Book Reviews

We live not so close to our school and consequently spend more time than we'd like in the car. Now that Robey and Cleo are beyond enjoying playing word games or adding license plate numbers (a good way to practice math facts) our choices are: listening to the radio, listening to books on CD, or arguing. I'm too ADD to stick with any radio station for more than two minutes, and we devote plenty of time to arguing, so we choose door number two: recorded books. Here are some of our favorites:

Charlotte's Web, narrated by E.B. White, the author. His narration is New Englandish, which means it's bland and calming; I read that he got so choked up at the end that he had to record it seventeen times before he could get through it without crying.

The Phantom Tollbooth, a great story full of puns and clever wordplay and so fun to experience with kids.

Johnny Tremain, an outstanding introduction to Robey's fourth grade exploration of the American Revolution. Required a good amount of explanation on my part but the discussions were interesting and productive.

Little House On The Prairie books, which had enough adventure to appeal even to a boy.

The Miraculous Journey Of Edward Tulane, a twenty-first century version of Pinocchio about an arrogant and selfish toy rabbit who learns the meaning of love and kindness.

Right now we're listening to Time Stops For No Mouse, an exciting mystery involving a society of mice for no apparent reason (maybe it's really a "moustery"?) I love this story, if for no other reason than the character names are extraordinary: the main character is Hermux Tantamoq, his love interest is Linka Perflinger, the villain is Tucka Mertslin, and the cast of characters includes Lista Blenwipple, Pup Schoonagliffen and Ortolina Perriflot.

What are some of your favorites?

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Outstanding Customer Service

At the risk of sounding redundant, this time the dog ate my glasses (collective groan). Suffering from a monster headache, I'd fallen asleep on the couch; the puppy jumped her barrier gate (some barrier!) and hopped up to cuddle with me. "How sweet," I thought, and fell back to sleep. Waking an hour later, I couldn't find my glasses because I couldn't see to look for them because I needed my glasses to see. An increasingly frantic and ominous search led to the intricately patterned dining room rug, where I found my poor mangled spectacles in a heap on the floor, moaning in pain and delirium.

In sailing past forty I've begun to understand what my ophthalmologist meant when he said I'd know it was time for bifocals when reading was no longer enjoyable. In the past couple of years as soon as I put in contact lenses I could see clearly at arm's length but not any closer, so I relied on a collection of reading glasses stashed strategically around the house where I could find them but the housekeeper (former, actually, and here's one of the many reasons why) wouldn't find them and borrow them.

Things kept getting worse until I couldn't even see my food clearly, and I began to imagine unknowingly lifting a forkful of bugs to my mouth.

So I visited an upscale optician, www.eyewearhaus.com, and chose a smart-looking pair of dark red metal frames reminiscent of my first cat's eye glasses but a lot less scary and a lot more cool. Once I'd adjusted to them I relied on the contacts less, and two months ago I bought another, funkier pair that I liked even better, and gave up on the contacts entirely.

And boy, did I look cool! Even strangers commented on my nifty glasses, and for the first time since I was ten I felt like I didn't look half bad and fully stupid wearing glasses.

And then the dog cuddled with me.

And ate my glasses.

And here's the point of this story:

In extreme embarrassment I returned to the store where I'd picked up my glasses only weeks earlier, fully expecting to pay close to the purchase price to repair or replace them. Let me just add, by the way, that when I was ten my first pair of glasses cost fifty dollars. I don't think I got even the special coatings on the new glasses for as little as fifty dollars. We're talking thin plastic to accommodate a thick prescription AND graduated bifocals. But I loved those glasses and knew I couldn't hang the damage on anyone but myself, so I bit the bullet and begged the owner to do as much as he could for as little charge as possible.

He fixed the frames for free.

He persuaded the lens manufacturers to replace the lenses for free.

And I saw the monumental power of outstanding customer service.

This man knew that if I really wanted my glasses repaired I'd have to be prepared to pay at least something, if not the full price. Even though I'd asked him to do what he could, there was no way I could reasonably have expected him to do everything for free. But he obviously understands that, unless he hits me in the face with a pie the next time I enter his store, he's cultivated a customer for life who will tell even perfect strangers that his store is the only place to go for eyewear.

Thanks Mike!

Meanwhile, I installed a taller gate.

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Swim Wear That Fits!?

Today I went to one of those parties you attend because your friends invite you to look at whatever wares they're flogging and you listen to the demonstration and make artificial sympathetic noises and try not to make eye contact so you can get out of there without having to buy anything you could get cheaper and easier at the mall if you needed it or wanted it, which you don't anyway. I've seen cookware (I already have what I need), soup and dip mixes (I like to cook from scratch), Tupperware (a charming hostess gave a room full of Jewish women advice on how to freeze pork steaks), Mary Kay (the foundation was green), and jewelry (okay -- I did buy gifts for my sister and mother at this one).

