Confessions of a Shoe-aholic

Question: How many pairs of shoes does an American girl have to own before she can be justly accused of channeling the spirit of Imelda Marcos?

I found myself asking that question this week after donning a new pair of lilac-lace tennis shoes (which perfectly match a lilac tee I adore!) and realizing it was just one of -- Oh my word! -- four pairs I'd picked up over the weekend. Somehow, a pair of deep red, patent pleather dress flats, along with some white-lace, cross-band Skechers and pastel green dress sandals also made it home with me. It would have been just three, honestly, but for $4.99, I'm not passing up sandals that will match my pastel green, beaded-neckline top. I'm sorry, did I say match? I meant perfectly match. (Yes, life in the ReD Zone is all about color coordination, as this photo of my signature red shoes should prove.)

Now, the white ones were for working all those Sonnenberg weddings: dressy enough to pair with a skirt, hardy enough to preserve my ankles on the uneven terrain. And they were on sale. So rationalizing the purchase was easy, and I had similar rationales for the other pairs I bought that have now joined those already in my closet. However, when it comes to cute shoes, I almost have no recourse but to plead momentary insanity. I love the expression a friend's mom uses for this female shopping malaise, which, in her case, struck with a vengeance at the Carter's Baby Store in the Outlet Mall: "I blacked out, and when I came to in the checkout line, there were six outfits in the shopping cart!" Exactly. How else did I end up with butterfly-bejeweled flip flops in three different colors? Well, the rationale on that purchase also included the fact that women's footwear in size 5 is hard to come by just to start with, so when I find a particular style that comfortable, adorable AND affordable, not to mention VARIETY within that style, history has taught me that I best snap it up or risk never finding something so cute again.

And while we're on the subject of cute, my pearl-encrusted Steve Madden espadrilles with the sheer sandstone heel ribbons did garner compliments from the folks behind me in line at the Riverdance show at the Auditorium Theatre last year!

But somewhere between the four pairs from this weekend, and the 18 pairs -- whoops, make that 22, counting the flip flops -- hanging on the back of my closet door, it hit me. There's a strong possibility I may have a thing for cute shoes. That's not to say I'm ripe for an intervention or anything, just that reality really started sinking in when I stumbled across another six pairs scattered in various corners of the living or dining room where I kicked them off when I came home from work.

I was about to brush it off as a perfectly normal, rational set of shoes for your average American girl. I even started counting them all to prove it. But then I realized I'd forgotten about the upper shelf inside the closet, behind the door where my shoe rack hangs, which is another, what -- eight or nine pairs? And that's not including the fuzzy pajama slippers, either. Or the ballet slippers. Or winter boots.

Confession: I'm a little scared to finish counting. I think that's because acknowledging the actual number on this blog might REALLY start y'all thinking "Imelda Marcos." Were a judge to inquire about evidence of a possible addiction, my response would be: Your honor, I respectfully decline to answer that question or provide a number on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

But I take it I should consider it a definitive sign that I am the girl my newsroom colleagues said goodbye to with a gift certificate to a trendy little shoe store downtown. And I did redeem said certificate promptly, with a pair of silvery, embellished "slippers" that caught my eye, plus a pair of denim-patch kitten heels perfect for pairing with jeans. Oh, and did I mention the goodbye gift included a T-shirt screened with a glass slipper and this quote? "One good shoe can change your life." ~ Cinderella (Love it! Love it!)

Um, what's the "first step" here? Oh yeah, introduction and acknowledgement.

"My name is Rachel D. and I'm a shoe-aholic."

Steamed Up

Whilst the out-of-doors is presently far beyond "balmy" --"suffocating" instead, anyone?-- I thought I'd dedicate a posting to the proverbial summer heat wave, the one that leaves us listless, draped over a chair somewhere in a near-puddle of sweat, swearing we are baking, broiling and longing for the inside of an igloo.

Naturally, we can't have igloos in upstate New York, so we digress to Eskimo Pies or Custard & Candy cones or blessedly cool air-conditioned movie theaters, or malls, or -- in a pinch, the ole stick-your-head-in-the-freezer-for-five-minutes trick. (Drat those electric bills!)

While the thermostat rises, so does the blood in the youth and/or the young-at-heart who start dropping like flies, victims of what some affectionately refer to as "The Love Bug" (not to be confused with the first of the Disney movies featuring the world's most popular VW, Herbie.) Naturally, when your daily work includes wedding coordination, you see the symptoms up-close-and-personal. (In the past six or so weeks, for example, I've attended three weddings as a guest and supervised hosting of some aspect -- ceremony, reception, photo shoot -- of nearly 15 others.) And this year, whilst we are in a drought, there seems to be no shortage of starry gazes, giggles, secret smiles and dispositions sunnier than the weather. It's enough to put the lyrics to "Summer Nights" on permanent replay inside your head.

But they say tempers can rise with the heat too. I don't doubt it, because I get pretty cranky myself in this kind of weather without an ice cream fix to tide me over. (And yes, in this heat, I will occasionally "cheat" on my beloved Shark's Custard & Candy with soft-serve, or gelato, or cold stone confections.)

This summer, I also have a bone to pick with the powers that be, who irrationally planned an entire Independence Day party near the City Pier, then postponed the fireworks --central to the festivities -- all the way out to Labor Day weekend after we got our first (much-needed) rain storm that day. In years past, rain has only delayed the fireworks for a day or so, and I cannot fathom why the powers that be have chosen to wait sooooo long to bring them back. Frankly, the Fourth hardly felt like a "real, live" Fourth of July without fireworks.
What on earth were they thinking?

I'd really like to get into this debate and take them to task for denying us all a "proper" holiday. Unfortunately, right now, I can't seem to muster up the energy to really rail into anybody. The heat has sapped it right out of me. I can hardly bring myself to move. (Sigh.)

Oooo, wait a minute. I think I left some ice cream in the freezer ....

The Right Recipe for Summer

What ingredients make for a perfect summer night?

Start with a Friday night late in June. Add spacious city sidewalks and a well-designed performance "park" (Downtown Canandaigua Commons) where a mid-size brick soundstage beckons.

Sprinkle said park with several wrought-iron tables and chairs. Pepper profusely with fold-out lawn chairs, occupied by many a grandparent or young parent. Mix in handfuls of small children dancing about in sandals, swinging stuffed animals or sippy cups, distracted by the occasional puppy held in close control on a leash by a friendly face. Place a few youthful couples here and there, perched on low, stone walls framed by green shrubbery.

Add a big band, spreading 20 or so musicians across the stage, and serve up generous portions of instrumental jazz, swing, and "golden" oldies the likes of Duke Ellington and Count Basie. Slice into that song sheet with occasional movie themes like "Shaft" or "Happy Feet." Start tapping your toes, or the arm of your chair. Watch others do the same. Stir in the rare child spinning in circles and jump-dancing to the music, just below center stage, holding the hand of her mother who is swaying her hips and swinging her daughter's arms as mothers do when they delight their children and ignore all thoughts of what the nebulous public might think of their little family moment.

Infuse the warm air with the smells of hot food cooking in nearby restaurants. Sip a swig of bottled water or soda. Let a lemon drop -- yes, the old-fashioned kind! -- melt in your mouth.

Bake under soft summer sun, at a comfortable 78 degrees, for almost two hours.

Serve, shared among community, all in the space of one city block, as slow-moving traffic rolling along the street slows even more to catch the sound of a few notes through open car windows already rolled down to catch the mild breeze.

Ah yes, a perfect summer night in your own hometown.

Enjoy.

God Bless "Shrek"

Back at Christmas when I was making my mad dash through O'Hare, hoping and praying to catch the flight home, the adults in my family were hoping and praying for something else: for my 3-year-old niece to discover the motivation to pursue potty-training with a passion.

I had hoped a cheerfully wrapped watercolor paint book (with brush!) might do the trick. Before I left for Colorado, I explained in great detail to my niece just what exciting things were waiting underneath the Strawberry Shortcake wrapping paper for little girls who worked hard at becoming big girls while Aunt Rachel was away. Sometime during the trip, I tried to follow-up with a phone call. But alas, when home again, Rudolph, Santa and the elves were still neatly tucked away, and the little girl who never met wrapping paper she didn't instantly want to tear off -- no matter whether the present was hers or not -- seemed to care less that a Christmas gift remained unopened. I think it was late January or early February before I finally got a call from my niece babbling that she'd made enough progress to open it.

