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Pet Peeves

There’s always something cringeworthy

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the day when columnists led off with “Back in the day . . . ” or “Webster’s Dictionary defines . . . ” people had “pet peeves,” with peeve defined by Webster as an annoyance or irritation. No explanation on how pet — a warm, fuzzy adjective — got hooked up.

Call them what you will, I’m sure peeves surfaced in the Bible, certainly Shakespeare. By any other name the irritations haven’t gone out of date. Perhaps owning them outright lessens the sting.

Mine include:

Prime-time TV ads for generic versions of remedies that treat sexual dysfunction, both male and female. Ditto “all-body” deodorants hawked on prime time cable. Imagine the questions posed by 8-year-olds.

People who give away puppies in the Walmart parking lot enrage me. Some pups go to good homes, I assume. But for others I fear the worst.

Silly yogurt. Like confetti and birthday cake flavors. The silliest is Oui brand, 5 ounces in a tiny glass cup that, unlike jam and mayo jars, has no reusable lid. My favorite yogurt is lowfat Greek vanilla, with a drizzle of real maple syrup.

“Pancake” syrup . . . yuck. Living and working in Vermont for 21 years taught me that real maple syrup — still gathered and boiled down the old-fashioned way by winter-idled farmers — is true nectar of the gods, priced accordingly but worth the splurge. Mix with mustard and use sparingly on broiled salmon and roasted chicken, plain on cooked carrots, oatmeal. Dilute with cider vinegar for salad greens. March was syrup month long before it was basketball madness.

Talking to a machine. Bank, power and cable companies leave me foaming at the mouth. I finally cracked the code: Say “representative” over and over until you get one, who is usually polite and helpful from six time zones away.

TV anchor-and-weather women wearing cocktail or mini-dresses and strappy sandals at 7 a.m. Cleavage and knees don’t go with bacon and eggs.

Event ticket prices. Moore County boasts an inordinately large roster of lectures, plays, concerts and other entertainments both low- and highbrow. But with ticket prices starting at about $25, how can a couple have a reasonable dinner out and attend for less than $100? Student prices are some help but the upshot keeps Gen Now shackled to streaming. I spent college summers working in New York City. We starving students spread sleeping bags outside Broadway theaters at midnight, to cop SROs available at dawn for $5. What fun! But not new. At Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, common folk stood in the “pit” just below the stage for a penny. This practice inspired the Bard to include characters and situations familiar to mosh-pitters.

Remember Johnny Depp as Edward Scissorhands? Current version: Cecelia cellphone hand. She walks through life, cellphone Krazy Glued to her palm, as though awaiting a call from the ghost of Elvis.

Too many burger joints. I’ve heard tell there’s a spot on U.S. 15-501 that is equidistant from six, maybe seven burger emporia. Enough already!

Climate change deniers. If they have a better answer to the hurricanes, blizzards, floods, tornadoes, heat and cold waves I haven’t heard it. Abandon Mother Earth? For Mars?

Southerners running around on the coldest day sans coats. “I’ll only be out for a minute,” they protest. Get a grip — and a puffy jacket or double-breasted tweed. The trick to staying warm is to not get cold in the first place.

Supermarkets that don’t offer rain checks. “Loss leaders” aim to get shoppers through the door. But unless rain checks are offered for specials not in stock I feel cheated.

Politicians who spit out rambling non-answers to pointed questions. “Yes” and “no” aren’t in their vocabularies. I say, throw ’em into the mosh pit!

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It’s in the Bag

The clutch that says it all

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the 1940s, radio personality Art Linkletter would go through women’s purses, creating profiles based on what he found.

He was usually spot-on. Sometimes embarrassing, always hilarious.

Not sure if the Smithsonian has a nook devoted to purse profiles. If not, maybe it oughta make room for this revealing artifact. But instead of a dive into contents, I’ll extrapolate information from the purse itself, notably what sets it apart from ancestors.

In a word . . . compartments.

Some ladies like ’em inside, others prefer the exterior. Notice that both interior and exterior may or may not have zipper, snap or Velcro closures. Some side compartments are narrow with no closure, designed to stash eyeglasses but prone to losing them. Others, square and flat, accommodate a tablet.