My friend was showing "QUENCHwear," swim wear and leisure clothing designed by her cousin to flatter the seventy-five percent of us who aren't shaped the way ninety percent of swim wear designers think we are. The tanks were a little longer, the skirts were just short enough, she had several long sleeved tops that would go well with pants, jeans or shorts, and everything was good looking and comfortable. One of the tops resembled a sweat shirt with a low scoop neck gathered with a drawstring; probably one third of the women there bought that top in black or white. I bought my first two piece suit ever, to replace the tank suit from Land's End in an unfortunate shade of turquoise that made me look and feel like a dumpy woman trying to come off as a young chick and only looking more dumpy.

And that was the key. To be able to buy a swim suit without having to try on and despair over dozens of rejects is a distinct pleasure: I felt like I got away with something!

Bring on the jeans!

Check it out: QUENCHwear.

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The Passport Catastrophe Travels to Chicago

My flight left at 6.30 a.m. I'm not a morning person under the best of circumstances, but having to be on the road so early to follow up on my self-imposed humiliation amplified the agitation about tenfold.

I arrived in Chicago by 7.30 and had so much time before my 11.00 appointment that I decided to take the train instead of a taxi. I arrived at 8.30 and found -- surprise! -- hundreds of people waiting for passports. So much for a leisurely breakfast and newspaper before my appointment: I got in line.

I won't belabor the story. I won't tell about the hour and a half to get through security, unsure whether I was in the right line or even the right building and unable to ask anyone because when I left the line I was shooed back by security guards. I won't describe the senior citizens, families with small children, and parents with infants standing for hours because we were warned not to block the lobby sitting on the floor. I won't relate the story of the lady who was kicked out after three hours for using her cell phone. I won't talk about all the appointments that came and went without acknowledgement. I won't recount how after nearly four hours the line came to a standstill when most of the staff went to lunch. I won't speak of the guard who told me I could eat half a bagel but not sit on the floor while I ate it. I won't mention the EIGHT HOURS I stood in line because what would be the point?

All day I muttered that while I deserved to be punished for carelessness, I didn't deserve to be beaten up and left for dead. By noon my hands were shaking and I was having a tough time stringing together coherent sentences.

On the other hand, I will take note of the people who shared snacks or held your place while you got a drink or went to the bathroom. I will remember the small amount of amusement we felt when a reporter and cameraman showed up outside the building to commemorate our day in Purgatory. I will mention the appreciative chuckles greeting my observation that we seemed to be reliving the waiting room scene from Beetlejuice.

All in all it wasn't such a bad day. Okay -- who am I kidding? It was one of the most fatiguing, preposterous, humiliating, stressful and annoying days of my life. By the end of the day I flew home with a shiny new passport and, admittedly, a unique story to entertain family and friends.


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The Passport Catastrophe Continues

After hyperventilating briefly I switched into crisis mode. Luckily, when you come from a family where everyone wants to be boss and nobody settles for peon ranking, your DNA contains a recipe for expedited disaster management, with amplified recriminations for dessert.

I researched emergency passport renewal online and began calling the State Department's toll free line. Strangely, the recording complained about the high volume of calls, ordered me to call back later, and hung up.

About seven times. Thank goodness for automatic redial.

I finally made contact with a recording instructing me to wait, wait, wait, wait, promising someone would be along sooner or later. During my forty-five minute telephonic endurance test (lucky me -- my cordless headphone lets me wander freely while on hold) I snatched luggage and clothes and flung one inside the other in case I managed to secure a fresh passport in time for our trip.

Meanwhile I hurtled from web page to web page, debating the merits of using one of those passport expediting companies versus flying to Chicago for the day. When I ultimately discovered that the private companies weren't open on the weekends so I'd lose an entire day before I could even get in touch with them, I abandoned them and focused exclusively on traveling to the Federal Building in Chicago and handling it myself. So, while on my second forty-five minute telephone marathon to confirm exactly what documents I'd need to bring, I arranged quickie reservations on Southwest for the next day (I love Southwest Airlines: they're respectful, helpful and easy to work with. Every time I fly Southwest I wonder why I don't fly Southwest every time).

Then I sat and twitched the rest of the day and most of the night, anticipating the continuation of my unfortunate adventure.

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The Passport Catastrophe

My mother, the world's most organized human, planned this trip for a year. She arranged everything, including a small fleet of private buses in various cities to allow our entire family to see what we wanted when we wanted to see it without having to rely on excursions planned by the cruise line.

Every few days she'd ask for my input and provide updates; usually I'd zone out, secure in the knowledge that the world's most organized human takes care of everything.

Except my passport.

Three days before the trip I pulled out mine and the kids' so I could fill out online preregistration forms for the ship. I could do this easily because I'm so organized (uh huh) that I have a safe in my basement so I don't have to rely on a bank safe deposit box. Two months earlier I'd checked their passport expiration dates because kids' passports don't last as long as adults'; I hadn't bothered to check my own, however, because that would have been just too . . . sensible.

I'll give you three guesses.

Yup. Expired.

Would it be trite to say my life flashed before my eyes? I visualized my mother melting down because I'd have to skip the trip she'd labored over for a full year, and who could blame her? I'm sure I must have done dumber things in my life, but so far I haven't been able to recall any.

