Carol Goodman Kaufman

a.k.a. Carolinda Goodman

Carol

Dumb Luck: Winning (?) the Lottery

by 1 Comment

The clerk promised me that being selected for jury duty is strictly random. She told me that on my seventh trip to court. A few days ago I received my ninth — ninth!! — call to jury duty in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

I know people who have never been called. How could it be that I have been so fortunate?

I should only be so lucky with the Powerball. Now, I actually studied statistics in college and grad school, and even taught the subject at one point. I know that my chances are slimmer than the proverbial snowball’s in hell. But I do buy a ticket when the jackpot is really, really big since my chance of hitting all six numbers is no less with a large jackpot of $300 million than with a small one of only $10 million (yeah, I know, “only $10 million” sounds crazy). That way, if I’m not going to win, then at least I will not have won a big jackpot.

And what the heck, this is entertainment. I can get several day’s worth of heart-pumping adrenalin awaiting the morning paper with its publication of the winning numbers. I think it might even count as aerobic exercise.

But back to jury duty. I have been summoned to trial court. Again. I will either be chosen, or will spend another four to five hours of my life sitting on a hard chair in a stuffy room, and waving a number placard overhead in response to questions. Would that count as aerobics, or weight lifting?

In theory, I think it would be a very interesting experience to sit on a jury, and I know it’s a civic duty. But, shouldn’t the other seven million people in Massachusetts have the chance to serve? I am willing to share my luck.

The Cane Mutiny

by 1 Comment

I was determined to find the silver lining through the drug-induced post-surgical cloud. But, it turns out that there’s not just silver. We opened every drape in the bedroom, and through the wall of windows, I could see a veritable Joseph’s coat of colors: red and yellow and blue and pink and gold. Skies are either robin’s egg blue or black with threatening rain clouds. Sheets of water flowed in straight lines from the sky to the grass three stories below me.

And the sounds! Monday morning the garbage and recycling trucks rumbled through the neighborhood. Birds chirped their various songs. The growl of lawnmowers filled the air, accompanied by the buzz saws cutting wood.

In the evening, the rhythmic thrumming of a basketball on a driveway, was accompanied by the joyful shouts of kids enjoying the summer. The roar of motorcycles on distant streets brought back vivid memories of lying in my childhood bed, longing to participate in the summer night’s activities, while a mournful whistle carried through the humid night air ignited a desire to hop a train.

And, the smells of summer. The fragrance of freshly mown grass, the heady aroma of lilies of the valley my neighbors brought. A whiff of gasoline from the cacophonous lawnmowers and weed whackers and edge trimmers. The earthy tang of soil dampened by rain.

Then! When the weather cooperated I was able to hobble along on my cane outdoors. Up and down the street a few times a day.

How much I now appreciate that few minutes of freedom, drenched in the soothing sun. Confinement has definitely made me appreciate so much of what I have taken for granted.

I can’t wait to throw the darn cane out.

Top-Shelf Treatment

by 7 Comments

Last Thursday I underwent a total hip replacement, and since then any sense of modesty I might have had has disappeared. Doctors and RNs and LPNs and nurses aides and physicians assistants and personal care assistants  and physical therapists and occupational therapists and … all looking at me in my most naked and vulnerable state. Poking and prodding, asking intimate questions about my bodily functions, and helping me accomplish them.

Except that the one thing I would gladly have let any of these wonderful health professionals do — injecting blood thinners into my body – was up to me. Every morning for a month, I am expected to stick a needle into myself. In the past week I have designed a nice half-moon of red-turning-purple bruises around my navel, but just today I began to wonder if I should work at transforming them into a work of art, a kind of dichromatic tattoo. A bouquet of roses, perhaps? A cascade of wisteria?

But it was yesterday’s visit by the OT that made me realize just how weak and exposed I have become. Marna was a perfectly lovely young professional who, I know, only had the best of intentions as she asked her list of questions and suggested a number of tricks and tools that would help me with such tasks as picking up stuff from the floor (did I always drop so much?) and putting on my socks.

Then she handed me a roll of shelf paper. Shelf paper? Now, I know that the purpose of occupational therapy is to help me negotiate the daily activities of life, but did she also expect me to line the kitchen shelves and drawers in my weakened condition? Was spring cleaning among the exercises for the newly cut?

No. What Marna wanted me to do was to place shelf paper on the shower chair every time I bathe — to ensure that my ample rear end doesn’t slide off the seat as might a sweating glass of lemonade on a patio table. What a practical idea, if embarrassing.

On the other hand, if I get better fast, maybe I can use the remaining paper on the roll to finish up my spring cleaning.

Riding the Rails

by 6 Comments

During a wonderful stay with my family at the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec, we took a tour of the famed hotel and learned that it was just one of a series of grand chateaux the Canadian Pacific Railway built along its cross-country route. That tour ignited in me an intoxicating fantasy of traveling from east to west the entire length of Canada and staying in each one of those hotels.

In retrospect, I can see that train travel has always excited me. From Murder on the Orient Express to Strangers on a Train, The Old Patagonian Express, and even the Hogwarts Express, the romance and mystery have all left a big impression on my imagination.

So, you can imagine my delight when I learned recently that Amtrak is offering residencies to writers who want to pen The Great American Novel (or other work) while riding the rails. I decided to apply for one of the 24 positions available. I dutifully filled out the application form and hit “send,” only to have it bounce back immediately, with the warning that I must enter my Twitter handle.

Twitter handle? Did I really have to sign up for something I’ve always considered a major time suck?

I weighed the alternatives. On the one hand, I can certainly understand that Amtrak would want publicity for its ingenious program. Why a blog chronicling the trip – with no 140- character limit — isn’t sufficient, I can’t figure out.

