Spring Cleaning My Address Book

Confessions of an Address Book Pack Rat

Weighing in at over 4,000 personal and business contacts, my address book is officially out of control. It’s the electronic equivalent of the mafia: once you get in, you never get out. I’m reasonably friendly and outgoing, but I don't think it's humanly possible to personally know 4,004 people. In real space that’s a 37 pound Rolodex. One shouldn’t have a phone book the size of the phone book.

The size never bothered me until I bought a Black Berry. Synchronizing my computer address book with my Palm was quick and easy, but it takes an eternity on the Black Berry. I can go for a long European style lunch, come back and it’s still not done. Ironically, if I’m not there in the last 10 minutes of the process, it crashes my computer.

The fine folks at Research In Motion have assured me that they have no idea why this happens. It’s never happened before with any of their other customers. Yep, I'm special. One technician gently suggested that I switch from ACT to Outlook. Apparently all of Christendom uses Outlook, but I don't want the hassle of changing programs. That's a little drastic. I’m gonna try downsizing first.

A good place to start: closed stores, outdated business contacts and friends from grammar school. Can you really call someone a friend if you have to crack open a year book to remember what they look like? I have a very close personal friend who left the business three years ago to start a tree farm; or so I found out when I called last month. I guess I should have called more often; or taken the hint when my Christmas cards were returned "Addressee Unknown."

The easiest to delete are the closed businesses. Restaurants come and go in New York so quickly, I'm not sure why I bother inputting them in the first place, but I really loved Mr. Leo's. It was a wonderful upscale soul food restaurant in Chelsea that served the best honey dipped chicken I've ever had. Sorry, Mom. I have a rule against eating messy food in public. That means no hot wings, no ribs, no barbequed anything. Part of it is ettiquette, part of it is vanity. I was taught that proper ladies don't sit at the table and knaw on a bone like a famished lioness in the wild. Food stuck in your teeth and sauce on your cheek doesn't make a good impression on the first date or the 50th. But self consciousness went out the window when I had Mr. Leo's Honey Dipped Chicken. That was the quintessential meaning of finger licking good. And finger licking, by the way, is not necessarily horrible on a date, depending on what you have in mind for dessert.

But I digress.

I was told that Mr. Leo's went out of business when Mr. Leo himself was robbed and killed leaving the restaurant late one night. I don't know if this is true or if it's just an urban legend among restauranteurs who don't use a bank courier to handle the days receipts. For all I know there wasn't even a real Mr. Leo, just some guy named Otis who had a great honey dipped chicken recipe and a dream.

Another place that stayed in my address book long after it closed was Dosanko's. It was a great Japanese restaurant that boasted an amazing ginger salad dressing, and served a better than expected fried chicken. It wasn't honey dipped, but it was tasty. If Mr. Leo's was number one, then Dosanko's was number one A. Sorry, Mom.

Two things are evident: I like chicken, but chicken alone won't keep a restaurant a float. Or, more accurately: if I like the chicken, the restaurant is doomed. This would explain KFC's continued success.

There are moments when sifting through my address book is like skipping through a mind field. In trying to get rid of the dead weight, I've come across actual dead people like Mrs. Franklin, my sixth grade teacher. Mrs. Franklin was one of those teachers who cared. She loved teaching and she loved us, her occasionally raucous class of 28 eleven year olds. She was a petite woman with auburn hair and a penchant for losing her glasses. She had two pairs: one for seeing and one for reading. When either pair slipped to end of her nose and she looked at you from over the top of the frames, you knew you were in trouble. She was like your mom and the principal all rolled into one. I heard through the neighborhood grapevine that she had passed away, but I didn't have the heart to delete her name from my address book. It felt like I'd be deleting part of my childhood.

Worse though, is coming across people in my phone book who I’m not sure about. Dead? Not dead? You can’t exactly call up and say, “Hey? Are you dead? No? Just checking.” I could just send them a Christmas card and see if it gets returned, but that doesn't necessarily mean dead. It could just mean relocated tree farmer.

It’s also a bit creepy calling people you think are alive, only to find out they've died. That happened once. I called an old aquaintance just to say hi and catch up, but was told she had died a few months earlier in childbirth. I was sad, of course, but also confused. Women don't die in childbirth anymore do they? Had my phone call been routed through the "Twilight Zone" and into the middle ages?

Apparently The Grim Reaper has also been hard at work, whittling down my address book. Between the two of us I'm down to around 3,500. Five hundred businesses and people who were once important enough to enter into my address book have been deleted. My Black Berry still takes over an hour to sync, but at least I've gotten it to stop crashing my computer.