So, my sister and brother-in-law took it to the next level. If Strawberry Shortcake wrapping paper wasn't going to do the trick, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake herself would. This time, the present was unwrapped, and dolly was left behind her plastic-window prison, sitting pretty. Well, let's just say the you-can't-play-with-her-until... experiment didn't play so well. (Sigh.) This from a girl who LOVES Strawberry Shortcake and is getting rather adept at following up every "Why?" question with a "But why can't I?" protest at the explanation. Dolly was still in the box until previews for "Shrek the Third" started appearing on television screens near my niece. Don't ask me how, but apparently her deep-seated adoration of Nemo has transferred to cinema's favorite ogre-with-a-brogue. This, after the "Finding Nemo" DVD played so many times on the portable player strapped inside the minivan, it put the machine permanently out of commission.

Apparently, the great big green ogre was able to motivate her to boldly go where she had not gone before -- I mean, well, you get the idea -- because all my sister and her husband had to do was calmly explain that while they would like to take her, and realized she probably really wanted to see the movie, only big girls and boys get to go to the movie theater with their parents. Well, faster than Puss-in-Boots can morph from sword-flashing master to wide-eyed purr-meister, she was on board with that plan. I am told she who formerly could care less was nearly inconsolable on Day 3 or 4 when she tried to get to the bathroom in time but had an accident. Apparently, too many days without "Shrek" had already gone by. As such, within one week, she was good to go -- to the movies, that is. And Strawberry Shortcake came out of her box as an added bonus.

The more I think about the whole thing, the more amused I am that the key to potty-training, at least for her, was all about the movies. Now there's a girl after my own heart! So God bless Shrek and the Saturday afternoon special. It's nice to know that movies can still have the meaning to change somebody's life.

Not exactly "Spellbound"

Ah me, spelling bees.

Tonight was the live-on-TV championship round of the Scripps - (Why is Howard missing?) National Spelling Bee, won by homeschooled Californian, 13-year-old Evan O'Dorney. Apparently, a love of restaraunt menus contributed to young Evan's win as he sailed through a couple of the early words (one a pasta, another a Japanese seafood soup) and on to glory, over the shoulders of a first-time Canadian competitor, Nate Gartke, also 13.

Personally, I was rooting for the newbie, in part because I tire of the "repeats," the kids who train for these things like Olympic marathons, or high school summer travel teams, where you are so completely immersed in a particular endeavor that all the fun is sucked right out of it. You know the type, where the competition ceases to be a "love of the game" kind of thing and becomes joyless, rote monotony, especially if an overly eager parent with an oddly possessive fixation on scholarships is hovering nearby.

As if to prove my point, rather than being "spellbound," as I'm sure the national advertisers footing the bill for this no-longer-relegated-to-ESPN 2 extravaganza hoped, our young winner was rather -- what's the word? -- nonplussed. Sure, it was the "final year" in which he could compete, and he'd already finished top 20 in earlier years, so a 2007 win would fall in the "only makes sense" category. But if you'll pardon me, the kid just didn't look like he was having fun. His mother appeared to be blown away by the whole thing-- maybe she was having the fun on his behalf?

Asked by a talking head whether he had changed his mind from earlier statements that he wasn't all that wild about words, he again explained why he loved math and music more: he found both fascinating and creative. Not so, spelling. That was "just a bunch of memorization," he said, memorization which he apparently had had more than enough of in his young life. But like it or not, he let the Scripps-no-longer-Howard rep help him hoist that trophy high. Please people, tell me: what is wrong with this picture?

Forgive me, but I'd prefer a winner who, like the Canadian competitor, can laugh in the middle of a pronounciation. I'd prefer to see a winner who is totally enraptured with spelling, one who watched "Wheel of Fortune" nearly from the womb, or just likes the sound of letters-- any letter-- rolling off the tongue. I prefer a kid who has not forgotten how to be a kid amidst all that dictionary study. Frankly, I prefer a kid whose parents set limits on the amount of time he was allowed to rehearse/study his vocab words, and kicked him outside, into the fresh air, when time was up. I'd prefer someone for whom spelling and wordsmithing is a passion, not a mission.

I do know a little bit of whence I speak. At the ripe old age of I'm-not-telling-what, I competed this past February in my first spelling bee since Mrs. Schenk's fourth-grade class. Granted, the bee was comprised solely of adults, teamed in trios, seated at tables where we were allowed to scratch down spellings before a designated orator relayed the group-consensus, so it was nothing like the pressure these kids are facing at the microphone, sans scratch paper, in front of millions tuned in to TVs around the country. But it sure was fun! (Plus it served to benefit a good cause, too: Literacy Volunteers of Ontario County.) Rather than sending the other teams "To Spell in a Handbasket," the fearless Messenger trio ended up going there themselves, falling on the word "obreptitious." (And yes, that is spelled correctly. I kept notes of each word for all the tables in each round -- we were allowed to -- and after our team missed that one, I was sure to save the correct spelling. ) Naturally, the team spelling after us had a relatively easy word, something simple like "solace," making our elimination complete. Nevertheless, that was too much fun to not hanker for a second go-round. Seriously.

So I have one small request for the Scripps-minus-Howard National Bee organizers already hunkering down to plan next year's contest: Clearly, Howard was the entity responsible for the "fun" , so would you please bring him back?

What a Difference a Week Makes

Whew! Talk about whirlwind changes.

In ReD Zone news, your faithful narrator has, as some in the media family like to say, "gone to the dark side." Translation: When a reporter/broadcast journalist etc. takes a new job in some sort of marketing/promotions field and stops fielding/scouring press releases and coverage requests and starts pitching them.

In the last week, I wrapped up production on "my" Brighton-Pittsford Post weekly paper, and rather quickly shifted gears to a new position at Sonnenberg Gardens, managing the special and private events scheduled throughout the season. So far, it's been fun getting used to working at a local tourist attraction (and for me, emphasis is, as per usual, on the LOCAL part of that). A former MPN colleague was actually back in town last weekend, and took a quick, first peek around the grounds. I was not at all surprised to hear the visit followed up by "this is such a great area, look at all the neat things around, etc. etc." And naturally, I couldn't agree more.

So, lucky me, I get to promote the local happenings at a revered local attraction -- as creatively as possible (oooo, fun!) -- and maintain the ties with my MPN colleagues all the while. And what kind of journalist "vet" would I be if I didn't give them the scoop first? (Not one proud to hang her hat in ReD Zone range, lemme tell ya. And yes, I have several hats ... more on that in another post.)

But yeah, there was a bit of head-spinning happening last week. Two days at the paper -- imagine trying to tie up seven years of loose ends, oy! -- one day to catch a breath, then two full days and another half-day in the new post. Whew! Squished in around the various old and new responsibilities was a going-away send-off from the MPN gang, complete with all the hysterical roastings that must accompany such an event. (You'll have to be content imagining the atmosphere set by this custom poster.)

Anyhow, it was a delightful capping of the career, and I will dearly miss my

co-workers, my Tuesday ritual of proofing the movie review page for the Sunday Freestyle section, my near-daily morning coffee breaks to the cappuccino machine with one of my partners in crime (Ha! Truer than you might imagine), my Post-side "peeps," some of whom often stayed late burning the midnight oil too, and the many, many fascinating local folks I got to meet in the course of reporting. How lovely that the near-and-dear will still be near! (The "dear" part doesn't change. ReD Zone rules.)

What was one of those New Year resolutions made a few months back? Embracing change, I believe? Guess this would be a checkmark in that box, a big one. Here's to embracing change, then: to old friends, new adventures, and fresh pages waiting to be filled in the next chapter.

Here we go!

Summer Soul-stice

Some things just do a body good ... like the refreshing visit my feet paid to the city's Lagoon Park last Saturday (sigh). I had missed my lagoons!

Warm sun, music-to-move-to on the iPod (that Christmas gift has really come in handy), and even a goose to scare off the path every time I swung by. What more could a girl ask? (Ok, well, energy to pull off a couple extra laps, but it was good just to start in again.)

It warms my soul to see all the grass that's grown in on the formerly sparse spots. The square landing docks are getting green rooftops, and they look sharp! They strike me as dapper gents tipping their caps, another thought that makes me smile.

Between the bridges, and the occasional willow trees, and the rabbits, squirrels and geese, it's this soul-soothing oasis to escape to without really leaving the comforts of home (after all, Starbucks can now be seen from one bridge, and my guess is many a couple out for a near-moonlit stroll later this year are going to be tempted to carry the conversation from the lagoons to the coffee shop.) And yes, I know my lagoon paths are perfect for more than just a jog. My good friend said they made for a delightful date, too. But, of course!

All of this reminds me of a song that's definitely of the spring-in-your-step sort:
"Think I'll go outside for a walk now, the summer sun's calling my name -- I hear ya now!
Just can't stay inside all day. Gotta get away, get away, get away, get away ...
into the Sunshine Day!"

