Move Over, Uri Geller

Sometime in the 1970s, a young guy named Uri Geller got a lot of press for his apparent ability to bend spoons with the power of his mind, never touching them with his hands. He was famous.

I might have done him one better today. I managed to break the unbreakable--a Corelle plate. I didn't use my hands to do it. I didn't drop it on the floor, either. But I''m not likely to get famous.

As I have done hundreds of times before, today I placed two corn tortillas on a dry paper towel on a plate, then covered them with a damp paper towel. I set the microwave for 30 seconds and began to rub my hands in anticipation of warm, soft corn tortillas with cheese. I was so enchanted with my vision that it took a second or two for my brain to register what was right in front of my eyes. My microwave was flashing like lightning in a far-off cloud bank. Or maybe a the embers of a dying fire. I couldn't fathom what I was seeing. I knew there was no metal on that plate; it didn't even have metalized trim. It couldn't be metal--maybe my microwave was leaving this life in a blaze of glory! I hit the "off button" and opened the door.

After the wisps of smoke cleared, I saw that my tortillas were pretty badly burned around the edges. I considered eating them anyway. (What? I was tired!) I decided against the Cajun-blackened-tortilla opportunity, sat the plate on the counter and removed the paper towels and tortillas. At the exact second I found half of a burnt metal twisty-tie tangled in one of the paper towels, a big "Crack!" noise made both my dog and me jump.

Bemused (as usual), I scanned the counter for the source of the mystery sound. Once again, my brain had trouble interpreting the image it was receiving from my eyeballs. Why was my plate split down the middle? And what was that big white sliver between the two pieces? And look, there's the other half of the twisty-tie, melted onto the shiny white Corelle!

Yeah, I eventually figured it out. Probably would've figured it out sooner if the dog could speak English--or wasn't hiding under the table.

I've learned two things from this: 1) Take tortillas out of the bag they come in as soon as I get them, put them in a zip lock bag, and throw away the twisty tie! 2) Uri Geller could have impressed a lot more people if he'd used a microwave.

A Girl and Her Dog Named Hitler

I like stories about history. And stories about dogs. Getting both in one story while drinking my morning coffee is better than having a doughnut.

Could I resist this headline: "Papers: Hitler-mocking mutt dogged Nazis"? Of course not. The story only lasted through half of my coffee (much like a doughnut) but was as tasty as a chocolate mint.

It seems Tor Borg and his German wife, Josefine, in Tampere, Finland, had a Dalmatian-mix dog named Jackie who greeted people by raising his paw high in the air as Nazis did when crying "Heil Hitler!" This was not delightful to Josepfine, who hated Nazis. She started calling the dog "Hitler," which was not delightful to the Nazis.

What did the Nazis do about it? What Nazis did best--got spies to tell them the dog was mocking their psychotic little fuhrer, created 30 files, wrote diplomatic cables, considered destroying Tor Borg's pharmaceutical business, and in 1941 called the man in for an inquisition about his dog.

Borg assured them the dog was not named Hitler and that the paw raising only occurred a few times in 1933. The diplomats wrote to Berlin that Borg was lying.

In an American-made movie, pounding on the door in the middle of night followed by death and destruction would have occurred. Fortunately, it was real life in Finland. Apparently the overly zealous lower level diplomats were diverted in their crazed report writing by something else (the invasion of Russia, perhaps?) Tor and Josefine and the pharmaceutical company survived the war unscathed, according to the article by Kirsten Grieshaber in the Associated Press.

Tor lived until 1959 and Josefine until 1971. No report about Jackie. I assume he lived a long doggie life, well- fed, well-loved and posing for pictures wearing Tor's sunglasses as long as he lived.

Such a nice story.

Terrorism on the Pfizer Boomer Express

Who gets depressed watching the Rose Parade? Usually nobody--until this year. The Alzheimer's Association and Pfizer may have created a whole new parade-viewing experience for a few hundred thousand boomers--if said boomers were paying attention, which I hope they weren't.

So there I was, sitting on my couch in my jammies with my dog and a hot cuppa tea, watching the pre-recorded televised Rose Parade on my DVR. I groaned at Al Roker's corny patter, admired the equestrians, and oohed and ahhhed at the ingenious floats. Then Al said, "here comes the Boomer Express from the Alzheimer's Association and Pfizer." A float shaped like a train passed the camera.

It took a moment for the intimation to sink in. I thought the name "Boomer Express" was a bit odd and wondered why they chose it. "Boomer Express...Alzheimer's...Pfizer..." No, it can't be. Did they make a cute little faux train and convince people to ride it and wave at the camera for the express purpose of telling us boomers that Alzheimer's is likely to be in our future and Pfizer drugs are the answer? I think I actually gasped.

The audacity! The tastelessness! The great big downer in the middle of my beloved parade! Really, guys? Fear tactics in the middle of the Rose Parade? I backed up the DVR recording and watched it again. Oh yes. Terrorism on the Pfizer Boomer Express! A banner near the top of the float said, "Estimated 1 in 8 Boomers at risk."

You know what, Pfizer Dudes? Those of us who have lost a parent to Alzheimer's don't need to be reminded that something worse than the Grim Reaper might come for us. And why terrorize those whose families are as yet unscathed? Do you have a solution for them? An answer for any of us? Nope? Didn't think so. Until you do, I suggest you take down your big Pfizer banner and stop spreading fear on flower-encrusted choo-choo trains. Honestly. Did anyone at either organization actually think this through?

I stopped the DVR for a while because suddenly I had no interest in marching bands and pretty girls in long dresses. I got up from the couch and paced a little. My tea got cold and the disgruntled dog wandered into another room. I vowed to express my indignation somewhere, to someone.

The somewhere is here, and the someone is you, my two faithful readers. Did you watch the parade? Did you notice the Boomer Express? No? Oh. And I bet you're not grateful that I pointed it out, either.

Sorry. I guess I forgot my manners in my sudden fear that I might be the eighth boomer.

The Crease in My Heart

I took my wedding ring off about a year ago. Sometimes, when I felt sad or vulnerable or lonely, I put it back on for a few days. But mostly it's been off. Oddly enough (or perhaps not), I still have a little crease where the gold band encircled my finger for 18 years.

When I notice it, I wistfully remember what was and is no more. The indentation is fading slowly, acknowledging the unbuilding of a life even as a new one rises tentatively. There is no calendar deadline, no indication of when the process will end. Maybe it won't.

I'm moving forward, staying positive, trying to create a tomorrow worth striving for. But the little crease on my finger reflects the one in my heart, and I know each of them will end only in its own good time.