The Art of Relaxing

For the past 10 days around the Christmas holiday, I have been on a serious
jigsaw puzzle jag, assembling 6 puzzles totaling several thousand pieces. I
have put together two Amish farm scenes, fall in Vermont, a scene of colorful
Greek houses clinging to a side of a cliff, a serene mountain lake at sunset,
and a puzzle depicting all the different state birds and flowers. Puzzles were
a staple of my childhood, and in sixth grade I remember inviting Mary, the new girl in school, over to play. We did this circular 500 piece puzzle illustrating different breeds of dogs, and then when we were done, I dissembled it and we did it all over again. Not surprisingly Mary never came back to our house and promptly moved on to a new circle of friends. What is it about puzzles that I find so relaxing? This lead me to ponder the overall concept of the art of relaxing, both in terms of the when and the how. Continue reading

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Pass the Orange

Between Christmas and New Year’s our family traditionally gathers at our cabin in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (UP) along the shores of Lake Superior. Several other families have the same tradition, and therefore New Year’s has been celebrated with the same group of family friends over many decades and generations. This little community is extraordinarily tight. The cabins are isolated beyond the reach of cell phone, there is no TV and the days are short, with the sun setting by 4:30 PM. So there is much communal time in the cabins, and evenings are filled with a variety of quirky parlor games, so ingrained in tradition that I have never given them a second thought. However, this year I put myself in the shoes of a newcomer stumbling unprepared into this odd little enclave, thrust into a raucous living room on a cold dark night with no escape. I realize now that no matter how genial and welcoming this cozy group is, outsiders are roped into the medley of games and cannot help but think that they are being subjected to a series of institutionalized assaults on their personal space. Continue reading

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Chapter 20: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters of the murder mystery are filed in the “murder mystery”category in the menu on the right.

We pulled into the expansive circular driveway in tandem. This time the driveway was vacant, and Sam had wisely decided to park the Cadillac Escalade elsewhere. I went over and gave Grimes our usual vertical handshake in a solidarity stance, then taking a half step towards each other to briefly pat each other on the back.  I saw Detective McNitt startle at this sign of familiarity. We didn’t even have a chance to exchange pleasantries when the large oak door opened and Sam Todd stepped out. Continue reading

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Chapters 18-19: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters can be found in the category “Murder Mystery.”

Chapter 18

I started to make a pile of the green puzzle pieces that looked like the grass and trees, and I noticed that Goddard was doing the same with the sky and cloud pieces.  The puzzle was turning out to be a God send – we could both stare at the puzzle and continue talking without having to stare at each other and any uncomfortable silences could be absorbed by working on the puzzle.  “Well tell me about your mother,” I said softly.

“Yes, the beautiful and elegant Cymbaline Todd.  She might have been many things, but mother wouldn’t be one of them.  She was just not present in my life.  She hated CutterCity, and I can’t imagine why she moved there.  As far as I know, she had two loving and supportive parents, although my grandfather died when she was twelve.  I think that she had a few wild teenage years, but why she decamped to CutterCity is a mystery.  It is a far cry from the Murphy mansion on the beach.  I don’t even know how she met my father.  Have you ever been to CutterCity?  It is pretty grimy.” Continue reading

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Deal or No Deal

The game show “Deal or No Deal” premiered in 2005, and NBC took advantage of its faddish popularity by airing it at least twice a week in primetime. By 2008, it died of overexposure, joining Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and other burn out cases on the obscure Game Show Network. In its heyday, viewers responded to the voyeuristic pleasures of watching frenetic contestants make the biggest financial decisions of their lives on national TV in front of a cheering audience and the leering Howie Mandel, the show’s skinhead host. But it turns out that there was another niche audience that was rapt in front of the TV – behavioral economists who considered this a unique real life experiment in how people assess financial risk. Continue reading

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Chapters 16-17: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters of the Clean Plate Club murder mystery can be found in the Murder Mystery category listed on the right.