See ya soon, lagoons!

A scam by any other name ...

I have a real problem with scam artists.

And it would appear that some of the slimiest scammers of our times are not email junkies hawking Viagra or Ephedra, or promising some illusive share of a Nigerian diplomat's supposed wealth, but the head honchos and higher-ups pulling in gadzillions in profits for oil and refining
companies.

What really burns me is the sheer audacity with which they concoct excuses for never-ending price hikes. Especially when, we hear more and more from insiders, every line is an apparent lie.

Anyone remember the unbelievable skyrocketing we had round these here parts a full 3-4 days after Hurricane Katrina hit? The overnight 75-cent jumps in pricing? Remember how the oil companies blamed it on being unable to access all the "hard-hit" gas lines in the Gulf supposedly needed to transport all that fuel to us? Suddenly "shortage" was the word of the day. Or so it would seem. What would you say if you learned that every September a number of refineries, as a matter of practice, shut down a number of transport lines for annual cleaning, and that, for years and years prior, those same "hard-hit" gas lines have been closed off and inaccessible anyway, with nary a shortage anywhere in the U.S.

A few weeks back, in February, my folks went on vacation to Texas to visit my aunt and uncle, who retired some time ago from Shell Oil, a subsidiary of a Dutch Royal (or is it Royal Dutch) oil holdings company. At the time, gas prices were beginning to spike again. He found it odd considering the actual cost of crude oil had just fallen by several bucks per barrel. Go figure.

Or what about the annual line that refineries are switching from "summer blends" to "winter blends" of gasoline or vice-versa, as if our cars couldn't possibly continue to operate on the same formula to which THEY'D ALREADY BEEN ACCUSTOMED!!! Adding insult to injury, we -- a culture growing increasingly accustomed to "green," environmentally-friendly practices in business and consumption -- are told the summer-blend gas burns "cleaner" Well, call me crazy, but what's wrong with burning gas cleaner through the ENTIRE YEAR??!!!??? If we're so enlightened that we know well enough to use compact fluorescent bulbs and recycle soda cans and plastic bottles as a matter of habit, why would we deliberately choose a return to winter-grade fuel that burns "dirtier" than a summer-grade blend? It's a simple question, people, and there's a simple answer: They don't let us choose. They do it for us so they can have one more reason to hike prices, yet again.

This, of course, sets aside arguments about drastic price fluctuations between towns not that far apart, or whether Congress should "cap" oil company profits or fine them for gouging, or simply tax them up the wazoo and turn around and refund all that money to the American people who have paid through the nose for gas.

Much as it pains me to admit it, I'm now "old enough" to remember a time, shortly before I started driving on a learner's permit, when gas ranged between 77 -89 cents a gallon. At the time, I remember thinking it was crazy my parents could clearly describe the days when gas cost 25 cents a gallon. A few years after I got my license, it started creeping up and 99 cents or 1.01-1.05 became the norm. Then one day it shot to 1.23 and I swear, the oil companies never looked back.

No wonder a fuel-cell prototype vehicle -- like the one I reported on today -- looks enticing. There's very little smoke and only a couple of mirrors.

Hokie Hauntings

What do you write when a place you've visited, an atmosphere you've embraced, and people you've met have been ripped apart at the very soul?

Today it's been one week since the tragedy at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg and I still hardly know how to process it all. The images on TV and the Internet are eerie because I was just there last fall. This is a campus I visited, a town whose streets I walked, whose Huckleberry Trail I jogged day after day, whose odd fiberglass Hokie Bird sculptures I surveyed, and those are students and teachers I may have passed without knowing they'd be victim to the worst mass shooting in U.S. history just a few months later. Was it only just October I was there?

One of my sisters has lived in Blackburg nearly two years, working with college students through a young, dynamic, outside-the-box church that meets on campus. Her apartment is about one mile off campus on a street that runs straight toward school buildings and athletic fields. Within hours of arrival, I was tailgating with undergrads and grad students, we'd bartered with a friendly alumnus for $10 football game tickets, and we traipsed across what felt like half the campus to the stadium. We clambered up on steel bleachers set up behind the end zone, the student section, where nobody, but nobody sits down. I still have pictures on my cell phone of the fireworks, the foam fingers, the semi-frozen fun.

The marching band filled out a few tiers below and led the whole section in the catcalls, chants and trademark rituals of a Hokie game, like shaking your car keys on a "key" play. I wonder now if marching captain Ryan "Stack" Clark, a victim from the first shooting, in the doorm that morning, was down there anywhere. Probably. I wonder too, if anyone I passed on the steps, on the sidewalks, near the gates, at the concesson stand -- were any of those nameless faces later named on the list of the dead or injured?

There's a photo online, one of thousands of images taken in the last week in Blacksburg. It's a movie marquee, with a message for the students that reads: "Our hearts are with you VT." There isn't a street sign to be seen in the picture, and very little else for clues to where it was found. But I know exactly where that marquee is. I can tell that photo was taken from the west side of its entrance, and I'm almost certain which of the nearby shops the photographer would have had to have been standing in front of when the image was captured. I know it's the Lyric Theatre, that not only is it the only independent arthouse cinema and playhouse in town, it's the only cinema in town, and I could describe the classic ambience inside. I know all this because I've been there, and because yes, Blacksburg really is that small (despite a campus of 26,000 students.)

That same chilling sense of recognition hits again when I see footage from inside the War Memorial Chapel, where some of the students my sister works with met to pray. I can literally hear the echo of footfalls, even if there's no audio of the corpsman's march. The wooden altar at the front is thick, heavy, golden-hued, the lectern off to the right is mounted on wheels, and despite its weight, rolls smoth and quiet, even with an accidental nudge. The steps up from the pews to the raised floor that runs around the side of the chapel are slick and wide. The chapel is not very big either. The drillfield, on the other hand? The one where students held a candlelight vigil for their fallen friends? Massive.

In the past week, numerous leaders and members of that campus church, my sister among them, have been written up in newspapers, photographed, interviewed by news anchors and filmed by network and cable affiliates. In the few minutes she has had time to call or email, we hear details that nearly defy comprehension. The scale of the sorrow is bigger than all of them. I know she's barely sleeping, of course -- too many students need her help, and she will willingly lend a hand, a listening ear, a shoulder, a hug. But I wonder, and I worry whether she's had any time to grieve herself.

Last Friday, the nation, it seemed, wore Hokie colors and adopted the Hokies as their own. Maybe it rubbed off from my sister, or the trip down there, or the combination of both, but embracing the Hokies in spirit wasn't hard for me. They've already haunted my thoughts.

A Whole Latte Love

While they've yet to grind the first beans at the Starbucks coffee houses coming soon to Canandaigua or Victor, I find myself falling under the spell of the "green" giant. And my reasons actually have little to do with all the mochas I've been drinking lately.

Don't get me wrong. Starbucks makes "Tasting Christmas" complete with their Peppermint Mochas and Cranberry Bliss Bar -- alas! limited editions -- and their in-house bookstore cafe concept is nothing short of genius. But in recent days, I've found more to love about the company than Pumpkin Spice Lattes and black-bottom cupcakes. This is a crush that goes beyond coffee.

And before anyone accuses me of being a few chocolate-covered espresso beans short of a whole bag, yes, I am aware that some folks out there despise Starbucks. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has heard the company is on some sort of capitalistic blitzkrieg to create millions of caffeine addicts who don't realize they're paying through the nose for coffee that supposedly tastes like dirt. But before those folks dismiss Starbucks out of hand, I would like to point out a few corporate strategies I find downright endearing:

1) Starbucks recycles more than its cups.
Looking around Canandaigua in particular, I am disgusted at the gut-and-go expansions of major corporate franchises. We have enough empty commercial footage to string together more than a few plazas and yet local planning board members giddy at commercial tax prospects haphazardly approve NEW construction with nary a second thought. (And people think I'm the one under a spell?)
Meanwhile, here comes Starbucks with perfectly sensible plans to move into vacant property, fix it up, put on a few coats of paint, change the sign and open in less than six months. In Victor, a historic cobblestone house is going to retain its charming character when Starbucks opens inside. In Canandaigua, the former Wendy's fast-food restaurant looks much the same from the outside -- just a few minor modifications to the drive-thru lane and replacement of two roof panels for the new signs to hang from. I'll be surprised if Starbucks bothers to paint the red bricks the supposedly "standard" beige color so many customers associate with the chain.
The Wal-Mart heirs ought to start taking lessons.

