress. Mama insists I wear leggings with my green winter coat adorned by gold buttons and a velvet collar, a matching headscarf tied under my chin. The leggings have inside zippers.

   Mamma wears a camel wrap coat and a fake fur hat.

   My birthday gift is a white rabbit muff with a cord I loop around my neck making certain it is not lost. I skip to the 9:45AM train to Budapest and nestle my hands inside my birthday gift,  occasionally, fluffing the rabbit fur on the ride.

   We arrive an hour later, and when we step down from the train, the crowd is noisy and the station disorganized. People run in different directions and change course unexpectedly. Papa is at the exit gate not at the University. He whispers in Mama’s ear after their kiss and her eyes droop in disgust. Papa grabs me in a birthday hug that lifts me off the ground and smiles his million-dollar smile.

   There is a “change in plan” goes the conversation between tickles to my chin and behind my ears. Mama and I are to take the train to Austria; Aunt Marion will greet us for a Birthday Holiday. Papa will come on the weekend. Mama’s eyes continually question his prediction. I am happy with the promise.   

   We get back on the train. Papa hands us a bag lunch and an envelope with Aunt Marion’s address and spending money. We wave from the window not knowing it is for the last time.

   Mama reads a newspaper on the train, turning the pages quickly and with tears in her eyes. “Who is Aunt Marion? Do I know Aunt Marion?” I ask of her.

   “Aunt Marion is Papa’s relative, really a cousin. I have not met her either. It will be nice . . . I think. Yes, Trudy it will be nice. Now close your eyes and rest, we have a busy day.”

   Near the Austria-Hungary border, the train stops, empties, and people are rude and loud.

   “Is everyone on holiday, Mama?”

   “Well, it seems…” and Mama holds my hand with intensity.  “Let me ask for directions,” she says and approaches the conductor now standing on the platform. I cannot hear but watch heads nodding and shaking.  Mama continues walking tentatively and then with determination.

   “I am going to call Aunt Marion and see if she knows another way.”

    Mama deposits several coins in a pay phone, and engages in a speedy conversation.

   Smiling Mama says, “Sure enough, Trudy, we can follow the road and cut through the pasture. It will be fun and faster, maybe we’ll see a deer.”   

   Our walk is interrupted by the sound of Soviet tanks, trucks, and gunfire. Mama pulls us down behind tall grass brushed with snow. We listen, hidden until the sounds of people screaming and crying disappear.

   Mama explains. “Mean people are invading our country and we must leave, for now. Papa will talk with them. It will be fine. We will cut through the meadow, and cross the border to meet Aunt Marion. She told me the way.”

   That was before circumstance and the mud. Now Mama’s eyes close and there is blood on her coat. The fake fur hat sits crooked on her head surrounded by brunette hair curled for my celebration and I grow up fast within these seconds.

    “Trudy, run ahead and tell Aunt Marion I stopped to rest.” Her soft words linger as she hands me the envelope and struggles to say, “She will help us. Run like the wind and do not look back.”

   I kneel beside Mama. “Let me stay Mama, you need help, let me stay.” My words hang small and meaningless in the air.

   Mama opens her eyes, “Gertrude Zimmerman, stop your silliness, listen to your Mama, go find Aunt Marion.  Run… I’ll see you in. . . .

   I finish her sentence, “Heaven.”

   The sounds of wheels stay connected to the loss of Mama, her love buried in my memories.

 

….just saying

 

V is for Valise

Posted on by

13

New Thoughts on Words

retro-woman-suitcases-25792523

Aging & Attitude

Valise, I like its sound. Valise is of French origin from the Italian word valigia and reminds me of my grandfather. Pop-Pop called a small piece of luggage a valise. Something larger was a trunk, as in steamer trunk, the type slapped with vacation stickers and seen on cruise ships, headed towards the old country.