My next project will be tackling the size of my My Space. As of last week I offically have over 1,000 friends. Give or take one or two, that's 9,995 people who I don't personally know. I hope they’re okay.

Mid-Week Post: I Guess I Gotta Talk About Imus... Well, If I Must...

I'm not a women's college basketball fan. I have nothing against basketball in particular, but sports in general does not hold my interest. Whether it be men or women, college or pro. I just don't dig it.

I'm not a fan of Don Imus either. I have nothing against Imus personally, but from what I understand his show is on WFAN, a sports radio station, which I don't listen to on account of me not being a sports fan.

This week, two things that hold no interest for me are commanding the headlines and because this story involves other woman of color I'm expected to have an opinion. Actually most people assume they know what my opinion is. They envision me balancing a hectic schedule of firing off any angry emails and going to revival tent like protest rallies.

Well, for the record here's how I feel:

The Ladies of the Rutgers Basketball Team are not special. Over the years Don Imus has said nasty and inflammatory things about everybody. This is not news to his producers, the stations that carry his show, his fans or his sponsors. As a matter of fact the more outrageous the better; the better the ratings, the better the sales. Imus's callous character has made a lot of people, including himself a lot of money. For them to take the "high road" now is disingenuous. I am not fooled. These are probably the same people who in the past made money off Bob Grant and continue to support the likes of Howard Stern.

I am also amazed at how many people have inserted themselves in between the offender and the offendees. Should we not be asking and supporting whatever remedy the Ladies of the Rutgers Basketball Team want? I am leery of those who ask for tolerance, but give none; who preach forgiveness, but don't practice it. I think the Women of Rutgers are more than capable of speaking for themselves.

Yes, Don Imus made a big mistake. And clearly that mistake was not leaving the act of disrespecting Black Women to the professionals. Rap music, videos and culture have made misogyny into a multi-billion dollar industry. Although truth be told most videos seem to prefer permed hos; nappies need not apply. Maybe if Imus had crafted his ignorant comments into a track with a banging beat, no one would have noticed. All sins are forgiven if you can dance to it, right?

What is truly puzzling to me in all of this, is that it seems that Don Imus learned nothing from the Michael Richards episode. Perhaps now in their mutual unemployment, they’ll have time to commiserate.

But on the bright side, and yes there is one: This ugly episode has pushed Anna Nicole Smith's baby daddy drama off the front page; at least for a minute.

All Wrapped Up In The Yellow Belt Blues

In martial arts, beginners wear white belts, the most advanced students wear black; the colors in the middle, however, are up for grabs. At my martial arts school the progression is: white, blue, yellow, green, red, brown, black. While it's great to keep your eyes on the prize of earning the coveted black belt, it's fun to enjoy the rainbow along the way.

Earning and receiving a new belt of any color is an achievement. It's a tangible acknowledgement of your dedication and a symbol of your increasing skill. My first major milestone was graduating from white to blue. Blue is a pretty color, all the more beautiful to me because it's not white. With my cute blue belt on, hand wraps to match, I felt like I was moving up in the world. I'm still no Bruce Lee, but then again, who is?

Martial arts is hard on the hands and hell on a manicure. So until we have national health care with subsidized spa priviledges, I do my best to guard against injury. I wear handwraps under my boxing gloves to protect my hands. If you've ever broken a finger or sprained your wrist then you know that the one-handed life style is a challenge conducive only to pirate-style swash buckling; but modern day pursuits like typing, eating, and driving are best done two handed.

Most of my fellow students don't wear hand wraps at all, far less bother matching them to their belt. It's not necessary to match, but why not learn to fight with fashion and flair. It works for Naomi Campbell.

I must confess, even with yellow hand wraps at the ready, I did not enjoy getting my yellow belt. At my previous martial arts school, yellow was the next color above white. I know every school is different, but getting a yellow belt at my new school after blue felt like a demotion.

At my old school I studied Aikido, which I believe is a very woman friendly form. It doesn't so much fight your attacker, as much as use their own energy against them. I loved it. I'd like to think I'd still be doing it if work and my ego hadn't gotten in the way.

At the time, I was travelling a lot. I missed so many classes that each time I went back it felt like I was starting from scratch. It became hard to see fellow classmates with more consistent training schedules advance far ahead of me. As they say in AA, compare and despair. Eventually I became too frustrated and embarrassed at my lack of progress. I stopped going when I was a yellow belt.

So at my new school, not only did a yellow belt seem like a step backwards, it reminded me that I was a quitter. It became the color to beat. And to make matters worse, yellow is not my best color. It does nothing for my skin. It was a happy day when I got my green belt. The curse of the yellow belt was broken. I never thought of green as being "my color" until one day my husband said it was pretty on me because it brought out the green in my eyes. Sold. Now I have enough green in my closet to get me kissed on Saint Patrick's Day; my green belt a pleasant addition.