I saved her a lot of trouble because I immediately began beating myself up much more effectively than anyone else ever could.

So. Tune in next time for part two of "How Scatterbrained Are You?"

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WHERE HAVE I BEEN??!!

Has anyone missed me? Has anyone even noticed I've been gone? Anyone out there? Come on -- I can hear you breathing.

So did I ever mention that when my mother has a big birthday she likes to throw a big wingding party, and when my father has a big birthday he likes to take the whole family on a trip? So this year was my dad's turn and my mom spent an entire year planning a Mediterranean cruise for ten people, ranging all the way down to Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, who's seven. We flew into Rome, where we spent a couple days acclimating and touring, and then we boarded a ship for a ten-day cruise. We stopped in Monte Carlo (lovely!); Barcelona (extraordinary and surprising); Malta (a not-well-known gem); Tunisia ("Whoa! American lady! Special price just today, just for you!"); Naples (enough already with the ruins, but great pizza); and finally back to Rome and then home from Rome.

Let me tell you, there is nothing like touring European cities with kids you love and showing them all sorts of things and experiences and places they'd never dream up in their own sheltered suburban minds. Five Jewish kids aged 17 to 7 were enthralled (even the grumpy ones) by a tour of the Vatican arranged by a grandmother who had the presence of mind to call a Catholic friend to set up entry through the exit doors so as to avoid standing in the four-hour-long admission queue.

More to come, including the shocking saga of the supposed grownup who remembered to check her kids' passports but neglected to look at her own and thus learned only three days before departure that her passport was expired and had to be replaced posthaste.

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I've Been Working on the Web Site, All the Livelong Day

Every day -- EVERY DAY -- I cut and paste and edit and reedit. I changed the name of the site from PhotoGiftPlace (yawn) to FeeFiFoto, which I find oh-so-much more appealing and memorable, and I'm tickled by how darn much fun it is to make tiny changes here and there and bring this site to a funky, tongue-in-cheek point of view.

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My Midlife Crisis Fantasy Used to Include a Porsche

But now a tummy tuck seems more appealing.

Sigh. When did I become so fuddy?

My sister was complaining about having to attend her new sister-in-law's idiotic baby shower and she said: "When did I get so old and grumpy?" I pointed out that, with three kids ranging from the 17-year-old menace-behind-the-wheel drama queen, to the 11-year-old social-butterfly-never-stops-kibitzing-to-do-his-homework, she's long past the days where she has the time or inclination to oooh and aaah over the latest Diaper Genie.

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Secret Identity

The site I've been operating since last September offers sophisticated technology that can put digital photos on almost anything. The people who created it were among the first to offer personalized photo calendars and those huge mylar balloons you can make up for your bar mitzvah or wedding shower with photos of the honorees on them. They even included this amazing feature that allows you to design some items and then examine a digital prototype in three dimensions and from all angles. So, you can put your photo on a mug, for instance, and then grab an image of the mug with a tool and drag it around to look at the back, side, even inside (although they haven't yet included a feature that lets you put your picture inside the mug, which would be so cool).

As I also may have mentioned, while the technology was definitely futuristic, the site itself looked like it was run by a bunch of twelve-year-old boys in somebody's basement (sorry, guys, if you're reading this, but I know even you'll admit this is true). The color scheme was dull, the graphics were flat and the text was boring. Plus, there was the name: PhotoGiftPlace.com.

Now, PhotoGiftPlace.com certainly is descriptive: "Where are you going?" "Oh, I'm off to PhotoGiftPlace.com to buy some photo gifts!" But, as a probably-much-too-savvy internet shopper, I know that you might find PhotoGiftPlace.com through Google one year and then the next year, when you can't quite recall the name, you might end up at PhotoGifts.com and think it's the same place you visited last holiday season. Just ask me about my attempts to locate the site where I bought my kids a couple of gifts a few years ago: "Let's see -- was it 'Menorah.com', or 'Menorahs.com', or 'BuyMenorah.com', or 'Jewishstuff.com'...?"

So the first thing I needed to do when I started running the site was find a new name, something funky, memorable, easy to say -- something that would take on a life of its own, become part of the vernacular, catch the imagination, make sense in any language or culture. Unfortunately, Google, Amazon, Kodak and Zappos were all taken. So were PhotoSchmoto, PhotoToto, Photopia, Photokomodo (that one was a bit esoteric, I admit), Photophoria, and just about everything I came up with. And some of these names were only reserved and not even being used!

Finally, I hit pay dirt with FeeFiFoto.com, which I reserved under about a dozen different spellings (did you know that you'll get to Google even if you accidentally type "Foofle"?) It's easy to say, easy to remember, and easy to type. Try it -- all those 'f's just roll off your fingers. The name change will be completed in a few weeks, probably right after Mother's Day; I may be impatient but I'm not dumb enough to change the site's name in the middle of a busy season.

And certainly, as soon as I do it, I'll be seized with self-doubt for as long as I run the site.

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