The definition of valise is a small overnight bag, a size manageable with one hand by ladies. Today’s equivalent would be a tote or backpack

My grandfather said, “Where’s your valise?” Never asked what was inside or if I had everything. We were treated as adults but I recall instructions on how to fold pressed dresses with tissue paper to prevent creases during travel. It works.

What was in the valise?

A toothbrush, no toothpaste, that was provided by the host. Other toiletries were not necessary, we bathed once a week at home and shampooed our hair at the kitchen sink with bar soap if need be. I did not need six different skin care products to prevent face wrinkles, nor numerous medications.

What was in the valise?

Perhaps one extra pair of underwear but pantyhose washed, rolled in a hand towel, and left in the bathroom to dry overnight. Certainly, I packed a nightgown and house coat not to be indecent.

What was in the valise?

Probably an extra sweater, put under your coat when real cold. We wore a scarf around the neck. The scarf protected the coat collar from grime and make-up, and doubled as a head cover. If the weather turned hot, the sweater replaced your coat.

Life was simple.

Make-up consisted of  blue eye shadow, pink lipstick, and white nail polish and stored in a handbag, along with a rain hat, two aspirin and a wallet.

What was in my wallet?

An orange library card, five dollars, and yes, my social security card.

I may have carried a bubble umbrella.

What was in your valise?

….just saying

Related articles

Mangos and peppers were made for each other….

Posted on by

3

Christine Speno's avatarPudbudder - It's all about fun!i

Tonight we’re having guests for dinner.  A simple menu: Orange Roughy lightly  dredged in egg and milk than coated with Panko to which I’ve added some finely grated Asiago Parmesan.  This is then cooked in a grill pan in our gas grill.  Takes only 2-3 minutes per side.  Flip it once – and only once – and take care not to overcook the fish!

Accompany this with Orzo – my way – and you’ve got a great summer supper.  Throw in a salad and it’s complete!

So what’s “Orzo – My Way?”  So very glad you asked,  here ya go:

Orzo – Christine’s way

  • One small jalapeno pepper, chopped
  • ¼ cup red onion chopped
  • 1/2 cup red, orange or yellow (or combination) chopped           
  • 1 clove garlic chopped
  • One honey mango (or plain old regular mango – but the honey mangoes are amazing!)
  • Extra virgin olive oil or grapeseed oil

Swirl…

View original post 130 more words

Things I Learned at The Inspired Mic

Posted on by

Thanks, there is some kinda talent in FWA

Tim Baker's avatarblindoggbooks

The community I call home (Flagler Beach, Florida – even though I technically live next door in Palm Coast) has a fantastic creative element.

Authors and artists of all types live here, and in the past couple of years have gravitated to each other and are really starting to make their presence known.

I’m writing to tell you about one of the events that is bringing attention to some great local talent and also to tell you of some very valuable lessons I’ve learned at said event.

programIt’s called The Inspired Mic and it’s basically an open mic night for authors, poets and anybody else who has something to share (there have been magicians, mentalists and musicians as well).

Each presenter gets five minutes of mic-time to share their material.

The event takes place on the 3rd Tuesday of each month at a fantastic little eatery called The BeachHouse…

View original post 880 more words

U is for Ubiquitous

Posted on by

5

 New Thoughts on Words

Fairytale-LakeFairytale Lake Adam Dobrovits

airytale Lake

“Fairytale Therapy” – Budapest, Hungary – Adam Dobrovits – Featured Photographer

– See more at: http://www.photobotos.com/fairytale-lake-adam-dobrovits/#sthash.UBvxEx2o.dpuf

airytale Lake

“Fairytale Therapy” – Budapest, Hungary – Adam Dobrovits – Featured Photographer

– See more at: http://www.photobotos.com/fairytale-lake-adam-dobrovits/#sthash.UBvxEx2o.dpuf

Aging & Attitude

This summer our family vacationed at Paulinskill Lake in Sussex county, New Jersey. It is a beautiful area in northern New Jersey and the lake was serene. The first day my nine-year old granddaughter, Alexandria, let out a huge adult sigh while floating and said, “It’s so quiet.” Truly, we could breathe in the silence and relax. There was a fair share of noise makers, landscapers with lawn mowers and weed whackers, utility and tree removal trucks during the day, but the mornings were special. I would sit and savor the sounds of silence. The loved song, by Simon and Garfunkel, played in my head throughout the week. Their song touted the political outcome and moral consequences of keeping quiet, my poem below touches on the ubiquitous nature of silence.