2) Starbucks looks out for the little guy.
Unlike some corporate giants already named, Starbucks employees, even those working part-time, can get health care through the company. I know this because one of my sisters used to be a Starbucks barista. She didn't opt for the coverage at the time, but her respect for the company was significantly higher than other prospective employers specifically because of that. Suffice to say, it rubbed off on me.


3) Starbucks isn't kidding about creating -- and supporting -- communities.
Sure, most of us are aware Starbucks is trying to create a "home away from home" customers will gravitate to, even if they aren't college co-eds. The nay-sayers will say it's all a ploy to sell more coffee, and maybe so. However, when I popped into the Brighton Starbucks recently late on a Wednesday night, I was pleasantly suprised by two things. First, a large sign hung in the window announcing the town's regular board meeting. Goodness knows, I've written enough stories about public bodies failing to publicize their operational meetings. So, for a retailer to let their prime window-dressing space serve the public interest, well, that's a concept I can get behind. Not to mention, odds are good more community members will actually read a sign in their local coffee shop than say, a flashing billboard set back from the road.
Second, I spied a group of knitters ensconced in a good-sized back room. The baristas said they met there often. I didn't ask, but I'd be willing to bet that "back" room is considered the "community" room.
Works for me.

4) Starbucks seems serious about charitable work.
I just learned Starbucks has a tradition of raising money for a local charity or volunteer at all ribbon-cuttings, by inviting $5 donations to that organization or individual during an open house at which the registers are closed, but the coffee and pastries are still being served. In Brighton, that same Starbucks moved a few doors down in the plaza last week, and for its re-opening, a plucky teenager's literacy outreach trip to Peru was the charity of choice.
The manager told me literacy was a company-wide focus and it carries over to the company's work in the Third World countries from which they import their coffee beans. But if the local managers can't find literacy or environmental efforts to promote at the ribbon-cuttings, they'll look for another worthy cause, he said.
After that assignment, I'm eager to see who the lucky ducks are for the Victor and Canandaigua ribbon-cuttings.
Another little-known fact I discovered in a hunt for a particular mug Starbucks had discounted? After their merchandise goes through its sale cycle, and shelves must be cleared to make way for new lines, the "old" mugs, for example, are returned to the warehouse, then donated to non-profit organizations, like shelters.

After all that, wouldn't you be smitten too?

Someday soon, I hope to be writing one of these posts from an alcove in the corner of my new neighborhood Starbucks. You shouldn't have any trouble spotting me.

I'll be the one with the sip and the sigh.

Deep Thoughts: Part II

To file under the "random ramblings" category:

How is it that if you're sitting up straight for the majority of the day, working diligently on a computer, you end up with a crink in your neck? Weren't our necks designed to stay in the "upright, locked" position? And why do we call it a "crink" anyway when it's still straight?

What is it about being tired that loosens the tear ducts so that's it's easier to dissolve into hysterical laughter and wind up crying as if the joke was the best you'd heard in a good long while, when in fact it was probably only mildly funny, but you were just so tired you couldn't stop laughing?

How on earth do children have so much energy to run around like little turbo-charged engines, and why is it the sight of them doing so makes those watching them feel old and exhausted?

If daytime is essentially the time when it's light outside and most people are awake, at their busiest, why refer to the the 24-hour period which includes several dark hours when people are dead asleep as a "whole day?"

Is it just me or does no one else think it's weird for a so-called "White" wine to actually be pink?

Why do they say "the taxman cometh" when, in fact, it's the citizen that has to do the cometh-ing? Last I knew, H & R Block wasn't making house calls.

Deep Thoughts: Part 1

I think we can all agree that hot soup was made for rainy days when you are desperate to take the chill off. Soup-and-sandwich, whether that be tomato-and-grilled cheese or Panera's Broccoli & Cheese with a turkey artichoke panini, is practically perfect in every way.

But I personally hold that ice cream also tastes better on rainy days. And judging from the brisk business Papa Jack's in Victor was doing tonight about 7 p.m. in the misty drizzle, I'm not the only one who thinks so. And for some reason, this is especially true for soft-serve. If you want your twist-in-a-cone to be especially delicious, I recommend eating it under some kind of canopy or awning where you're still "outside" to enjoy it, but the rain isn't ruining your palette's parade.
I dare you to try it.

Besotted by Books

For readers of the ReD Zone who don't know me that well, I have a confession:
I am addicted to books.

It doesn't matter if they are online, on the shelf at a bookstore or my local library, I can spend hours-- HOURS people!-- browsing titles, skimming chapters inside, and blinking my contacts dry comparing this selection with that one, then turning a corner only to find -- aha!-- an even more intriguing book. Do I want "1,001 Commonly Misspelled Words" or "The Busy Girl's Guide to Looking Good? Both are awfully practical .... hmmm .... And hey, which"Rival Crock Pot's Slow Cooker Recipes" is the better buy, spiral-bound or the fun, hard-back "shape?" I mean, both are $7.98. Get me inside almost any major bookstore and you -- er, the sales clerks-- are guaranteed I won't leave without spending money. Usually a lot of it.

My friend Emily and her mom have the perfect signature phrase to describe the compulsive shopping impulse that takes over: "I blacked out and when I woke up, all this [__item of choice__] was in my cart." They fill in their "blank" with toys for children; I fill mine in with books. Neither one of us comes to until we're in line to check out. Even then, it's near torture putting something back in a half-hearted attempt to hold out for a far lower price at half.com.

Let's put it this way: a visit to my sister's in PA feels incomplete until I've gone to the bookstore less than 10 minutes from her house (I'm sooooo jealous!). My family pretty much understands that once I head that way, they won't see me again for a few hours, or more likely, an entire afternoon.

And you know it's an addiction when you've already put in a 9-hour day and yet, for some odd reason, the wheels of your car just magically turn toward the nearest bookstore. That's what happened tonight. Forget tired. Forget rushed. Barnes & Noble requires a bit of stopping to smell the roses, so to speak. The one up near my "new" office in Pittsford has a sale annex and several shelves of used books, where I scored Emma Thompson's "Sense & Sensibility Screenplay and Diaries" for $4, among other worthy deals and steals. (That's right, hook me with one of my favorite movies, packaged in book form, and I'm done for.)

And since Pittsford's B & N also boasts a Starbucks cafe that not only serves coffee, but panini sandwiches, strata and cheesecake, well, let's just say I'm set. I could easily spend an entire day, or, I venture, entire week inside without getting bored or hungry. I'm not kidding. I do imagine, however, I would ultimately leave flat broke. But I'm sure I'd be smiling.

Hi, my name is Rachel D. and I'm a (book) addict. And now, if you'll excuse me, a screenplay is calling my name.

An "Amazing" concept

Despite the appearance of being one of those "dry, boring, period piece" movies, here is why I think today's Gen-Xers, Gen-Yers and Generation Next-ers should embrace the new release, "Amazing Grace."

How many of us innately hunger for a life with meaning and purpose? The man at the heart of the film, William Wilberforce, absolutely embodied that. Who wants to have convictions? Real ones, that withstand time, repeated defeat, unpopularity, and even the political fringes of war? Wilberforce could give lessons, and in a way, this film delivers them. One of the early, noteworthy lines that stick with viewers (and several in it will) comes from a friend who reminds our hero that his devotion to his cause (in this case, the abolition of the British slave trade) has taken his youth, and his health. Who among us today would sacrifice either? And what kind of cause could possibly be worth it?

Here's a guy who literally gets ulcers after reading a letter from a fellow abolitionist about the brutalities seen against Africans on foreign soil. Here's a guy who'd rather fold his cards than take his rightfully-earned kitty of cash because an opponent has included his African butler as payment. Here's a guy haunted by visions of slaves bound-and-chained in the reflections seen from his mirror. Here's a guy so depressed after years of defeat and yet still so impassioned about the ongoing injustice of it all that he nearly bites off the head of the pretty young thing he's recounting his tale to. She tells him that's a sign that rather than trying to force himself to swallow injustice that is so distasteful, he should spew the poison out.

I daresay, I know peers that would give their right arms for that kind of passion, vision, verve. Had they a man to emulate like that, one grounded in the steady resolution that peaceful, moral, honest life cannot be lived unless a singular evil is completely eradicated, I do believe society might not know what hit it. And that is compelling stuff, because, as we learn from the film, what grounds Wilberforce is not his cause, but his faith. He knows his Creator, the same being whose workmanship he sees reflected in spider webs and wet grass, did not order a world where a man would enslave and dehumanize another man. That kind of conviction is utterly calm, and at heart, unshakeable, though all hell (ill health, war, false accusations from former friends) conspire to shake it. Is it any wonder Africans who never met the man called him "King" Wilberforce?

