The Girl Who Pushed My Patience

If you're one of the handful who haven't been swept away by Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo blockbuster trilogy, I'm about to save you a chunk of time. That's because-- while the first two books were pretty good--the final one didn't quite live up to the high expectations set by its predecessors.

And so, to spare you the agony of sifting through almost 600 pages to find out what finally happens to the trilogy's heroine, Lisbeth Salander, allow me, if you will, to offer this brief but effective summary of:
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
Under armed guard in the intensive care ward of a Swedish hospital, Lisbeth Salandar was in critical condition. The brilliant computer hacker was fighting for her life after being shot in the head by her deranged father. Fuzzy thoughts filtered through her bullet-ridden brain. "If I survive, will I be charged with attempting to kill the man who attempted to kill me after I first attempted to kill him 20 years ago" she wondered. "And where can I get a decent cup of coffee?'"
Back at the office of Millennium Magazine, Salander's former lover, journalist Mikael Blomkvist, was worried too. Over a cup of coffee, he shared his concerns with his colleague Svensson. Or was this Eriksson? Jonasson maybe? Fredriksson? Who the hell knew, all their names sounded alike. "I feel oddly compelled to help prove her innocence," he mused while pouring himself another cup of coffee. "She may appear tough, but deep down she's quite vulnerable. We must unravel this cover up involving Sapo, Sweden's secret police." He absentmindedly stirred his coffee. "But how?"
Meanwhile, at a coffee shop on Sodertaljsonn Street, a surveillance team from Sapo was watching Blomkvist's every move. Confident that the trouble-making journalist wouldn't be returning home for awhile, Pieresson finished his coffee, then broke into Blomkvist's apartment and planted a kilo of cocaine behind the coffee machine. Exhilarated over setting up Blomkvist for a drug bust, Pieresson suddenly found himself famished. As he left the apartment, he returned to the coffee shop for a meatball sandwich. And another coffee.

Back at the hospital, Dr. Jacobsson pondered the condition of his infamous patient while nursing a cup of coffee. He felt oddly compelled to help this tough, yet vulnerable young woman. As he sipped his coffee, the buzz of the call button snapped him back to attention and he saw that it was his tough, yet vulnerable young patient. She was requesting more pain meds. A laptop. And coffee.
Upon Salandar's miraculous recovery, she was discharged and made to stand trial for trying to kill her father who had tried to kill her for previously trying to kill him for trying to kill her mother. But thanks to Blomkvist's undying loyalty to the tough, yet vulnerable young woman--despite the fact that she now despised him because he had slept with Berger..or had it been Bergsson? Berjkssun? Birjksson? Whatever. Sweden's corrupt government was finally exposed, the secrets of Sapo revealed, and Salandar exonerated.

And everybody went home and had a cup of coffee.
The end.

Every Picture Tells a Story

You've heard the joke about the elderly person who reads the obituaries to catch up on his friends and acquaintances. Well, I read them too, but for the photos. Those haunting, grainy, black and white pictures that accompany heartbroken prose. Each photo draws me in, nips at my curiosity and often tugs at my heart.

Obituary photos usually feature the deceased in their prime. Eleanor may have been 91 when she died, but her image captures a saucy young woman wearing a pearl choker and fashionable bob circa 1939. She had laughing eyes and full, bright lips that were, no doubt, painted fire-engine red. And, I'm guessing, toenails that matched.

William, whose obituary is featured two columns over, passed away at 87, but his photo depicts a cocky young lad with a square jaw and determined grin. He wears a dapper fedora tilted at an angle and, although you can't tell from the photo, I'm sure he flaunted a tweed jacket flung over his shoulder.

I'm intrigued by the vigor and vitality expressed in these faces. They look like women I'd befriend, men I'd date. Each picture puts a life behind each name and suddenly, each death feels a little more personal. Even though their passing warrants but a brief, formulaic mention, their image makes me ponder the loss of someone who was once very real.
Love stories and heroic deeds. Travel adventures and business ventures. Maybe this person was a lifelong resident of their community, now missed by neighbors who once enjoyed weekly potluck dinners. Perhaps mention will be made of their brave fight against cancer or AIDS. Sometimes family history is included and I learn that their parents emigrated from Italy and started the bakery I frequent on Main Street.

I might discover that they met their spouse on a blind date while attending my Alma mater decades before I was born. Maybe they returned to school after raising a family and got their degree alongside students half their age.
Dates on an obituary merely suggest an aged, wizened person whose time had come. But photos remind me otherwise. This was a parent, friend, co-worker, lover, jokester, athlete, activist. Someone once loved whose absence others now mourn.

And with their lively, vibrant, half-inch face on newsprint beaming before me, I too feel a twinge of sadness for the passing of someone I never knew.

Taking a Brain Break

"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under the trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." ~John Lubbock (English Biologist, 1834-1913)

"Rest when you're weary. Refresh and renew yourself, your body, your mind, your spirit. Then get back to work." ~Ralph Marston

Good idea. Taking a brief hiatus, be back soon. Until then, behave.

Words with Friends

It's official: I've joined the masses.

That's right. Thanks to the iPhone, I've become one of those people that I used to sneer at. Techno-Zombies who are constantly checking their iPhone, linked to it like a new appendage; sneaking peeks during meetings, eyeballing it in movie theaters, glancing at it ever-so-casually during conversations, paying half-attention to TV shows, and jumping out of bed with a Pavlovian response when we hear the "ping" that indicates an incoming message. Now I understand why everyone is so addicted to these infuriating iPhones.