Now I am working towards my next belt, very exciting since red has always been my favorite color. With hand wraps to match I'll look like a kick ass candy cane. Someday I'd like to go for my black belt. That goal requires uber dedication and fortitude, but with my yellow belt blues behind me, I’m inspired. Besides, not only is black the color of mastery, it'll look great with any color hand wraps.

I'm Sorry I'm Slim

They say you should never apologize for who you really are. But that's not true. As the nation becomes increasingly over weight I feel the need to apologize all the time because I’ve been slim my entire life.

I’ve never dieted. I’ve never purposely had low fat, no fat anything. I tried yogurt once. I had to have a milkshake immediately afterwards to cleanse my pallet and restore my faith in dairy products. I’ve never counted calories. Is it anything like counting sheep?

I was cast in a commercial for Lean Cuisine, the healthy frozen food dinners, and my friends were furious. "You skinny, Bitch!" they said with love. "You’ve never had to eat Lean Cuisine!" I know and I’m sorry.

I’ve never seriously belonged to a gym. Oh, I joined one, but it was a misguided attempt to be romantic. My husband goes to the gym so I thought I’d join and hang out with him, but my heart wasn’t in it. The gym, not my husband. He goes to work out. I go to chit chat. I guess we’ll stick to dinner and a movie.

I should have known better. I hated gym class in high school. I wasn’t very athletic, and thought sweating in public was not only undignified but impractical. If it took me an hour and a half to get ready for school in the morning, why did I only get five minutes after gym to shower, change and go to my next class? I mean really, is a whole hour of softball absolutely necessary?

Being naturally slim does have drawbacks. I was a bridesmaid in a lot of weddings because I could fit whatever god awful dress the bride picked out. Lucky me. I know it was about the dress and not true friendship because these same women never asked me to be a god mother to their children or a character witness at their divorce proceedings. I’m just a photo op friend.

Being slim does not automatically mean you’re in shape. That's a myth that doesn't take into account if you’ve got tone, strength or flexibility. But the outwardly svelte are openly ridiculed, god forbid, we decide to eat right and exercise. I’m not sure why, perhaps it smacks of showing off. People think, "How dare you want to be slim and healthy! That’s just selfish." There’s more support for the people who are trying to lose 20 pounds than for the people who are trying to prevent the pound pile up in the first place.

That’s why I don't tell a lot of people that I practice mixed martial arts to keep in shape. I've come a long way from my high school gym days, and it’s been great. But recently. My school announced it’s annual 90-Day Fitness Challenge; a combination of training and eating right. I wasn’t exactly eating wrong, but let’s just say if there’s a cure for bacon, I don’t want it.

I looked over the list of foods to avoid and panicked. No pasta? I live on spaghetti, linguini, angel hair, ziti and bow ties. Yum. I had no idea it was bad for me. Somebody should tell the Italians. Bread’s bad too. According to nutritionists, it's the work of the devil. Okay, add white bread to Satan's resume. Somewhere in the Vatican archives is a Da Vinci of the Devil in an apron and a chef's hat, baking up a batch of bread.

Sugar’s on the list. I expected that. Sugar is my down fall. My favorite fix of the moment is the Dunkin Donuts white hot chocolate. I'm blissfully addicted. One per day with whipped cream on top? Yes, please, and make it a double. But, God help me, I’ve given it up for the 90-day challenge.

In a white hot chocolate deprived fantasy, the president of Dunkin Donuts calls me and offers to personally bring me an extra large cup. That’s because my selfish desire to actively be in good shape could very well bring about the ruination of this hither to successful donut franchise: declining sales, plummeting stock price, world markets descending into chaos.

And so, once again, I’m sorry.

The Price of Puppy Love

I’ve walked pass The Local Puppy Palace many times without going in, but today - in celebration of it’s 10 year anniversary - a sign in the window offered "A Free Goodie Bag for Your Furry Baby!" The Mister, my moody seven-year old Cocker Spaniel, is hard to please; a picky eater who turns his nose up at most of the treats I give him. Milk Bones? What dog doesn’t like Milk Bones? The Mister. Oh he’ll take them from me, but he rarely eats them. For days on end a bone will languish in various spots around the house: the hallway, the office, the bedroom, apparently anywhere my foot is likely to find it. He’s also been known to stash a few under the couch like a squirrel storing nuts for the Winter. When the famine comes, he’ll be ready.

So the offer of a free goodie bag was very enticing. A chance to find something The Mister would like, without spending money? Sold! I walked into The Local Puppy Palace intending to get my free goodie bag and bolt, forgetting completely that I’d have to make it past a passel of puppies in the process. Ay, there’s the rub.