I love the history in this film. I love the humor in it (and yes, even the threads of romance.) I love how the power-hungry nuts that are so hard to crack with the god's-honest truth finally succumb to the weight of it. (Refc: 'noblesse oblige'). I love that people who may never have known the origin of the world's most famous hymn, likely performed most regularly on the bagpipes, can finally discover it was written by a repentant slave trader. By the end of the film it should be clear to the audience this man truly would have gone to his grave without regret had he never lived to see the fruit of all his labors. If that's not a hero, I don't know what is.

But don't take my word for it. Go see for yourselves.

And now, the real question ...

No, not will Scorsese win director? That was a given.
Not will Helen Mirren give a classy speech that comes in under the 45-second rule? Also a given.
But, is it even remotely possible to keep the Office Oscar?
I honestly don't know .... It doesn't bode well. In prior years, I've missed an average of six or so categories. This year, it was 10. Oy. My partner in crime, at least as pertains to the Column Central Oscar Review Crew, also missed 10. I find it hard to believe no one else in the office would not have bettered that statistic.
It'll be tomorrow before we know for sure, though. I expect I'll be conceding the little guy to someone completely unexpected .... we shall see.

Oscar miscellany and what-have-you

I love Clint Eastwood. I love his red handkerchief. I love that they let him present an award for lifetime achievement in scoring, given that he himself so loves music and scoring. And hello? Clint can translate Italian? (or whatever language this guy is speaking in?) Did I say I love Clint yet?

Question: Will we ever have an Oscar show where Celine Dion does NOT sing? Yes, the woman has a lovely voice, but as it was we still have 3 Dreamgirls numbers to get through and about seven more awards, not to mention the In Memoriam segment. We'll definitely be up past midnight here, folks. So much for that "thank-you" cam invention. Note to future Oscar producers: the way to shorten the show, folks, is by eliminating all the self-congratulatory "artsy-ness" like human body shadow dancers, and the multiple "in celebration of" reels. Sigh.

Ok, I do like this red dress Jennifer Hudson is wearing, and Beyonce' is also looking stellar. They both sound fantastic. I'm liking all these songs. And-- wait for it -- another upset. After all that staging, NO songs from "Dreamgirls" take home the gold. Instead, Melissa Etheridge adds to the Al Gore love-fest. Though I must say, Gore ought to give future wannabe politicos (Yes, I mean you Michael Moore!) lessons in tasteful, appropriate public speech.

Didn't I tell you the rest of Jodie Foster's dress would look great?

Upsets. Who'da thunk it?

Hmmm, Alan Arkin over Eddie Murphy. I'm actually a little sad for Eddie. I hope his pretty new girlfriend helps him get over the loss. But that was kind of interesting for Arkin to leave the statue sitting on the stage while he read his little note.

Speaking of ... what's with the little notes this year? Bring back the Black/Reilly/Ferrell factor ... please!

Oh, my. "Happy Feet" over "Cars." If this keeps up, the pundits might be eating their words about the best picture race. Yikes. This is nothing like the year "LOTR:Return of the King" took them all. More caffeine is probably in order.

Technically, animated short should be considered an upset too. I tracked about 8 critics to 1 going for "The Little Matchgirl."

Ooo, kudos to Meryl Streep for whipping off "imperious" at the drop of a hat with Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt. Chilling. And my goodness, another upset: "Marie Antoinette" over "Dreamgirls" for costume.

Good grief. And now, "Pan's Labyrinth" over "Children of Men" for cinematography. Ok, now I'm not worried so much about losing the Office Oscar to Kevin as losing to somebody else.

In the first few minutes ...

... I love the white-screen opening. It reminds me of a few years back when they had everybody from Laura Bush to Woody Allen saying what their favorite movies were. And the riffs on those who've lost multiple nominations ... hysterical!

Ellen's getting in some good digs. And I love the boots!
Quick aside: Abigail Breslin looks sweet and appropriate for a 10-year-old.

I'm liking the color of Jodie Foster's dress. Promising. Maybe we'll get to see all of it?
Ok, the first award does not bode well for my picks this year. But at least Kevin (my editor, with whom competition for these picks can get a little cutthroat) missed it too.

OH MY WORD!! A Will Ferrell and Jack Black duet again --yes! Wait! John C. Reilly, too? We should BE so lucky! More of these acts will keep the show humming right along.

Cute bit with the kids and the short jokes. I swear, these short categories are the hardest ones of all to predict. Oy vey. If I can emerge with even one pick intact, maybe there's hope for keeping the Office Oscar. We'll see ....

ReD Carpet Fashions

Ah yes, one of my favorite parts of the Oscars -- the fashions!!
(Yes, it's my annual tradition to buy the PEOPLE and US Weekly Oscar fashion mags the week following the awards ceremony.)

So far, Lisa Ling gets a tip of the hat for daring to go short. It looks good on her.
Cate Blanchett is cool and classy, as ever.
WHAT is with that giant red bow on Nicole Kidman's shoulder? Oy vey! Someone needs to slice that bad boy off.
Jennifer Hudson: Oh my. Please honey, tell me you'll ditch the fantailed silver shrug before you get to the microphone.
Hmm, Emily Blunt ("The Devil Wears Prada") opted against the "dripping with diamonds" look with a bare neck and simple stud earrings. Simple, and sincere. I actually believe her when she says she's really a jeans and flip-flops girl.
Kate Winslet: Love the hair. Love the STYLE of the dress. But the color? Not her best choice. It's too pale for someone with her sparkle and verve.
Helen Mirren looks stunning and every inch a queen. Kate, my dear, please direct your stylist to take a few notes from Helen's on selecting colors that flatter and compliment hair and skin tone.

Oooo, it's starting. Gotta go!

Let the Countdown Begin ...

Yippee! Less than 19 hours til Oscar.

If you want some laughs about just how serious I get about this prediction business, be sure to read Kevin Frisch's "Funny Thing" column in today's Sunday Messenger. (And by the way, that photo is the only place you'll see me clutching my little Office Oscar. Ordinarily, he sits on top of my desk where I can keep an eye on him.)

So, you know how all of us viewers back home start yawning when the winners start rattling through a nonstop list of 50 bijillion names of industry insiders (like agents, attorneys, ninth-grade drama teachers, etc.)? Well, the Oscar organizers finally decided to get a little more serious about that 45-second rule than leaving it all in the hands of the orchestra conductor (whom Julia Roberts, you may recall, had no trouble man-handling when it was her turn at the microphone). This year, it seems they intend for a new little invention to restore dignity, spontaneity and warmth to the whole process of thank-you speeches (as opposed to the verbal air-kissing to which we have sadly, become accustomed). Not to mention, this little gem should keep the show from wading into embarrassing late-night punchline fodder with URL's like the one Billy Crystal sheepishly rattled off one year in his monologue: www.whyistheshowsolong.com
Naturally, a woman -- in this case, producer Laura Ziskin -- was the brainchild behind that creative solution. You go, girl!

Lunch with Little Rachel

It's not too often that a reporter gets an invitation to a birthday lunch with a reader's family just for the sheer why not of it. So, when the phone at my desk rang Friday morning and a Mr. Elvin Weaver asked if I would be free at noon to come out to see his daughter, Rachel, I wasn't sure what to think. The paper generally doesn't cover any birthday parties except the 100-year-old kind. I was trying to find a kind way to phrase that when he added that it wasn't a request to be in the newspaper. Rather, the "scholars" of the family would be home at noon when their one-room school house let out for the day, and if I was free then, he thought it would be nice for one Rachel to be at the birthday of another Rachel.

It hit me all at once Elvin Weaver was Mennonite, Old-Order Groffdale to be specific. (In laymen's terms, that's horse-and-buggy Mennonite to those of you who may never have read my four-part series on the influx of Mennonite families to the Finger Lakes.) It's been almost four years since I wrote that, and though there have been a few, rare articles that have served as touchpoints to their community since, I never met anyone from this particular family. I hung up thinking it was one of my most unusual calls and nearly dismissed it. But when I heard "Aww, that's sweet. You should go. How often does that happen?" from a handful of co-workers, I reconsidered.

