Mon, 21 Nov 2011 02:39:26 -0800WeeblyFri, 02 Apr 2010 08:01:59 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2010/04/thank-you-mr-jeffrey.html     While visiting New Orleans last month, daughter Kirsten and I decided to TGIF with Mojitos at the plush hotel bar despite the fact that we were bedraggled from day-long activities...
     Prior to our TGIF, we'd ridden in the elevator up to the floor when Alexa was attending a cheerleader Mardi Gras party.  Several businessmen seemed amused at the conglomeration of young teen cheerleaders and frazzled parents.
     Kirsten and I sat with a whoosh into the cushy bar chairs and mentioned to the hostess that we'd like to order Mojitos.  A few moments later the bartender came around from behind the bar, set the drinks down at our table and said, "These are courtesy of Mr. Jeffrey," and quickly walked away.  Both of us looked at each other, mouths agape.
     "Who's Mr. Jeffrey?" we asked each other.  Then, "What do we do now?"
     We looked in the direction of the bar.  Who might Mr. Jeffrey be?  "Do you think it's the man who smiled at us in the elevator and then asked if we'd 'ditched the cheerleader' when we sat down at our table?" I asked.
     As the hostess walked by we flagged her down.  "The bartender just gave us these drinks compliments of Mr. Jeffrey, but we're not sure who Mr. Jeffrey is.  Plus neither of us know what the protocol is for accepting drinks from men,"  I said, "My daughter can't remember the last time a guy bought her a drink, and it's been waaaay longer since a guy bought me a drink!"
     The hostess thought about it and said, "You're really lucky, I don't think a man has ever bought a drink for me!  Let me ask the bartender who sent the drinks to your table."
     Just as the hostess walked to the bar, the group of businessmen left.  I said, "Thank-you!" as they passed, but none of them looked our way.  The hostess returned and confirmed that the man who'd talked to us had indeed been Mr. Jeffrey.
     Both of us were chagrined that we'd not been able to say "thanks for the drink," and we laughed at our country-bumpkinishness.  "I guess we can't get into trouble while we're in NOLA if neither of us know what to do when a man buys us a drink!" I said.
     Later we each shared the story with our husbands and laughed that the most important facet of the story to them was that we avoided adding $30 to our hotel bill.
     Thank-you Mr. Jeffrey wherever you are!
]]>Tue, 23 Mar 2010 10:58:40 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2010/03/who-dat.html    There's nothing like a sudden rap on your hotel door in the middle of the night to get your heart racing...
     I visited New Orleans earlier this month to take in granddaughter Alexa's team debut at a national cheerleading competition.  Kirsten, Alexa and I shared a lovely room at the Westin Hotel overlooking the Mississppi River.  All was well until the night before the final Sunday competition.
     Alexa needed to be at the Convention Center very early on Sunday morning, so we went to bed early to make sure we were well-rested.
     At 11 p.m., a loud rapping at our door awakened Kirsten and me.  The noise didn't waken Alexa, she slept on.  Just as Kirsten and I were dropping off to sleep around midnight, there was a loud rap at the door again.  I groggily got up and opened the door.  No one was there.  Other doors in the hallway opened and the people on the opposite side of the hallway just shook their heads.  Alexa slept on.
     Back to bed and back to sleep when loud rapping awakened Kirsten and me around 1 a.m.  A few doors down one of the cheer captains shouted out, "STOP IT!!!"  Alexa slept on.
     Our hotel wasn't far from the New Orleans Historic Voodoo Museum, so I was inspired to write a curse.  I tore a housekeeping card in half and wrote on the back:  "If you can read this...you are too damn close.  And if you knock on this door, a voodoo curse will befall you.  We are watching YOU!" 
     I stayed awake watching through the peephole of the doorway and noticed people walking through the hallway coming up to the door, reading the card and then chuckling.  After about 20 minutes of watchfulness I thought we were safe, so Kirsten and I tried to go back to sleep.
     Snugly and finally asleep, we were jolted out of our beds with a loud pounding at our door.  I jumped up, my heart racing, and beat feet to the doorway.  No one was there. I removed the "curse" from the door.  Apparently the jokesters weren't worried about a fake voodoo curse, so I called upon the Wrath of the Hotel...security.  I called the front desk and asked if security could patrol the hallways to make sure that the jokesters were apprehended and stopped.  Alexa slept on.
     I realized we had just a few hours to sleep before we needed to wake up for the competition.  I was near tears from disrupted sleep.  Kirsten came over to my bed and gave me a hug.  "How about if I sleep with you, Mom?" she said.  With her wonderful Healing Touch techniques, and assistance from my iPod sleep meditation, we were soon asleep.
      I now realize that "the sleep of the dead" has nothing on "the sleep of a 13-year-old cheerleader."  I am envious of a benefit of youth...bei
     On Sunday, Kirsten awakened early and went with Alexa to the Convention Center so I could relax until Alexa's competition.  While eating a piece of fruit in the room I reflected upon the anonymous "Door Knocker."  I thought of Americans that have spent years in captivity and endured sleep deprivation.  Just a few hours of sleep deprivation was torture for me, so I wondered how they endured this torture for days and weeks and months on end?
     I also thought of my faux voodoo curse.  Maybe I wrote it all wrong...  Maybe I should have written:  "If you can read this--thank a teacher.  And if you knock at this door, we're going to laugh at you.  We are watching you, we are waiting for you, and we are ready to laugh all night.  Are you?!"
  ]]>Tue, 19 Jan 2010 19:04:07 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2010/01/falling-for-snow.html     When the big January snow came, I was thrilled to see the flakes fat and fluffy building up into drifts across the yard.  Even though it was bitter cold, I decided that age shouldn't deter me from playing in the snow.