Separated by breed, the palace pups lay in beautifully appointed baby cribs like little furry babies. As I’m sure it was calculated to be, I felt the vise like tug on my heart and the tidal wave rise of my maternal instincts.

The free goody bags were at the register, at the far end of the store, reachable only by walking through the gauntlet of cribs. Who could resist stopping to peek as the puppies rustled around in their newspaper lined cribs. Pure breeds all, they were quite adorable, but it was a little Silky Hair Terrier that caught my eye.

So small. Her ears were bigger than she was. When I reached into the crib to pet her, she hoisted herself up, grabbed my hand between her tiny paws and gently nibbled on my fingers. It was love at first lick. She was trembling a little so I picked her up to calm her. She felt so tiny and fragile in my arms, weighing less than my handbag. Not even as big as a baby. Somebody help me.

Appearing out of nowhere, like good sales people do, the clerk told me that this little ball of love was only three months old and would grow to be five pounds at the most. Wow, she did weigh less than my handbag, and would probably fit nicely into it without making it noticeably heavier. I imagined bringing her home. Would she make a nice addition to the family, a companion for The Mister?

So I ventured into dangerous territory and asked the question:

"How much is she?"
"Thirteen hundred."

The background music in my head abruptly changed from "How Much is That Doggie in the Window?" by Doris Day to "Can’t Buy Me Love" by the Beatles. I was so stunned, all I said was,

"Dollars?"
"Yes, but we’re running a special."
I’m sure you are.
"$200 off."

A Rover Rebate. How thoughtful.

Sensing my firm ‘no’ as a mere hesitation, the Clerk brightly informed me that financing was available. Really? Well that made all the difference in the world. Now the answer was definitely, no. I’d finance a house, a car, an education, but a dog. No, Sir. What if I defaulted on the payments? Would they take the dog back? Would I be living in fear of the Puppy Repo Man? Get my purse snatched not for my wallet, but my dog? No can do.

Although a pure breed himself, The Mister was not a store bought dog. We rescued him from a shelter. He’d been abused and abandoned by his former owners so I never knew him as a pup. I would have loved to have held him in my arms as I did Miss Silky and give him a good home right from the start. What wouldn’t I give to have done that? Eleven hundred dollars.

I eased Miss Silky her right back into her crib, picked up a free goodie bag for The Mister and left. At 35 pounds he may not be able to fit in my handbag, but he does fit my wallet. Puppy love is out of my price range.

My Dog Drank My Coffee!

Next Stop Starbucks?

I was sitting on the couch working on my laptop, my coffee cup by my feet on the floor, my dog – a grumpy cocker spaniel named, Rolie - asleep in his bed. Sleeping is his talent. That’s what he does. He’ll be fast asleep in his bed, wake up suddenly, as if late for an appointment, and dash down the hallway to go sleep on the rug in the bathroom. That is how he spends his days, taking a sleeping tour of the house with breaks to eat, go for walks and frequent tummy rubs from those of us who are lucky enough to be in his service.

If he has any vices at all it’s the garbage. Rolie can’t resist digging through a garbage bag when the opportunity presents itself. He’s well fed – our trainer thinks he’s a little over weight and could stand to go on a diet – but the sight of an unattended garbage bag is irresistible to him. He tears into it like the media into Britney Spears’ personal life.

Rolie is the reason we replaced all of our plastic open top garbage cans with metal cans that you have to step on to open. I sometimes see him staring wistfully at the kitchen garbage can. That is his favorite. But Cocker Spaniels are frighteningly smart dogs and I wouldn’t be surprised if what I take for simple reminiscence is really him plotting on how to open the can.

That would explain why he’s not losing any weight. He’s keeping on the extra pounds to aid him in is garbage quest. He’s probably got a goal weight that will allow him to open the can with his back paws, while sifting through the remnants of last night’s dinner with his front.

But other than the garbage, he’s a sweet little dog. So I never thought twice when I got up to go to bathroom. When I returned, my plan was to heat up my coffee and get back to work. I returned however to an empty cup. Not only was it empty, it was bone dry, with a ring of incriminating fur around the top. "Rolie!" I turned and of course the thieving cur was no longer in his bed. Rolie rolled me and then rolled out.

He drank a half of a cup of coffee, and not just any old coffee. It was a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee, that sells for about $50 a pound! The beast has slurped down a $7 cup of coffee. Perhaps he knew the value of it, since he didn’t spill a drop and left nothing in the cup but his fur and my spoon. I was angry, impressed, and a little nervous. A Cocker Spaniel on caffeine?
Excuse me while I lock up the garbage cans and call the vet.