A few hours later, I found myself, flower plant in hand, inside a neat, simple farmhouse outside Rushville. They'd held lunch for me while my car fought the snowdrifts that had blown back into the roads along the way. This was not just soup-and-sandwiches, but a full-fledged, farm-hardy spread: mashed potatoes, corn, beef-and-pork meatballs from the pig slaughtered last week, sweet gravy, macaroni-and-cheese, and homemade sweet pickles. The older boys -- Irvin, John David, and Timothy -- put quite a bit of it away. There was cake too, of course, a simple, single-layer strawberry cake in a rectangular pan that the older girls, Rosene and Norma, helped their mother decorate with icing, flavored mint chips and a few plastic flowers.
And I'm sure several children were involved in the makings of the bucket of hand-churned, homemade vanilla ice cream. It was rather humbling for a perfect stranger to be welcomed in and given a seat at the head of the table. Back in the days I knew attempting to gain the confidence and hopefully, respect of such conservative folk might be helped by more conservative apparel, I wore long dresses and skipped the jewelry. No such luck Friday, and goodness knows, the bright pink sweater, silver necklace, and blue jeans almost certainly had something to do with the whispers and glances coming my way from the kids. However, some cultural traditions are shared no matter what community you come from, and birthday cake rituals are certainly one of those.

Chubby-cheeked little Rachel Weaver stood on her daddy's lap and contemplated the burning candle atop her cake while brother Nelson, two seats away in his booster seat wasted no time in showing her how to blow it out. She promptly stuck her fingers in the frosting, like every one-year-old any of us has ever sung "Happy Birthday" to. The lone present, from her grandparents, was a set of plastic training pants and a hardy book with a kitten on its thick cover. As expected, she seemed more intrigued by the shiny, crinkly paper it was wrapped in.

Before I left, I was shown the stack of paper five-year-old Lamar has filled with drawings: silos, tractors, milk trucks, barns, and even snowplows he's seen. I heard about the English and arithmetic classes some of the kids had been studying, and how the farm is now a fully-organic
operation. As expected, a few references were made to my old news series and other articles Mr. Weaver had followed since. He enjoyed reading them, had been meaning to issue an invitation for some time, he said, and had heard about me from English and Mennonite neighbors quoted in my original series. For whatever reason, he'd remembered that idea Friday and followed through.

I left thinking it may have been little Rachel's celebration, but this Rachel was given the treat.
Unbeknownst to the Weaver family, Friday was my last day as a reporter for the Daily before I move to a new role writing for one of MPN's Monroe County weeklies. A momentary immersion in the Mennonite community again isn't technically "coming full circle," but it was definitely a delightful way to cap my daily career. Simple, sincere, sweet.

Little Rachel will probably never remember her first birthday, but I will never forget it.

A Letter on "Letters"

Dear fellow film fans,
For the next few weeks, you have an unprecedented opportunity to see a pair of movies exactly as their director designed them to be seen -- together.

On Tuesday the 6th, Clint Eastwood's "Flags of Our Fathers" came out on DVD. I was one of the lucky folks who snapped up a rental copy this week and then managed to get to the nearest theater showing the companion film "Letters from Iwo Jima" in less than 24 hours. Seeing them essentially back-to-back made comparing and contrasting the two simple. It also made for a holistic cinematic experience. While each film can stand alone (and well), taken together, the message of each is more powerful and more profound.

Here's why I'm urging you to try and do the same:
First, if you're not familiar (or comfortable) with the style of a subtitled "foreign" film, starting with "Letters" might be chewing off a bit much at one time. The actors were filmed speaking Japanese, and for the novice film-goer, that takes a bit of getting used to. But because each movie serves as the backdrop for the other, you can't let a little thing like subtitles scare you away from one of the films or you'll only have one side of the story.

Second, you don't have to worry that because the films are telling different "sides" of the same major WWII battle, it's going to seem like watching a tennis match twice, just from seats at opposite ends of the court. There were a few rare moments in "Letters" where I caught myself asking: "Did I see this before?" But I think it only seems that way, in part because "Flags" was so fresh in my mind. And frankly, that was a good thing, because the films don't "mirror" each other. Rather, any common touchpoints from the battle for Iwo Jima (the raising of the American flag on Mt. Suribachi, for example) aren't American-vs.-Japanese perspective, but just threads that intertwine on the back of the tapestry of history. You can't look at all the knots and tangles on the back of a tapestry, focus in on one or two colors and figure you've understood the weaver's design. It won't make sense until you look at it from the front and see how all the threads came together to form the finished work.

Third, it's not so much the battle that Eastwood is trying to capture on film, but the personal battles each character faced. Just because the soldiers from each country were considered enemies doesn't mean they didn't have fears, failings, or fortitude in common. Yes, the critics are right and "Letters" is the better cinematic achievement of the two, and the better "war movie" of the pair, but that is almost irrelevant. (Almost, considering "Letters" could walk away with the Best Picture Oscar this year.)

What Eastwood wants to get at, it seems, is that while war is hell and the soldiers tasked for it do want to serve ably, and hopefully, nobly, the greater hell is going home without the guy that fought next to you. And it would seem that holds true no matter which "side" you were on, or under what circumstances you actually make it home. And further, it seems the truth of all of that is something that's sometimes too difficult for a soldier to share with the people he loves most. Eastwood seems to caution us against claiming to understand a battle or the soldiers that fought it if we're basing it primarily on a famous photo, or a letter from the front -- or just one movie.

Most sincerely,
your aspiring amateur film buff (me!)

In the Spirit of the Game ...

... let's have an informal poll, shall we?

Name the funniest Super Bowl ad you saw tonight. Admittedly, I didn't catch them all, but my top two picks were the Coca-Cola chugging senior citizen who suddenly found new zest for life (professing love to the cute grandma; getting a tattoo; driving a motorbike, etc.) and the wedding officiated by the auctioneer. (Think it may have been a Budweiser commercial?) Sadly, I missed the debut of the do-it-yourselfer clip that supposedly cost the amateur filmmaker just $12.59 cents to produce, but was sponsored by some big-bucks corporate outfit footing the bill for it to air during the priciest night of prime-time TV.

Sad, though, that just two of tonight's ads have stayed with me, out of the dozens that played. But the same is true for every Super Bowl year. There just aren't many really great ones to remember. But the good ones? Ah, they go on to live in infamy. Here are my favorites:

5) The Budweiser Clydesdales play football in the snow, while two zebras serve as referees. Even these "stripes" get criticized for making bad calls.

4) A number of stone-faced kids, filmed in black and white, prattle on about how their dreams are to grow up to be underpaid, overstressed, brown-nosers that can never get ahead. Oh, the irony!

3) Big-name athletes and coaches like Charles Barkley, Barry Sanders, Tara Lipinski, and Mike Ditka play bingo, share dorm rooms, etc. at a "retirement" home where they've all been put out to pasture. Retiring rich never looked so painful.

2) Rough-hewn cowboys representing some unheard-of dot-com company have to herd a bunch of unruly kitty-cats. This ad truly was "the cat's meow."

1) NFL player Terry Tate works as Reebok's "Office Linebacker" cutting down on the secret games of computer Solitaire, the personal phone calls on company time, the waste of paper at the copier, breaks that run overtime etc. etc. One word: Hysterical.

But do tell, ReD Zone readers, what were your favorites?

Tales of a Novice Knit Wit

So what is it that entices us "young 'uns" into a craft seemingly reserved for grandmothers and aunts rocking by a fireplace? When did knitting, and its close cousin, crochet, start attracting our attention? Is it just the new prevalance of sparkly-soft, trendy-textured yarns and the plethora of stylish patterns now that can be made from them? Or are there other reasons it's now hip to knit squares?

As for me, I bought my first set of knitting needles (hot pink!) at Wal-Mart along with some intriguing looking yarn while visiting a friend in Colorado, back in October 2004. I'd flown out to visit, determined to escape the stress of work, to completely unplug. The house where she was living was perfect: the TV only worked to watch videos, Internet access was dial-up only and shared, and everyone who lived there was coming and going so much "entertainment" was essentially a do-it-yourself project. Just the night before, my friend Celina had completely astounded me by whipping up a golden-tinged scarf, fringe and all, in a matter of hours while we'd gabbed away the evening. Another woman living in the house had also been diligently working away at some brightly-colored scarves she was knitting for Christmas gifts. So, after four days of overexposure, I was sick of watching all this creativity come to life around me. I wanted in.

Celina recommended I start learning on some rather "fat" plastic needles, and I picked out a few skeins of the prettiest yarn I could find. I remember being very impressed at all the different colors and textures vying for attention on the shelves. The yarns didn't seem to be as boring and ordinary as what I'd remembered when I first tried to learn to knit about age 12 and abandoned shortly thereafter. Back at the ranch, Celina showed me how to "cast on" and within an hour or so, I'd made a decent start at a scarf. There was just one problem: I kept getting "snagged" on little colored tufts set along the strand, and I feared I was countering that by tugging too tightly on the yarn as I went along. Celina pulled out my stitches and had me start again with the other skein, and things went much more smoothly. But I hadn't counted loops correctly, so it became clearly pretty quickly I'd have to start again on that one too. But before we did, I insisted on documentation. Here's the proof:

And that's the night I officially became a "knit wit."