No, not the kind with lined yellow pages.

Most women designate one compartment for lipstick and a comb. “Compacts” are so Art Deco, along with bright red lipstick and loose powder. Nothing dates a purse more than a skinny flip-phone compartment . . . except maybe the material it’s made from.

Back in the day, ladies’ winter handbags were hand-held leather of various grades, from coarse cowhide to fine calfskin. Queen Elizabeth II set the style. Call it grandmotherly. Spring meant shiny black patent leather. Come summer, you switched to straw or quilted cotton. The advent of vinyl/plastics resulted in stiff imitation leather adorned with brassy bling. They were big and heavy, even empty. A worse affront: designer knockoffs, an insult to YSL, Louis Vuitton and Chanel, sold on Manhattan street corners. But they did establish one rule: A brown YSL goes with any color outfit.

As for shape/size, shoulder bags took over when women ditched the bridge club for a business forum, a court hearing, surgery schedule or middle-school soccer game. Princess Diana put clutches on the map, primarily to hide her cleavage when emerging from a Rolls. A shoulder bag that left hands free to text Chinese take-out became roomy enough to stash leotards for a workout on the way home from the office. 

Contents, or the lack thereof, offer another readout. Here’s what you won’t find in the modern woman’s handbag: a checkbook; cigarettes and lighter; a wad of “emergency” cash; Chiclets; a single-function car key; an address book; a rain bonnet; movie ticket stubs; a Neil Diamond CD; a map; a pencil; bobby pins; stamps; a tiny metal aspirin container; a handkerchief; a safety pin for the dreaded bra strap malfunction.

How come only men carry handkerchiefs?

Speaking of men . . . remember the man bag, which made a splash in the 1990s? Before the invention of pockets, Renaissance noblemen carried coins in “girdle pouches” without incurring ridicule. And a 5,000-year-old mummy named Ötzi the Iceman was found in the Alps beside his purse. No such luck for 20th century gents when, as I recall, even a plain leather crossbody drew giggles.

These days, the most coveted clutch might be a little thing hardly big enough for an iPhone, designed by Judith Leiber, who isn’t above wrapping a snake around black sequins and charging a few thousand for it at Bergdorf’s.

Now if only I didn’t need four new tires . . .

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In a Word . . .

Finding new life in language

By Deborah Salomon

In 1914, George Bernard Shaw captivated London playgoers with Pygmalion, the story of a highfalutin’ professor of linguistics who transforms a grubby Cockney flower girl into a lady.

How?

By scrubbing her down and dressing her up, of course. Even more important, dressing up her diction and her vocabulary.

“Words, words, words!” Eliza complains, this time to music, in My Fair Lady, the musical adaptation that opened on Broadway in 1956, then on film in 1964, sweeping awards for eons.

Words (and accents, to a lesser degree) are a force, a knife that cuts both ways. The right word (le bon mot, a useful French expression) makes a favorable impression, while a pale one falls flat and an incorrect one can be an embarrassment.

Worst are overused words, like “eclectic,” a favorite of speakers trying hard.

Ideally, an unfamiliar word will be defined by its sentence, therefore appreciated, even celebrated.

Example: Every year, The Pilot enters state and national newspaper competitions. Reporters select their best work for consideration. Last year, I didn’t have much, so just for fun, I entered a food column about using my grandmother’s bent and stained aluminum pot lid, the only extant artifact from her kitchen. The narrative mentioned a friend who buried her burned, worn-out pots in the garden. No, I commented, I’m not that anthropomorphic.

The column was ordinary, bordering maudlin. The recognition it received, I’m sure, was for the quirky placement of that perfect word — a favorite, second only to onomatopoeia, whose definition mimics its sound. Think “meow.” Or “rustle.”

I get teased about using “big” words, mostly for variety. Nobody with a full closet wears the same old shirt every day, so why use the same old words?

One culprit is shrinkage. These days, communications must be concise. Get to the point. Speak clearly. Detailed emails — a pain. Is there an app? Just text, uh, txt me.