We walked into the café together with my shoulder propping Goddard up.  Fanny took one look at him and immediately started putting together another ice pack.  Goddard’s head wobbled as he looked up through the lank hair falling across his eyes.  I could feel him sucking it up as he tried to break loose of my support and stand on his own.  “Thank you Mr. Ralph and Ms. Fanny, I remember spending many pleasant hours here during my college days.  Mr. Ralph, as I recall you were my bridge partner, where taught me the Stayman convention and how to finesse.  I appreciate your continued hospitality.  As you can see, I am a bit down on my luck.”  This demonstration of cultured politeness totally sapped his energy and his full weight fell on my shoulder. Continue reading

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Cwazy Wabbits

 

As my husband can attest, I am not an everyday cook, but I do enjoy cooking for a special occasion. But then Nick wonders why I experiment on dinner guests. My answer is that my cooking is a “one and done” event. It is similar to my knitting. I can always find a way to improve an afghan, but once completed, I am so sick of the project that it wouldn’t occur to me to repeat it. This brings me to my first experiment with rabbit. It was over 30 years ago, and this was our debut dinner party as a married couple. I decided that the usual quartet of main course options – red meat, chicken, pork or seafood – was too mundane, and selected rabbit as a novelty entrée. I special ordered some rabbit from the butcher and got a recipe from Helen, who lives in Paris. I put all of the rabbit into the pot and simmered it with a cream and mustard sauce. I then served it with a side dish of cranberries. Continue reading

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Chapters 13-15: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters of the Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery are filed in the murder mystery category.

 

I was startled to see that it was already 4:30 PM.  I would have to hustle back to Goddard’s studio to make sure that I had time to find a parking space before our 5 PM appointment.  I pulled out of the parking space and into the traffic streaming out of the University heading down to town for a Saturday night.  The University had instituted very strict rules about underage drinking on campus, and the police blotter report in the local newspaper was always filled with reports of the campus police raiding a fraternity party.  As high minded as this approach was, the result was that students simply got into their cars and headed off campus for their weekend revelries, leaving the relative safety of the campus where students walked from party to party.  Now, overimbibed students would be weaving around town in cars, and the police blotter occasionally reflected the danger of this approach.  I lived at home during my college years, and was typically working weekends – cases with my father always seemed to break on a Saturday – so I missed those years of poor decision-making.   I stopped suddenly to let a bevy of students jay walk in front of my car – several girls draped over a couple of boys who sashayed down the street with beer in hand.  Continue reading

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Oops! Dissected

Now that my children are grown, I can’t remember the last time I used the word “oops.” Sure – it’s part of my vocabulary, but I have never spent any time considering its various implications.  Until of course, last week when Rick Perry was floundering around trying to remember the three US departments that he would eliminate if elected president.  He came up with two, and despite helpful prompting from his rivals he could not come up with the third, even after looking at his notes.  He gave up and then quietly said “Oops!”

His brain freeze was stunning.  After all he was not being tested with “gotcha” questions on obscure foreign policy leaders or domestic issues.  I recall the1988 presidential debate between Dukakis and Bush Sr., where Dukakis was asked if he would favor the death penalty if his wife were raped and murdered.  One might forgive Dukakis for fumbling and stumbling on this question, but instead he gave a composed answer stating that he had always opposed the death penalty.  Although you would think that Americans would value composure in their president, his response was widely criticized as being too dispassionate.  This incident, coupled with the ridiculous picture of him looking like Rocky the flying squirrel posing as a tank commander, doomed his campaign. 

In contrast, Rick Perry was in autopilot debate-speak, reeling off examples of how he would downsize the federal government.  That Perry would forget one of the fundamental principles of his domestic agenda was egregious enough, but it was that added Oops! that sent comedians into rapturous delight.

So what is the meaning of Oops! and where did it come from, and is it a purely American phrase, or is this word used universally across multiple languages and cultures?  According to Slate magazine, Oops did not enter our lexicon until the 1930s, where it was used to signify an apology for a blunder. The word is probably a contraction of the childhood phrase “Up-a-Dazy, which can be traced back to Jonathon Swift (of Gulliver’s Travels fame), which then evolved into the more familiar “Oops-a-Daisy, and from there to the free standing Oops!.  Its use with children is pretty clear – it describes a trivial accident, like spilling milk.  Putting your hand to your lips reinforces the concept.  In fact, if a parent says Oops! to a child, the child is reassured that there will be no recriminations – no harm no foul. 

My bilingual friends have suggested that some variations of Oops! are used in other languages.  For example, in Hindi the equivalent is Oh-ho (with a downward inflection), in Portuguese, it is Opa Opa.  Germans and Poles say Oopala.  But the consistent feedback I got is that regardless of language, we routinely punctuate our blunders with a heart felt Shit! However, I would argue that Shit! is nuanced – it comes with an element of annoyance or frustration.  When we spill milk, we say Shit!, not because we are out of the range of tender ears, but because now we have to clean up the mess.  Compared to Oops!, Shit! lacks the no harm/no foul connotation.