     I tricked Gene into coming outside by mentioning that the bird feeders needed filling, "...And when we're done filling the feeders, lets go for a walkabout."

     The snow had built up over two feet after a few days, but a few inches from the top was an icy layer.  Who would have thought that walking around the house, over the bridge and alongside the creek would be so difficult?  Having snow over my kneecaps made walking a challenge.  Each step meant I had to raise my booted foot up out of the snow in a high step before stepping down again.  High-stepping is for majorettes and Rockettes.  I'm neither.  I felt like an awkward ostrich clomping through the snow.

     Due to the frigid air, the snow was light and soft even though it was deep, sohere was no way to make a snowball or snowman. 

     After walking around for awhile I stumbled when making a high step on a slight incline and tripped.  I landed on my side and couldn't get up for laughing so hard.  I could imagine the neighbors looking out their windows exclaiming, "Oh dear!  Someone has fallen in the snow and must be hurt.  She can't get up!"  Of course that thought made me laugh harder.  Gene thought I'd lost my marbles rather than my footing.

     As we turned our feet towards home, I had one last thought.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd made a snow angel, so I threw myself backwards onto the snow.  Of course the icy layer thwarted my attempts at a snow angel and instead of making a beauty I ended up looking like I was hailing passing helicopters.

     It's exhilarating to step outside one's comfort level.  It was comfier inside our house with a cup of hot cocoa, but the cocoa was made sweeter by our outdoor adventure. 
]]>Fri, 20 Nov 2009 13:32:10 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2009/11/eewww-that-smell.html     Life-long I've been allergic to bad smells.  If I were employed as "professional nose" for a perfumer or winery, others might cut me some slack for my shoulder shuddering when sniffing a dastardly scent, but no...I'm known as being "too sensitive."
     Years ago when I traveled as part of my job, I often had to change rooms if I detected an unfavorable smell.  The first place I looked was the bathroom shower curtain.  I don't know if hotels regularly change curtains, but a scrim etched in pink, green, gray or black  is a dead giveaway that the drape is moldy and needs to be banished.
     Recently I read that the quality of one's dreams are affected by scents.  So if the bedroom has an attached bath in need of scrubbing, guess what?  You're likely to have nightmares.  Not nightmares of the Scrubbing Bubbles coming after you...oh no! more like fear of an gruesome alien abduction complete with screeching sound effects.
     Of course it makes sense that Bath & Body Works sells "pillow scents" in lovely odors like vanilla and lavender.  Unless you've been attacked by a rare orchid or lavender plant those fragrances will likely give you good dreams as well as good sleep.  It wouldn't be good marketing for Bath & Body Works to bottle and sell a pillow scent called "eau de gym shoe," "flop-sweat," or "landfill."
     Dr. Alan Hirsch, a nationally recognized smell and taste expert and the founder of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago, discovered that men are most attracted to scents of  lavender, pumpkin pie, donuts, and black licorice.  Women are most attracted to black licorice, cucumber, baby powder, pumpkin pie and lavender.  Attraction was measured as "additional blood flow to the penis" in men and "additional lubrication in the vagina" in women. 
     No wonder fragrance and perfume is a bazillion-dollar industry worldwide.  Not only are we seduced by advertisements for celebrity perfumes, but merchants of all kinds subtly use fragrance as a means to gain greater access to our wallets.
     After a long day at work, I'm ready to jump into my jammies and nod off to dreamland, but wait...!
     "Uh hon...are those Good & Plenty candies hiding under my pillow or are you just glad to see me?"
]]>Fri, 06 Nov 2009 12:29:46 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2009/11/steak-from-heaven.html     Gene laughs at my ability to get free steak dinners.  I don't plan on getting 'steak from heaven' when we go to our favorite restaurants, but it happens.