Granted, I didn't receive the book with that very title until Christmas '05, but I went a little nuts. I kept knitting that first scarf over the next day, and was delighted to discover that -- yes!-- plastic needles were permitted as a carry-on by the airline. By the time I landed home in Rochester, the scarf was about two-thirds done. I finished it within the week, thanks to the help of another friend, Sarah, whom readers met in Sunday's Freestyle feature. Sarah taught me how to "cast off" and given she had been the one who taught Celina how to knit shortly before Celina moved west, the knitting trend/craze/what-have-you had come full circle. In my exuberance, however, the scarf was extra-long, but that just made it perfect for my very tall friend Sonya. Come Christmas, I'd knitted more scarves as presents, giving them to one of my sisters, my tiny niece, and my mom. Over that winter, two more went to one co-worker and another friend, and a third intended for a birthday present for yet another friend started taking shape.

After interviewing others in my generation who've been bitten by the knitting/crochet bug, and hearing similar stories, it appears we've followed a similar pattern: youthful introduction, lapse into latency, re-introduction, newfound devotion, and ultimately, consistent creation, hopefully with a growing expertise. That's what it was like for East Rochester resident Kristine Colucci, who crochets because she says it's a better fit for someone who is "the least patient person most of my friends have ever met."

"I just need instant gratification," she told me, describing how she first learned from her grandmother back when Kristine was in 7th grade. Like me, like Sarah, Kristine let it slide until later. She picked up crochet again in college one day in junior year when she was "over-stressed," she says. (Speaking of stress, veteran knitter Noma Kent -- whom you also met in Sunday's article -- told me she finds it "soothing" to do something repetitious like knitting after a hectic day. She called it her "stress-meter" because she can tell she needs to relax more if her stitches start off too tight.)

Kristine must have been tracking that kind of vibe, because she said she went straight to the nearest craft store, bought yarn and crochet hooks, came back to her dorm at the University of Delaware and dug in. She'd picked up yarn in each of her friend's favorite colors and pretty soon, an "afghan of many colors" was growing longer and longer across her lap, she said.

Her two roommates and two more girls down the hall were quickly hooked on the new hobby (yes, she did intend the pun!) and she said the five of them would spread out their crochet projects when they plunked down in front of the TV each week to watch "their" show. (Interesting, isn't it, she couldn't remember which show, but she remembers everything else about their little crochet klatch? Something about working with one's hands always seems to spark good conversation.)

Kristine was 19 then. She's 35 now and said she's been crocheting ever since. She considers crochet a perfect pastime because "it's something I can do while my girls are playing or while I'm watching TV." She also told me it's an easy way to fill time waiting for the next ambulance call at the Greece base, where she volunteers.

She's even got a new crochet-partner-in-crime: her next-door neighbor Tracy. The two moms are planning to take a class later this year to advance beyond simple afghans, Kristine said.

Kudos to Kristine for being so consistent. I confess, I haven't been all that consistent myself recently, and my friend Sarah would tell you she's seen that in a lot of individuals she's introduced to the practical art. But there must still be hope, because she senses that even if newcomers don't stick with it, more members of this generation have an appreciation for handmade goods. For example, it's not entirely uncommon for someone Sarah's age to hire her to knit a sweater they want to wear themselves or one they want to give as a gift at a friend's baby shower. Beats Wal-Mart or Baby Gap, she figures. Plus, it tells her they desire "to support something made around here rather than China, Mexico or Sri Lanka," she told me.

I think she's got a point there. Who doesn't love "accessible" art, as she calls it? Maybe that's why so many of us don't mind being knit wits -- novice, veteran or every stripe in-between.

One thing's for sure: just writing about the craze motivates me once again to be more consistent about this particular creative craft. After all, there are some gorgeous wooden needles and yummy yarns in the corner of my room calling my name. Plus, my sister has begged me to knit a poncho for my niece -- she thinks they're adorable, we both know Sky will love it, and she's not about to drop $35 on one from a store when she's seen my stash. Given my schedule, it couldn't happen by Christmas, like I hoped, but a March birthday is do-able. Luckily, with the public posting here, I'm sure to be held accountable. :)

Here's to the Knit Wits!

Popcorn Poetry

Hmmm, it would seem I've gotten a bit lax in the finer arts rumored to be featured on this blog.

Well, here's the remedy for that: a bit of poetry, presented popcorn-style. (As in, a variety "popping up all over.") Feel free to feast on a bit of a fanciful buffet, thanks primarily to the random musings from my Random House Treasury of Light Verse. :)

"Hours of Sleep" -- Anonymous
Nature requires five; custom gives seven;
Laziness takes nine, and wickedness eleven.

"A 'Good Girl's' Prayer for Sleep" -- Rachel E. Dewey
If wicked I be for oversleeping, please let me become horrendously so.
For if short sleep doth leave me peeving, I've turned bad anyhow.

"News Item" -- Dorothy Parker
Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.
(Gee whiz, guess it's a good thing I ditched mine, then.)
"Dorothy Parker Update" -- Dorothy Dreher
Men often lose their senses over girls with contact lenses.
(Hang on, I'm starting to wonder if these dames didn't work for Bausch & Lomb or something.)
"Further Updates on an Unending Bulletin" -- Anonymous
I heard a woman mutter, "Glasses or no glasses, it neither hinders nor it hurts,
For men will make passes at anything in skirts."
(I am now convinced that even poetry has been corrupted by the advertising industry.)

Wait a minute, Sara Teasdale to the rescue!
"Wisdom" -- Sara Teasdale
When I have ceased to break my wings against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait behind each hardly-opened gate,
When I can look Life in the eyes, grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth, and taken in exchange -- my youth.
(There's a bit of reality to counter all that advertising!)

And now last, but not least-- a deep thought for the day:
Robert Frost's "Revelation"
We make ourselves a place apart, behind light words that tease and flout.
But oh, the agitated heart, should someone really find us out.
'Tis pity, if the case require (or so we say) that in the end,
We speak the literal to inspire the understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play at hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away must speak and tell us where they are.


If you want to take Frost's advice, you can now "speak" by posting open comments on this blog.
That's right, the "poetry of passionate discussion" I touted on these very pages in one of my earliest postings months ago can now become reality. Be forewarned, however: the right to revoke commenting privileges has been reserved, so please be on best behavior. Beyond that, let's hear what you have to say!

Lamentations On ... Being 'Grownup'

Is it just me, or does anyone else in the I-swear-I'm-too-young-for-this generation develop the occasional Peter Pan complex?

Monday night was a real bummer. And not just because the roads were bad. Well, that was part of it, or rather, part of what led into it. While it was fun tromping out in the ice-encrusted otherworld this place had become by Monday afternoon to do some on-scene reporting, the actual driving there and back put me behind on the schedule I was hoping to maintain.

Said schedule went something like this:
File storm story by 5:15 p.m.
Leave office by 5:17 p.m.
Arrive at local goodbye/good luck party at 5:30 p.m. Mingle, munch, wish well.
Depart party no later than 6:10 p.m.
Pick up friend by 6:20 p.m.
Drive at reasonable speed for the slick conditions to Henrietta cinema for "Iwo Jima" sneak peek. Arrive no later than 7:20 p.m. Pray hard seats truly had been "saved" by e-pen pal.
Enjoy flick from 7:30 p.m. - end. Meanwhile, pray hard freezing ice has not encased car beyond hope during that time.
Somewhere around 10ish? scrape off car and drive home. Carefully. Ensure friend and self make it back in one piece, safe and sound.

In reality, said schedule was shot to smithereens by about 5:31. However, I didn't fully grasp that concept until somewhere around 6, when I finally finished my work--realizing once again, I will never be able to write as quickly as I hope, no matter how "simple" details seem -- and could leave the office. By then, my friend had called to worry whether it was safe to drive, given all the nightmarish calamaties that could befall us coming or going. Naturally, the weather broadcasts provided zero help balancing fear of the unknown with facts. Therefore, as is wont to happen with females, fear won out. But just to be sure I wasn't about to make the wrong decision, I called the theater hoping they'd rescheduled due to weather. No such luck.