Enriching one’s vocabulary, however, has a bright side. You don’t need a university degree or online class, just some intelligent reading material where the writer uses words to paint a landscape, or a portrait, in nuanced shades. Find a thesaurus (a dictionary of words with their synonyms), online or on paper, and pick a word a week, something ordinary, like “quotient” for “amount.” “Unearth” for discover. Slip it into conversation. My favorite orphan word is “provenance,” which sounds not at all like its definition, but which I’ve used to investigate a beaded cashmere sweater found at Goodwill.

Don’t get too hoity-toity. Go literal rather than vague and obscure.

Or not. Better, maybe, go with whatever AI composes, since term papers, dissertations, business letters and short stories will soon flow from its omnipotence, sufficient but lacking moxie.

Great word, moxie.

In the end, words are like clothes; they reveal much about personality, mood, life, taste, experience. The right word livens a conversation like the maraschino cherry saves canned fruit cocktail from dessert oblivion. The study thereof is called etymology and can be achieved sans Henry Higgins, whose motive for upgrading Eliza became more, uh, ulterior than academic . . . if you get my drift.

As for Eliza’s “Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words!” rage, that’s what I call moxie. 

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A Snowball for All Seasons

Another cat finds a comfy home

By Deborah Salomon

For the past 14 years, I have devoted this January column to my kitty companions, the last in a long line of adopted foundlings. Or so I thought. I am an animal person, happiest when in a relationship with a warm furball. But when coal-black, super-intelligent Lucky and fussbudget Missy died within six months of each other, I had a good cry, penned eulogies and announced my retirement, vowing not to weaken unless a hungry, sad kitty showed up at my door one frigid night. Which is exactly what happened. I opened the door. She walked in . . . and that was that.

In March I devoted a column to her, prematurely as it happens, since multiple feline traits have emerged since then. So you cat deniers will have to dread January a bit longer.

I named her Snowball for eponymous reasons: She is covered in fine, wispy, pure white fur — a striking contrast to her pink mouth, nose and ears and, especially, her baby blue eyes. I could have bestowed Farrah since her beauty/coloring reminds me of Ms. Fawcett. Names aside, Snowball is the most gorgeous cat I have ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful in the world. Simply staring at her makes me feel better. Even when she has just removed each kitty-food “shred” from the bowl and strewn them around the mat, a bugle blast attracting an ant army.

But that’s OK because she’s so beautiful, especially after loving a lifetime of tabbies, marmalades, tigers and calicos. I am mesmerized, watching her groom out a hundred tufts of milk-white fur which stick to the carpet like Krazy Glue.

After Snowball’s grand entrance I kept things low-key for a while, to let the newcomer adjust before our first visit to the vet. He declared her female, 2-3 years old, in good health. He was reasonably sure she had been spayed.

Hmmm. Then why the restless week when, more talkative than usual, she showed interest in getting out? No neighborhood toms showed up to serenade the damsel. It passed, as did any desire to explore beyond four window perches where she chatters at the birds and squirrels — a kitty version of The View.

Since I work from home, Snowball and I are best buddies. She quickly established a routine: eat, play, nap, window-gaze, snack, play, nap, eat, get under my feet. She takes wicked pleasure in coming between me and the computer. When I coax her off the desk, out come the claws, morphing Farrah Fawcett into Jane Fonda. When I sit down to watch TV she nips at my legs. Some nerve, she hisses, to prefer CNN’s Wolf Blitzer over my pulchritude.

Maybe Snowball needs a playmate, although I’m not sure her ego (or my shins or debit card) would allow. I Googled cat toys, finding one that promised “hours of invigorating and satisfying play for only $10.” Her reaction: a disdainful glance, not even a swat. Turns out she’s more into aluminum foil balls, easily swatted under the sofa. She does adore chasing the disgusting black water bugs that creep in the back door. Being brushed . . . heaven, the equivalent of the full monty at a Pinehurst salon.

Don’t get me wrong. Snowball is affectionate without being mushy. I’ve yet to hear a purr. She sleeps quietly beside me all night, demanding nothing. Early on I was able to get across that the kitchen counter is not her happy place. But Snowball’s attitude indicates that, beauty being in the eye of the beholder, she is an eyeful.