Good Morning Lake

Silence is ubiquitous, everywhere

Stillness surrounds you

A quiet elixir slips inside your soul

The continuous calm reflected on the mirrored water

The sounds of silence familiar yet unknown

With casual notification, early sun light signals day has begun

A Mourning Dove begins the celebration with a cooooooooo

Several tweets and chirps beneath branches join the conversation

And the winds pause

The silence is pervasive not void

Ubiquitous, filled with hope and joy

….just saying

T is for Tomato Man

Posted on by

8

New Thoughts on Words

English: Photograph of tomatoes on a vegetable...

English: Photograph of tomatoes on a vegetable stall at Borough Market in London, UK (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Aging & Attitude

Laughter fills the early morning air at the Hammock Beach Club in Florida. The sound is cynical, rich with ridicule and doubt. Bubbles St. Clair interrupts her swim to scan the tower balconies and find the source, a man on the fifth floor corner unit, waves. He is a stranger to her and she does not wave back.

The noise increases as people wake and stand on their terrace, sipping coffee, savoring the view from the lollipop yellow colored building. The neon paint is softened by a pale watermelon trim and whip cream clouds drifting across the sky.

As Bubbles does the backstroke the stranger turns to go inside, she gets a glimpse of his Coke 400 t-shirt and pony tail.

By noon Bubbles has showered, dressed, and is  roaming Publix’s produce aisle looking for fennel. The constant beep of an automated shopping cart annoys her, and she recognizes the driver by his red Coke t-shirt. Bubbles counts eleven types of tomatoes the man feels traveling in reverse creating a non-stop beep,beep, beeeeeeeeeeeee.

He is scruffy, overweight and has thin hair on top, a ponytail down his back. His three-day-old beard is red but doing the Cha-Cha with a bit of gray. His needy eyes turn and ask Bubbles, “How was your swim?”

His voice stirs feelings long forgotten, and has a texture reminiscent of her past.

He continues, “You know anything about these Romas from Canada?”   Bubbles examines the assortment of tomatoes before answering, “No never had them, look delicious though.” She feels sorry for him beeping back and forth, reduced to squeezing tomatoes for pleasure. She smiles and walks away.

In the parking lot Bubbles watches Tomato Man get in his car, coincidentally parked next to hers, from a distance. She slows her pace and avoids his wave goodbye.

Rolling her eyes, she mutters disbelief then arranges packages on the back seat before noticing a beat up wallet on the ground.

Inside there is a photo license of Tomato Man, and she reads the name aloud, Tom Scary.

I knew a Tom Scary in High School, she thinks.

The address reads, Hensonville, New York. I went to High School in Hensonville, she remembers.

Bubbles gets in her car, turns the air conditioning up real high, and questions aloud, “Is he  that stranger?”

….just saying

S is for Squandering & Spider Solitaire

Posted on by

10

New Thoughts on Words

spidersolitaire256

Aging & Attitude

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred is the number of minutes in a year. The point is driven home by the song, Seasons of Love, (known as 525,600 Minutes because of the lyrics), in the musical Rent.

Nobody has more time, and nobody has less. We cannot buy time or give our extra to a friend.

What we do with our time is personal, a matter of choice. Many believe successful people use their time wisely while others question their definition of success and the genius of workaholics who ultimately are lonely.