Back in my college days before word processors, a typo would prompt a multitude of “Shits!” since I would have to retype a whole page or get meticulously creative with the White Out. Now with spell check, a typo only prompts an Oops!  In contrast, when the computer crashes and I lose an entire document, I let loose with a torrent of Shits! plus other well chosen words.  There is one additional small niche for the adult Oops! It describes a blunder that is cute or amusing – farting in bed is the best example.  “Oops, sorry,” followed by tittering, exaggerated P.U’s and flapping of sheets. 

The teenage pop singer Britney Spears shot to fame with the song “Oops, I Did it Again,” and it is interesting to dissect the lyrical implications of the word.  The song starts with a series of Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs and then she says:

“Oops, I did it again, I played with your heart, got lost in the game, Oh baby, Oh baby.

To me the word Oops! implies that the singer is a young child.  Indeed Britney sings with a baby doll voice suggesting pure innocence, a young girl who is still unaware of her effect on men.  I remember sitting at a dinner table once with some men my age.  A bevy of coltish teenagers walked in wearing cute little skirts and tank tops, which they repeatedly yanked up, sometimes in unwitting unison.  The man next to me said, “There is just a certain something about teenage girls that is so charming.  They just have no idea what sort of vibe they are giving off.”  I agreed, their innocence was delightful to watch.  “They lose that something when they hit 18,” he continued. “The innocence is usually gone by then.”  Oops.

However, Oops does a 1800 in the next verse:

“Oops – you think that I’m in love, think that I’m sent from above, but I’mnot that innocent.”

Here Britney is no longer the innocent child, she has become the vixen.  Although she may be breaking a man’s heart, she dismisses the situation by saying, Oops! The addition of Oops! has trivialized love.  No harm/no foul on her part, and so what if the man got the wrong impression? That’s his issue to deal with.

So here is another role for the adult Oops – it trivializes a mistake.  When Rick Perry said Oops! could he possibly have thought he could pass the whole moment off as an innocuous brain freeze?  I can imagine the frenzy in Perry’s backstage war room during that sickening minute as he flailed around on stage.  His advisers at first stared in disbelief, and then as agonizing seconds ticked by, they turned and retched in the corner wastebasket.  Somehow they would have to explain how the next leader of the free world could not remember the cornerstones of his campaign.  Forty more excruciating seconds ticked by as the hole got deeper, and then the advisers saw Perry shrug his shoulders and say Oops! Now they would have to additionally explain why Perry thought that his blunder was only a trivial mistake.

Certainly Americans expect that their president can keep more than three things in his mind at once. Perry also looked down at his notes for help, but his advisers probably did not think that it was necessary to give him crib notes for his basic campaign strategy.  It would have been like giving him crib notes for the names of his wife and children.  Instead, his notes probably addressed easily forgettable names that have been the mainstay of gotcha questions  – like countries and their presidents.  Just the week before, Herman Cain had referred to Uzbekistanas Uz Beki Beki Beki Stan Stan, casually dismissing the former Soviet state as totally irrelevant.  Or perhaps Perry’s notes provided him with a map of the Middle East, so he would not mistake Libya for Syria.  Personally, I think that the President should be able to keep not only three, but dozens of lists in his mind.  I would hold the President to a higher standard than, say, a football quarterback.  The quarterback is being paid the big bucks to memorize all of the plays– that’s why they call it a “skill position.” Therefore, I am always disappointed when the quarterback gets into the huddle and checks the crib notes taped to his arm.

Clearly Oops! was not the optimal word – it falls hopelessly short of the required presidential gravitas.  But then I thought, what should Perry have said?  I bet that a heartfelt Shit! or even Fuck! was on the tip of his tongue, and perhaps he deserves credit for stifling two of George Carlin’s words that you can never say on television.   Part of the problem might be that our vocabulary lacks a suitable word that acknowledges a mistake and takes responsibility for it – something north of Oops! and slightly south of Shit!  Okay, well how about Darn!?  This word occupies the same niche and Oops, but is not as cute.  “Uh-Oh” is also a poor choice because it implies an oncoming disaster and thus was not compatible with the damage control launched the next day.  His advisers apparently saw no noble or presidential way out of the hole, so they continued with the Oops! strategy.   His subsequent appearance on the David Letterman show, and in the next Republican debate, continued to trivialize the mistake by playing it for laughs.  It’s totally different in football – in the post game press conference, the coach, the quarterback or the defense somberly admit their mistakes, and promise to better next time.  There is no Oops! in football.