And doesn’t she know it.

Look, I can’t deny missing Pumpkin, Max, Sophie, Sam, Sadie, Shim, Oreo, Lucky and Missy. Each had a distinct personality, as well as long, healthy lives filled with love and chicken livers, as I hope Snowball will.

Because a thing of such beauty should be a joy almost forever.

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Holiday Trifecta

The lighted candle endures

By Deborah Salomon

Happy Holidays!

This innocuous, one-size-fits-all phrase took hold in 1942, when Bing Crosby recorded “Happy Holiday” (singular), hopeful of raising spirits stateside during the early days of World War II. As time passed, the phrase became a convenient designation, from the first turkey slice on Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day’s final bowl game. Those two words covered Baby Jesus, Judah Maccabi, Santa Claus and a plethora of secular images: chestnuts roasting on an open fire to — horrors — Mommy kissing the fat man in a red suit.

Beginning in the 1960s, Hanukkah, which usually falls in December, was promoted partly for its historical significance but also so Jewish children could light candles and receive small gifts for eight nights. Its message of religious freedom, plus a tiny vial of oil which burned, miraculously, for eight days, still resonates, although crispy fried potato pancakes have become the modern symbol. Kwanzaa, an apolitical, non-religious observance created in 1966, affirms the cultural component of the Black community. All three employ candles in their observances.

This year, since Hanukkah begins at sundown on Christmas Day and Kwanzaa runs from Dec. 26 to Jan. 1, the “holidays” present a trifecta.

My father grew up European ultra-orthodox Jewish — and revolted. My mother’s family: Southern Baptist to the core. So we celebrated the secular Christmas, which flourished in New York City in the 1940s: the stage show at Radio City Music Hall had live donkeys; ice skating in Rockefeller Center concluded with the world’s best hot chocolate; animated windows in department stores lined Fifth Avenue; and, yes, chestnuts roasted on an open fire, sold by street vendors. It was magical. In the final days of WWII and its aftermath, Americans needed all the magic they could get. 

Now, so do we.

What difficult years we have endured. A pandemic killed an estimated 5 million world-wide. Hurricanes, floods, droughts, earthquakes, wildfires. Famine in Africa. Wars and massacres in Ukraine and the Middle East. A bitterly fought political campaign. Inflation. Humanitarian crises.

“Happy” sounds a bit naïve.

Yet the phrase endures. Butterballs went on sale before Halloween. Ditto Christmas tchotchkes — a Yiddish word meaning bric-a-brac. Black Friday spawned pre-dawn bargain-hunters lined up outside Walmart — and now Target, too — for everything from electronics to tube socks.

Through it all we continue to separate the lighted candle from the burning rubble and rushing waters. It’s what inspires people to deliver Thanksgiving baskets to families who can afford neither turkey nor the means to roast one. It helps organizations collect and wrap new toys. It keeps Project Santa’s Earl Wright distributing a thousand shiny new bikes to children on Christmas morning . . . for nearly 20 years.

Somehow, through war and famine, secularization and commercialization, “the holidays” have endured because we need them.

Acclaimed (Jewish) songwriter Jerry Herman, of Hello, Dolly! fame, said it best in the Broadway production Mame about the December following the 1929 stock market crash:

For we need a little Christmas

Right this very minute

Candles in the window

Carols at the spinet

Amen to that. And Happy Holidays, whatever one you choose, to this kind, generous community.

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Chill Pill

The lost art of relaxation

By Deborah Salomon

“Relax!”

How droll.

I was reading a piece about the lost art of relaxation that found italics and an exclamation mark necessary to emphasize their point. Seems to me relaxed folk don’t require italicized commands. Then I remembered the TV commercials for inducing sleep, the ultimate relaxation, with appropriate background sounds: rain falling, birds chirping, leaves rustling.

“Ah . . . !”

So it’s come to this: A pleasant, restful state of mind has become just another download. Sitting and staring into space a no-no. Every nanosecond must be filled with thought, problem-solving, Beyoncé, something. Then, when the brain wears out, we are ordered to Relax!