     I don't get my meal for free if I order chicken or pork.  But there's something magical about my relationship with steak that does it for me.

     I'm not one to complain about a meal.  I have images of the wait staff or kitchen help playing  fast and loose with my food before they return it to me, so I typically avoid complaints.

     But on the rare occasion when I am out and order a steak, I have exacting standards.  If I order the meat "medium-rare" they send it out well-done.  If I order the meat "with no seasoning" they dump salt & MSG on it like snow on a ski slope. 

     I don't want to pay for a steak that is burnt or one that freaks my palate, so when the manager asks (on the first bite), "How's everything?" I sweetly reply, "Uhmmm.  I ordered my steak medium rare" or "I ordered my steak without any seasoning."  I know the response by rote: the manager apologizes and orders up another dinner for me. 

     If the first steak was slow, the second one is even pokier. And of course I get concerned.  Exactly how much play is going on in the kitchen? By the time my new steak arrives, everyone else is finished eating and my salad has settled nicely in my stomach. My tummy tells me, "It's too late to eat a whole dinner now!"  So I end up taking half the steak home.

     I really appreciate the free steak dinners, but my husband is convinced that I'm sending out some strange vibe that is blocking restaurant staff from sending my dinner out right the first time.  If that's the case, I hope the vibe also prevents them from playing "plate in the pants" with my second steak before they send it out...]]>Sat, 31 Oct 2009 10:56:13 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2009/10/screaming-tree.html     Skirting around Chardon Square, my car putters up the steep Park Avenue hill and I notice a tree alongside Chardon Cemetery that looks like it's screaming...arms outstretched to the sky.  The tree reminds me of Edvard Munch's painting "The Scream."

     Is the tree screaming in fright, like its human counterpart in the painting?  After all, it stands sentinel right by the cemetery gates.  Who know what spirits shudder the tree after midnight?

     Is the tree screaming in pain?  The whole center of its bower had been removed to make way for power lines.  If limbless soldiers feel ache in missing limbs, does a tree ache in missing branches?

     Is the tree screaming in laughter?  Seeing doughy bicyclists weave up the challenging hill might amuse the tree.  Watching caravans of geese and goslings cross the road might make it laugh.  Feeling the juicy autumn breezes might cause it to wheeze, "Aaaaiiii!  That tickles!"

     Screaming tree, I feel your pain but also hear your rustling leaves laughing at me. 
]]>Thu, 22 Oct 2009 08:35:23 -0800http://www.mariment.com/1/post/2009/10/why-do-i-laugh.htmlLife's comedy is all around me, and I am fed by it.  Like Cookie Monster with Oreos, I'm constantly checking every cranny, nook and baseboard for laughter bytes.

I laugh at the absurdity of life. "What was I thinking?"   When the Powers That Be make a particular (and infinitely laugh-inducing) bone-headed decision: "What were they thinking with?"

I laugh at the innocent discoveries of infant animals and tiny humans.  "What is this new thing?  That person is gone from my sight, and then they magically reappear.  Weeee!  Me like this magic!"

I laugh for absolutely no reason other than my lungs and spirit need a workout. "Ahhh. I feel soooo incredibly clean inside!"

I laugh because I want to be closer to someone.  Shared laughter deepens bonds of friendship and can create a new and funny less-traveled road in a time-wearied relationship. "Oh yeah, baby!"

I laugh with joy whenever I see a butterfly, especially if it graces the top of my head with its dancing feet.  "I don't know what's going on upstairs, but please, please, please, don't stop!"

I laugh in camaraderie or conspiratorially when I discover that a new friend has a warped sense of humor that equals or exceeds my own.  "Whoopee!  You be a cracked-head laugh-magnet too!"

On gray days without sunshine, I'm an addict looking for a fix:  "Where's the funny today?"  Universal thank-yous to the developers of Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, Blogger, and other websites that provide a fun-fix when I need it most...with no cover charge!

Why do I laugh?  Laughter feels absolutely fabulous..inside and out..and it costs nothing! 

Laughter stretches me like Silly Putty, stamps hilarity onto my soul, and then bounces me over life's lumps and bumps wildly.

Need a lift?  Lift your face with laughter.
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