And, on yet another hand, I would really love to take advantage of the opportunity to travel and write without distraction, fully immersed in the atmosphere and culture of the rails. I already have the kernel of an idea for a story on a train.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I did indeed sign up for a Twitter account, but now I need to get followers. (This Luddite had to ask her progeny for help on how to do that.) If I promise not to bore you all with ridiculous details of my day (e.g., I stopped to buy a postcard, I ate a salad for lunch), would you, my wonderful readers, consider signing up to follow me? My handle is @goodmankaufman.

There is absolutely no guarantee that I will win one of the coveted spots on the Amtrak residency (probably 24,000 writers will apply for the 24 spots), but with your help at least I can legitimately say I have a Twitter account.

Maybe we can even find a way for you to appear in the story that results (first name only, of course).

Thank you!

Pimping Barbie

by 3 Comments

I’m not proud of having used the television as a babysitter, but necessity is the mother, yada, yada, yada. Every afternoon when my kids were little, I would turn the TV to Channel 2, Boston’s PBS station, scheduling laundry folding and supper preparation around The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers, and Sesame Street. I rationalized that it was, after all, public television. How much harm could it do? It was both educational and commercial free.

Fast forward a few years. The kids are grown and gone, but the TV is still on. I’m not a rabid sports fan, but I do sit in the room with a book or my needlework when Joel watches games on TV – golf, baseball, football, whatever. When it comes to the Super Bowl, however, I do look up regularly to watch the commercials. This year, two Budweiser ads, one featuring horses and a puppy, the other a surprise parade for a returning soldier, pulled at my heartstrings. The Foot Locker commercial in which heavyweight fighter Mike Tyson returns Evander Holyfield’s ear and asks for forgiveness was a riot.

But I was somewhat taken aback to look up to see the Muppets advertising the Toyota Highlander, singing their “Ain’t no Room for Boring” routine. While I can certainly understand Toyota’s desire to use the cloth creatures to attract buyers, most of whom probably grew up with Sesame Street, I am disheartened that the beloved characters should have been drafted into this enterprise. Sure, Disney owns the Muppets now, and nobody could be more commercial than the company that spawned Mickey Mouse, but I am still disappointed. I guess I had hoped that the Muppets could have remained pristine and commercial-free, in one last frontier devoid of hucksterism.

And then, what should arrive in our mailbox recently? This year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. And, who is featured in it? Barbie! The favorite toy of millions of American girls for generations.

I am uncomfortable with these two scenarios and am trying to explain the discomfort to myself, so I put this out to you readers.

I’m certainly not against the great capitalist enterprise that supports the American economy. I understand that Barbie is a toy. Toy manufacturers have to make a living — as do we all — and they have many employees depending on them for their own security. And Mattel, Barbie’s maker, saw sales slide 13% in its most recent quarter – the all-important holiday season. So, it is understandable that they would want to explore all avenues to reignite interest in their famous/infamous plastic doll. And, as with the Muppets, Barbie was an important part of SI’s readers’ growing up years, so would trigger positive memories among them.

Yet, what was Mattel thinking when they decided that the SI swimsuit edition, the issue that exists to objectify near-naked women, would be an appropriate venue in which to display their signature product? My gut reaction was that Barbie’s appearance in this magazine smacks of child pornography. But then, she doesn’t look like a child.

Which then brings us to the argument that has raged over the doll for decades: Barbie is not a realistic model of an adult human female body, and she represents an unattainable “ideal” that warps little girls.

So, what am I so uncomfortable about? If Barbie had appeared as an athlete in an issue devoted to the Olympics, dressed in ski or luge wear, would I have felt the same? I don’t think so. Modeling positive social behavior – in this case, pursuit of the dream of excellence in sports – I can get behind, even if I personally have the athletic ability of a doorknob.

I’m curious as to how many young girls’ parents “reading” the magazine (“I only buy it for the articles”) saw any problem with this scenario.

Dear readers, please respond!

Misery Loves Company

by 6 Comments

I am writing this post for two reasons: to get the word out about a rapidly spreading problem, and to solicit support for it. Or, more accurately, for myself.  I have been diagnosed with a syndrome called BTK, or Bad Technological Karma. It is not, the experts believe, a serious condition, but it does make navigating everyday tasks quite difficult, and the more advanced our society becomes, the worse the affliction.

You may have had a hint here and there that you yourself suffer from this malady, but have been in denial. BTK starts slowly, and then seeps into every aspect of life. Let me describe the symptoms for you, so that you can see if you fit the profile, and I can find some company in my misery.

But first, some history. The genesis of BTK can be found back in the mists of time, with the VCR and its incomprehensible requirements for programming. VCR brain freeze hit epidemic proportions in this country, but that somewhat minor ailment has mutated, as do many viruses, into something resembling catatonia. This state is induced when one is trying to figure out how to use operate the multiple entertainment objects in the home. Some researchers have attempted to address the ailment by designing a one-size-fits-all remote control, but that device is doubly sinister in its opacity and only serves to exacerbate the condition.

Since time immemorial, or at least since the advent of the personal computer, there have always been computer hardware issues and software concerns: regarding the former, unpredictable freezing and crashing; on the software side, word processing that won’t search, random fonts appearing uncalled for in documents, and …

The disorder continues to spread, however, and it has now affected every aspect of our electronic life. I’m talking about the watch battery that runs out every six months. The microwave oven that sparks and dies. The cordless phone that only works when it feels like it. The car’s keyless entry fob that separates from the ring and disappears, rendering the automobile useless.

If you find that your electronic devices begin to display obstreperous behavior, it may be that you are the cause. You may be suffering from Bad Technological Karma. I would suggest an online support group, but knowing our affliction, it probably wouldn’t work.