Regardless, I have squandered my time. Yes, squandered, frittered away days, weeks and the past month. I have nothing to show for it.

Well, I take that back. I have played 2153 games of Spider Solitaire, and won 793. My winning percentage is 39% and longest winning streak is 37, losing 47.

When I rant that I am throwing away my life playing a stupid game instead of writing, Mr. Wonderful responds, “You’re retired, it’s relaxing you must get some enjoyment from it if you keep playing.” Reminded of a quote, “There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want,” I threw a wet sponge at him.

I planned to write the next posts for The Alphabet Series before going on vacation but when I achieved 37 consecutive wins, believed I could do 40 and kept playing.  That is when things fell apart. Playing Spider Solitaire became a segue activity.  I soothed defeat with other mindless online pastimes and spent hours checking email, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and the price of airfare to Italy instead of writing.

Blink and it was vacation time and my only accomplishment was losing.

Mr. Wonderful’s advice “Don’t  worry, we’ll  be away  twenty-one days, you’ll break this addiction, if you insist on calling it that.”

I did well, no computer; no email, Facebook, Twitter or Spider Solitaire. We had a fabulous family vacation.

The first thing in the door returning, Spider Solitaire.

….just saying

Bored on the Fourth of July 2013

Posted on by

18

Aging & Attitude

552759_10150936132730748_1329291219_n

We had been to the beach in the morning, a barbeque in the afternoon and now we were walking to the Town Green for the fireworks.  Mr. Wonderful spies a stone wall spot wide enough for two fannies, and inquires of the boy sitting next to his family, “Are these taken?”

The space is available; we sit and attempt to get comfortable on the hard rock.

The kid has a sour face and being a Grandma, I poke him with my elbow and say in a friendly way, “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m bored,” is his response.

“What’s wrong with being bored?”  I ask. “It isn’t an illness; people get bored, great ideas are born in boredom.”

His perplexed look is memorable, not rude and I continue talking. “How long have you been bored?”

“A few minutes,” he mumbles but sits up, straightens his back.

I have his attention, now what to do with it. I say, “You must have an exciting life if you’ve only been bored a few minutes.”

“Actually I do, have you ever heard of Malaysia?”

I nodded my head yes.

“I was born in Malaysia, before my parents got married, then we moved to California. They got married and I have two brothers. Now we live in Georgia.” He informs me with animation.

His mother’s glance in my direction confirms my inclination not to ask questions. I lean forward to see his brothers who look nothing like him.

Thinking, better bring the conversation back to boring, I say, “Boredom could be time for your brain to rest, or think. You seem thoughtful, how old are you?”

“Why don’t you guess?” is his baited reply.

I study his intelligent eyes and sudden smile, and decided to err on the side of older. “Thirteen?”

“Gee, most people say ten or eleven, I’m twelve.” He answers not hiding his pleasure.

“Seems you’re a thinker, does your school encourage thinking?” He knows my point without further explanation.

“Well you see, mostly you have to have the right answer, but the teacher lets us fight but everyone yells and I…

I interject, “we called it discussions or debates, and the yelling, heated or passionate, like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson did in Congress.”

His mind fast, forwards, “Well, have you heard of  the Marshal Art Taekwondo? See I’m a black belt, the, master is very strict with me, well, like if I don’t do something I have to do push ups, because I will be like a  leader, like keeping peace. Well, it’s like teaching etiquette, or right, have you heard about etiquette?”

“Like a Benjamin Franklin?” I ask, and watch him absorb my comment as the first fireworks explode across the sky.

We are both quiet for the next half hour and enjoy the special effects of our conversation.

Leaving, I ask, “What is your name?”

“Joshua,” he answers with a smile of perfect teeth.

“Joshua, thanks for talking with me.”

I want to say, but don’t, “I’ve heard of discipline and etiquette and feel hopeful for America, you have too.”

The thought lingers in the air.

. . . . Just saying

Related articles