They're all playing Words with Friends, of course. You know, the online version of Scrabble. I mean, duh, is there anything else?

I've always loved Scrabble, but it's kind of hard to play when you live alone. Now, with my iPhone, I have the game literally at my fingertips and can play anytime, anywhere. Cool. Like the other day, when I had time to kill while waiting for a doctor appointment. Yowza, how 'bout a game?

So there I was, studying the "board," calculating moves, stragetizing options and using brain cells that haven't fired up in years. And then I found The Perfect Storm. A word that utilized a coveted "Z" (ten points), two triple-letter blocks, and created a horizontal and vertical word.

It was the white whale of board games, the Scrabble equivalent of The Holy Grail. Not quite believing my good fortune, I held my breath, hit "play" and WOW! It was a bazillion points more than I had calculated! I was so delighted, I actually cackled, drawing odd looks from people sitting nearby. I was feeling pretty darned smug, imagining the look of total shock and awe on my game partner's face when her iPhone "pinged" and she saw my brilliant move.

Then the game crashed.

And with it, my bazillion points. My white whale. My Holy Grail. Gone in a nanosecond, thanks to modern technology. The very technology, I realize, that allows me to indulge in real-time Scrabble with a friend who lives 50 miles away.

Can't argue that. Game, anyone?

I'll Take a Ban Extra Dry, Hold the Foam

So I'm at Starbucks this morning when I notice the sign that says "Deodorant & Delicious."

Really. Like, when did deodorant become a breakfast staple?

Only after doing a triple-take do I realize that the sign actually says, "Decadent & Delicous."

I gotta get my eyes checked.

"Wheeling" and Dealing

This weekend, while most people were nesting indoors from torrid rains, I was selling cars. Two of them, in fact; one was my '99 Rav4 that was Blue-Booked at $2100 and needed $2500 worth of repairs. Pretty much a no-brainer. Buh-bye.

But getting rid of the other car was more difficult. It was my mother's 2004 Corolla and the car that I inherited when she passed away. Despite being a fine little car with great gas mileage, I've never been comfortable claiming it as "mine." Every time I sat behind the wheel, I'd look at the passenger side and expect to see Mom's smiling face. I'd remember our Sunday afternoons tootling off for yet another lunch at Alberto's, family dinner at Jenny's, or movie matinee. And I'd feel that now-familiar ache and miss my best friend--my mother--for the umpteenth time.

How could I enjoy this car, given how it came to be mine?

So I sold it.

But before doing so, I asked the buyer if I could keep the personalized license plates. Bearing my mother's maiden name, de Roux, the plates brought back a more pleasant memory: the day she phoned me, roaring with evil delight.

Seemed she had just gotten off the phone with her older brother who was angry. Boy, was he ANGRY. Seemed he'd submitted a request for personalized license plates and had been denied by DMV. Seemed somebody else had already claimed the name. His name.

"Who else in this country has my name?" he seethed to Mom."de Roux is French! It's not a common name like Smith or Jones, for gawd's sake. Who is the sonofabitch that stole my name?"

To which, barely containing her laughter, she replied, "Uh, that would be me."

The car is now gone and with it, another remnant of mom. But the license plate will hang in my garage--a reminder of her wicked glee the day she trumped her brother.

Letter to Toyota

Dear Toyota~

Yeah, you've had some really lousy PR lately, what with malfunctioning brakes and stuck gas pedals. Those drivers, picky, picky, picky. But hey, at least you're in a position to ramp up the one thing within your immediate control: customer service. Right?
Which is why I am just slightly dismayed at the treatment I received yesterday at your Dublin Toyota dealership. Now, I realize that I'm just a purdy lil' thang without two brain cells to bang together, but I'm pretty darned sure that English is my first language. And, unless I was suddenly overcome by The Spirit and speaking in tongues, English is what I using when attempting to communicate with your sales force.
"I'm here to test drive and check prices only," I told Scott. "I'm buying a used car next month and if you're straight with me today, I will return and buy that car from you." And I meant it.

But apparently Scott learned everything he knows about selling cars from endless viewings of the aptly named movie, "Suckers." Immediately he steered me to a brand new Rav4, insisting that old cars are nothing but trouble and I had to try this beaut because the color looked great on me.
Really. I'm going to spend $23,000 on a car because the color compliments my skin tone?
"How is it a babe like you isn't married," Scott asked upon learning that I was checking out cars all by my big-girl self and without benefit of a male escort. "And hey, you've got beautiful hair. No seriously, I mean it."
Why sir, you're making me blush! I was so darned flattered by Scott's genuine sincerity, I could almost overlook his reptilian behavior.
"Almost" being the operative word.
Finally, he showed me a used Rav4 with more mileage than Amtrak. When I balked, he accused me of having "issues" with old things. "What's wrong with a little mileage?" he argued. "You just buy the extended warranty!"
"Well then, Scott, if old things are so swell, why wouldn't I just keep my current Rav4?" I asked. He looked befuddled. Then he disappeared and returned with the Big Guns: the General Manager.
"What's it gonna take for you to buy a car today?" he asked me. To which I looked him square in the eye and replied that he could be Jesus Christ Himself, announcing that the Second Coming was contingent upon me buying a car today and a sale still wouldn't happen.
My, how attitudes changed. I left the dealership with a raging migraine and I'm pretty darned sure Scott had one, too.
But I do have to say one thing: when it comes to strong arm tactics, Neanderthal attitudes and repugnant dispositions, Dublin Toyota is sticking by their motto and "doin' it right."
Plus, they think I'm pretty! Because really, would a car salesman lie?