For two minutes I considered scrapping the party altogether, chancing the roads and driving up anyway. Just for the sheer determination of it. (I really wanted to see this movie. Plus it was free. Plus I'd be seeing it earlier than the rest of the general populace.) But then, the mental conversation started in my head. Y'all know how it goes:

You're asking for trouble to drive any further than 15 minutes away. If the roads are nothing but black ice, you could still miss the show anyway and then, what's the point? And driving alone in this weather would be really stupid. It's wiser not to. Better safe than dead. The party's still going, still time to catch the end of it. Plus, a ton of other folks ditched out, because they were scared of the roads so you can be one of the loyal few. Don't be selfish. Do the responsible thing here.

Of course, I caved. Hoped my e-pal would understand and not hold it against me. And of course, when my feet slipped on an icy sidewalk outside the party, it was duly noted as evidence to compliment myself for having done the right thing, the mature thing. But even inside my head, it was said with a sigh.

Ugh, somedays this whole grownup schtick just isn't much fun.

Revised schedule:
Before bed, pray hard Tim McGraw never rewrites the lyrics to "My Next Thirty Years."
Any more "grownup," and it would be devastating to all us dreamers.

Movies & Miscellany

I'm sure y'all were anxiously awaiting word about some more good movies, (I know I was!) and now the wait is over.

I caught "Blood Diamond" about a week ago. Or more accurately, it caught me. The last such provocative film of that nature I saw was "Hotel Rwanda." I'm quite curious whether holiday sales of engangement rings were off/down after that film came out, because I don't see how anybody could look at diamonds the same way again after that.
As ever, Djimon Hounsou is amazing. Nobody does righteous anger like that man. Nobody. On top of which, Leonardo DiCaprio is starting to put his personal copyright on the conflicted character. First he was fabulous in "The Departed." Now this. He'll have no problems luring me into a theater again.

My next guilty pleasure was "The Pursuit of Happyness." I heard the real-life story behind it talked up so much by my sister and one of our Christmas Day guests who had both seen Oprah's show on the subject, I wanted to rush out and see it right then, but that proved impossible. Nevertheless, it was worth the wait. Will Smith's son is quite the little scene-stealer and you're left marveling at little miracles like a $5 bill. It would be fine by me if this hard-luck-meets-hard-work story became required watching for at-risk teens everywhere. I heard it's based on a book, which I am now going to have to track down. Anyone out there know if "Fortune" or any other financial magazine did a "Where are they now?" story on father and son?

I'm hoping I might luck out and be able to catch a sneak peek of "Letters from Iwo Jima" next week, but we'll have to see how that pans out ... Stay tuned.

Oh, and in a plea to my few faithful readers, I have a fun movie-related assignment coming up and I need your help! If you have even the teensiest tidbit of news about a movie star's possible ties to the area, or know good sources that are a wealth of that kind of trivia, please, please, email me at the Messenger (rdewey@mpnewspapers.com) to fill me in. For example, most folks around here know that last year's Oscar winner, Phillip Seymour Hoffman ("Capote") grew up in Fairport, and that director Frank Capra stopped in Seneca Falls once or twice way back when for a haircut and may have used the town as inspiration for Bedford Falls in "It's a Wonderful Life." But not everyone knows Lauren Holly ("Sabrina," "What Women Want") was from Geneva, Bill Pullman ("Independence Day," "While You Were Sleeping," "Newsies") was from Hornell, or that Taye Diggs ("How Stella Got Her Groove Back") supposedly went to School of the Arts in Rochester. Those are the kinds of goodies I'm itching to report, but I'm looking for facts I can confirm such as which year so-and-so graduated high school locally from relatives, former neighbors, teachers, McDonalds co-workers, what-have-you. Thanks in advance for sending me great tips and leads!

In lake-related news, cute little roofs are going up on the newly-walled dock "huts" scattered here and there along the water at Canandaigua's Lagoon Park. Kudos to city parks and rec and the development planners that are clearly determined to hit that one out of the park. Gentlemen, I am quite impressed.

Is it just me, or is the weather weirding out on us here? Nonstop rain? In January? From what I hear, a number of fruit farmers are really worried the plants that are supposed to be dormant this time of year are going to "wake up" prematurely, just in time for a late frost, blizzard or something similar to kill them off. While it's certainly easier to commute than is typical this time of year, I love my sweet cherries and grapes and various and sundry berries of all sorts, and I'd prefer not to have to pay $10.79 a pound for them come summer.

On the athletic front, running is proving to be the easy part in prepping for a 5K this spring. Calculating the figures on the treadmill such that I'll have any kind of reasonable training goal in terms of pacing? Not so much. Math and I just don't jive. (Sigh.)

Well, at least I can take myself out to a good movie as reward.

The Resolution Time (er, lack of it!) Forgot

Right now, my brain is so foggy, I can't remember, but I believe I mistakenly left off one crucial
resolution for the New Year: to get more sleep!

We'll see how that fits in with all my ambitious plans for the rest of life. Of course, all of those have to fit around a schedule busy enough to tire out a chocolate-covered espresso bean (or several) given the numerous work, family, church, health and a handful of somewhat social committments I already have.

I suppose I should start on the sleep thing tomorrow. Oh, wait, it already is tomorrow. (Which, technically, makes "tomorrow" today.) Drat!
Oy vey! That's life in the ReD Zone, or at least how it is after midnight.

Designs on the New Year

Yes, to answer the question I'm sure a few of my loyal friends (at least the female ones) wanted to know, my New Year started with a kiss.

No, not the kind that would make both my real sisters screech: "What!?! You're blogging about it, and you didn't tell me first!"
My New Year started with an Italian kiss, as in the name vintners give when topping off a dollop of super-sweet ice wine with a splash of champagne. After reporting on ice wine yet again this past weekend, how could I not devote a few minutes to the dessert? It was delicious, and I could definitely see where they got the name! So that was one resolution down, and I hope, gets me off to a running start.

The challenge I received the morning of Dec. 31 was to live out the new year by design, not default, and the concept has really stuck with me. I suppose it helped that I heard it after reading a short essay on how the typical resolution to eat better, get more excercise and lose weight in time for swimsuit season generally moves from resolve to dissolve in the span of a few weeks, because people assume that motivation ought to precede their actions. But resolutions only produce results when it works the other way, the writer expounded: action first, then motivation will follow.

I know this personally to be true because I've lived it the past 8 months, and am proud that forcing myself to get up many a morning at what I used to consider an "ungodly hour," in order to get some vigorous excercise has really paid off (especially when combined with laying off the chips, fries and "regular" sodas, and "budgeting" for chocolate, cheesecake or ice cream.) I didn't have to make a resolution to exercise and lose weight this year because I already have. And now that I'm in a consistent routine (I start to feel antsy if I miss more than one day's workout), maintaining that is simply part of my regular schedule. Which means that, by design, I now have a more creative "health" resolution for 2007: to run a 5k (3.1 mile) race. My friend Sarah is already researching my race options.

That brings me to another element that sets successful resolutions apart from mere wishful thinking: accountability. A 5k race was Sarah's suggestion; she's run in a few (and a few longer ones). But a couple other folks also encouraged me to consider it, and between them, I am confident they won't let me brush it off. I expect to be thanking them by name the day I blog about running it. Oh yes, and I read or heard something somewhere that writing down goals so they can be reviewed later significantly increases the likelihood of reaching them. It was some mind-blowing number like only three percent of all people do that, but of those three percent, they report meeting something like 80-97 percent of those goals within in certain, do-able time frame later.

So now, without further ado, my seven resolutions for 2007:
(As befits the ReD Zone, they are in random order.)
1) Run a 5k, probably in Rochester.
2) Blog more by writing less but writing more often (I'm guessing I'll have a volunteer to hold me accountable on this one.)
3) Hang my photos, break out the stoneware and CDs and host friends in my new "home," (preferably more than just a few times) no matter where or what that place may be.
4) Find my signature raspberry wine or champagne. Go looking for said selection along the Seneca Wine Trail.
5) Embrace change by looking inward, upward, then outward, so that "the future" which is actually MY future, becomes less about fear, security or safety and more about potential and promise. Ensure that this includes time to rest and reflect and not just "ram around," as my mother would say. Apply to relationships of all sorts (personal, professional, spiritual). For example, intentionally choose to sacrifice time I could spend doing other things to stay in touch with "friends on the fringe." I'm sure my married sister would also insist one particular aspect of "embracing change" be defined as smiling at cute guys, or something akin to that.
6) Marry more of my writing with my passions, and find more ways to profit from it.
7) Celebrate everything about 7's! (I consider it my lucky number, especially given some of its spiritual implications, so to go from a few random days that end in 7's or are divisible by 7, to a whole year that has to do with the 7 is very cool.) Celebrations might include ice cream, ice wine, popcorn, movies, books, photographs, flowers, music and absolutely must include laughter.

Here's to a New Year by design, not default. Cheers!