Archive for October, 2009

Posted on October 6, 2009 - by Cate

My Magic 8-Ball

The Magic 8-ball I remember from my youth was a shiny black orb, a toy, really, with a glowing “window” that would reveal the final verdict to life’s most pressing questions. I can remember evenings spent with my girlfriends either up in the tree fort or on the back porch, whispering in the dark and asking the 8-ball all kinds of questions.

“Will I pull my grade up in Chemistry from a B to an A?”
“Will I find the shoes I’ve been looking for?”
“Will Steve actually acknowledge my existence?” (hot jock, not in my crowd but deep down, I knew sensitive and brooding)

The toy fortune teller provided answers to outrageous questions and even fueled a few fantasies along the way. But after a while it gradually lost it’s appeal given its limited clairvoyance, as the great black oracle could only deliver 20 standard answers.

(image of young girls huddled over magic 8-ball by glowing candlelight, fade)

Twenty five years pass. Enter a human version of my magic 8 ball, one that pre-dates the 8-ball by centuries…

A friend of mine asked if I wanted to come along on a day trip to an artists colony in Nashville, Indiana, to putter around, have lunch, and have our palm’s read. The last reference peaked my curiosity. My friend was a pretty conservative working mom, both a client and a friend, whom I considered to be one of the best managers I had ever worked with.

“Palm reading?,” I said, tentatively. “Have you done this before?”

“Oh yeah, lots of times,” she said in her usual reassuring way. “She’s pretty good — I mean, accurate.”

So lots of times, I thought to myself. Well, okay then. If Kathy gets her palms read on a regular basis, how bad could it be? I was immediately transported back to my magic 8 ball and that feeling of excitement, anticipating predictions.

We headed down on a beautiful day and arrived in Nashville just before lunch. We decided to see the palm reader right away and Kathy volunteered me to go first. Since this was a great adventure in my mind, I happily agreed.

The palm reader said a christian prayer before she looked at my hands. I guess I childishly imagined a gypsy or a pagan sort but what I got was “middle america grandmom.” There was no glowing crystal ball on the table, no voices erupting from seemingly nowhere. If it weren’t for the lack of nail polish and remover, you’d swear I was in a manicure salon. Anyway, she began to study my hands and talk to me about my life as if she and I were old friends.

I am a healthy skeptic. The glass is definitely half empty. I don’t know how she knew the things she knew about me or my family. She described my daughters particularly well. I found myself asking questions and actually listening to her in detail and while she gave me feedback that actually disappointed me (lending credence to her words) I found myself far less apprehensive and I thanked her for my reading.

I waited for Kathy on the sidewalk. She came out and announced that while she too did not like her fortune-tellers verdict, she knew she was probably right. And within the year, her predictions came true for both us.

(image of two working moms fade, discussing our predictions over lunch in a quaint restaurant, giggling, like my girlfriends on the back porch of my youth)

Fast forward to the Magic 8 ball of today.

(image of hip, not so young, working mom in a suit, killer pumps, driving a fuel efficient car, coming into focus. Enter my new magic 8-ball)

I can actually shake my new magic 8 ball and receive endless answers to my questions. Answers that are far more useful, far more accurate than those of my youth or my palm reader. The Magic 8 ball of today holds all the initial fascination but never wears out its welcome. In fact, my new Magic 8-ball is so extensible, there are no limits to its functionality.

Will it be warm today? Where should I have dinner tonight? Will I chat with my brother today? How do I get to my doctor’s office? I’m bored sitting in the airport, what can I do to keep me entertained? Read a book, listen to some relaxing music, play Pac-man, write or better yet audio annotate reminders to myself? It can even tell me where I will be next Friday at 1:30pm.

It’s shiny black exterior with the glowing window waiting to answer my every question never fails to deliver. What’s missing are giggling girlfriends. For now, we all have our own magic 8-ball and have come to accept it as a necessity in our lives. No one disputes this new 8 balls’ answers. In fact, we RELY on the 8-ball every second of every day.

Yes, of course, I’m speaking of my iPhone.

The iPhone turns the 8-ball from speculation or musings into action.
It doesn’t just predict, it enables.
Like the black glowing orb of my youth, it is full of predictions and like the unassuming palm reader of my middle age it calms my anxiety.

I suppose, I could even find Steve (using my Facebook app, of course) and finally get him to acknowledge my existence.

Maybe Apple can actually make the girlish wishes of my childhood actually come true after all.

Posted on October 4, 2009 - by Cate

The Case of the Disappearing Toilet Paper

It was dark and cold. My mind was fuzzy, my eyes unable to focus. I shivered as I tried to shake myself into consciousness. I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. What time is it? I wondered. Rearranging the pillows, listening for the familiar sounds of the house, nothing. My window, almost always open, usually offered up the sounds of nature but nothing.

I started pondering the meaning of all this — the lack of anything going on. What time is it? My mind turned to unfinished business. Once my brain kicks in you can kiss going back to sleep goodbye. It’s usually a rehash of the previous day or the “to do list” of the impending day or some big issue hanging over my head that I have yet to resolve to my satisfaction. (more…)

Posted on October 3, 2009 - by Cate

The Great Northern Swing

Thirty years ago, when I was a teenager in the ’70’s, my dad was schlepping his family to at least one different national park each summer during his company’s shutdown in August. These were two weeks trapped in a hot car with vinyl seats (and I was often stuck to them on the long sweaty journeys), along with an irritating younger brother with a knack for trouble, a drill sergeant of a father and, as we affectionately nicknamed her, “Mary Tyler Moore”, my mom. I confess that my recollections begin to blur a bit, but I do remember the feeling of enduring rather than appreciating this gift Dad had given us. Now with time, perspective and a jolt from Ken Burns’ documentary I’m engaging in some revisionist history.

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