There are a couple of other professions where a ready admission of a mistake is ill-advised.  Airline pilots for example – if there is a very rough, but safe, landing the pilot will not come on intercom and say “Oops! I forgot to put up the flaps as I landed.”  Surgeons are another example – an Oops! can lead to a law suit.  I remember sewing up my first episiotomy in medical school.  I put in an ill-placed stitch and said “Oops!”  I simply removed it and put in a better one.  No harm/No foul.  Afterwards the attending took me aside and said, “Please listen to this advice. Never, ever, ever, say Oops unless the patient is under general anesthesia.”

The missing words in the following poem are anagrams (i.e. share the same letters like spot, stop, post) and the number of asterisks indicates that number of letters.  One of the words will rhyme with the previous or following line.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on the above rules and the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers.

American watched in fascinated horror as Perry started to blither

And before our eyes a presidential campaign start to shrivel and ******

Backstage, his advisers were horrified and they couldn’t believe their eyes.

They began to ****** in agony as each painful second ticked by

Their knuckles turned ****** and they all wanted to up chuck

But when Perry said Oops! they knew that they were shit out of luck.

 *

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

 

Answers: Wither, writhe, whiter

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Chapter 1: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Thursday, with nothing on my schedule for Friday.  First time in a long time that I wasn’t going to be working a weekend.  So I certainly didn’t want to take Penny’s case, but the referral was from Charles Grimes, my father’s old partner on the force. 

“Hey Liza, I’ve got a case that I think might be right up your line.  It may be nothing, but it could be a juicy missing person’s case, and it involves some of Santa Teresa’s finest, so it might lead to something.  These were the kind of cases your Dad loved.”

“Charles, I have a hair appointment for tomorrow, and after that maybe a massage, and one of my clients gave me a gift certificate for a facial.”

“Now Liza, you are not going all girlie on me now are you?  All those years working with your father you should know to never turn down a case, and I am handing this one to you on a platter.”

I cold hear him tsking in the background, and knew that it was both good natured teasing and also the truth.  I had worked hard to keep the agency going since Dad died, but I had relied too much on his client list, and knew that I had to start developing my own.  Dad was a pro at networking, and knew exactly how to draw the line between a professional acquaintance and a friend.  He often told me that friends don’t hire their friends as  private detectives,  but they didn’t like hiring total strangers either.  They would hire someone who moved in that middle ground of acquaintances that could be trusted but not titillated by deep family secrets.  “I wouldn’t want my best friend to be your mother’s gynecologist, would I Liza?”, he said, “But I do want someone I could trust.  That’s the balance you have to strike.”

Dad always knew how to drive the point home.  I always knew that I had great instincts for the business and that my father often relied on me to see through the complexities of a case, but I hated the networking part of the business, and my roster of clients had slowly dwindled over the past couple of years.  The most lucrative clients were the ones that put you on a retainer, like law firms that needed an investigator from time to time.  But those clients only provided me enough security to pay the rent every month.  It was the “one-off” cases that were more interesting and more lucrative since you could bill by the hour, and who knows when those types of cases could turn into a retainer arrangement.  

“Okay, Charles, you are right as usual, give me the background details.”

“I have gotten a couple of calls from a young woman named Penny.  She says that she is a student at the University.  Nice sounding kid on the phone, but I haven’t met her in person.  She is worried about her room mate – says she has disappeared and that no one seems to care.  She called the room mate’s parents, but she told me that the parents brushed her off, told her the room mate had taken a leave of absence from the University and was on an artist’s retreat in Mexico.

“George, that doesn’t sound like much.  A college student – no corroboration from the family.  I can see why the police won’t get involved, but this hardly seems to be worth my while either.”

“Okay, normally I would agree, but here is the good part, Liza.  The room mate is Dessa Todd, her father is that developer that caused such a stir last year.  He lives up in that big place up in the canyon, his Skye Isle development.”

“Oh great.  It is one thing to be hired by the Todds, quite another to piss them off by showing up on their doorstep and insisting to them that their daughter is missing.  And this Penny, I can’t imagine that a college student could actually pay me.”

“Liza, just talk to her.  I told you, I liked her over the phone.  Nobody is forcing you to take the case, but it is the “you just never know” about detective work that keeps life interesting.  Here is her number.  I am going out of town for the next week fishing in Montana, no cell phone, no nothing.  I expect you will have finished the case by the time I get back.  I know you love missing persons.”

Charles was mostly right.  I did like missing persons, because usually they were quick and easy – not hard to track someone down these days.  But the real appeal of these cases was why the person went missing, and that was my particular expertise – mucking around deep dark and dysfunctional secrets, often in the decaying infrastructure of the booze-addled and idle rich.  It was satisfying if I recovered lost souls, but more often than not  I just shattered lives in the name of truth – and at the beginning of a case you could never tell which way it was going to fall.  

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