A similar fate awaits the napper. Back in the day short power naps were in fashion. Some employee-friendly offices provided napping chairs. No time anymore for refreshing 20-minute snoozes. Gotta check the stock market, the weather, NFL scores. Did I miss Aunt Hattie’s birthday? Soon, restaurants posted “Turn off cell phones” signs, not necessary with vibrate and text. There they sit, next to the cutlery.

Technology has become the enemy of relaxation. An entire generation has progressed from pacifiers to GameBoys to iPhones to Siri and AI functions I can’t even name. Just pondering it creates tension.

The really scary part is how this relaxation wasteland has spread from Generation Whatever to their grandparents who, instead of a relaxing daydream, struggle over Sudoku and Wordle.

I notice this in waiting rooms which, devoid of magazines since COVID, have become mailrooms, newsrooms, download parlors. In my files covering 30-plus years, there remain three columns about air travel, especially the decline of people-watching in departure lounges. This pastime requires keen observation, imagination. Relationships play out over whether to spend $5 for a cup of coffee, or who packed the earbuds. Outfits go from gym-chic to military fatigues to beachy flip-flops. From business suits to pre-stressed jeans. On long layovers I entertained myself by concocting stories about couples and how they met, sometimes laughing out loud, all without clutching a slippery little electronic device.

Then, the crazy lady with no visible cellphone would don big sunglasses, yawn, stretch out and relax.

I suspect relaxation has a chemical element that creeps up slowly, silently, largely unnoticed. It is the transitional state between hectic brain activity and sleep, a twilight zone visible on no screen, whether set to airplane mode or not.

It is delicious, refreshing, blissfully unproductive.

Of course relaxation can be achieved by other methods — a walk in the woods on a chilly afternoon; watching a toddler build a skyscraper from alphabet blocks; staring into a fireplace as pine logs sputter and burn; petting a kitten; feeling the spray of a waterfall — all in person, not online.

Like the time I strolled by a house where an elderly gentleman sat alone on the porch, head leaned back, hands idle, smiling.

“Hi there,” I said and waved. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’.” He waved back.

Right answer.

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The Perfect Month

Farewell to heat; bon voyage to humidity

By Deborah Salomon

October. Not a mellifluous word. Unlike April, May and June, not a name for a baby girl, either. But oh-so-welcome.

Looking through hundreds of columns from a dozen publications, I see a pattern: In my life, seasons call the shots, index the memories. Subjects range from Cape Cod Julys with three kids and a cranky basset hound to skiing in March, when a warm sun turns powder to slush. May means dreaded hay fever. Gray, raw November finds Tom turkey thawing on the screened porch. August is when denim blue ring binders and black and white-splattered composition books fill the stores.

But for me, the most beautiful, the only perfect month, is October — even though here, the feel of October may not arrive until the calendar says it’s the early days of November. I’ll know it’s October because one morning I’ll wake up to air squeezed dry of humidity and temps beginning with a 5, not a 7. The afternoon sun may fall low on the horizon but our pines don’t respond by turning a New England red, yellow and orange.

Years ago, I found one scrawny maple bordering Dollar Tree on Brucewood Drive. Its few leaves were bright red. I make a pilgrimage to it every October.

These autumn allusions result from living most of my life in New York, Vermont and Canada — also Asheville, which puts forth a decent October although nothing as pungent as MacIntosh apples being pressed into cider. The finest French pastry cannot compete with October’s first cider doughnut. But watch out. Every rose has a thorn. This process attracts yellow jackets eager for a last sting before the first frost.

Without October, hooded sweatshirts would be superfluous: too hot for September, not warm enough for November. All summer I daydream about fleece against bare skin. That and football, from the days my son was the high-scoring running back on his high school team. Otherwise I’m cool on football — a brutal sport, difficult to understand, painted in mud, blood and sweat on the evergreen turf.

Corduroy and flannel appear on autumn’s fashion runway. Nobody rakes leaves in Yves Saint Laurent.

October, I’ve noticed, reverses summer’s deleterious effect on appetites. Soup and stew reappear with chewy sourdough for dunking. Oatmeal regains its stature, in bowls and cookies. Beer is celebrated, as though it needs a fest. After months of grilling, cooks fire up the oven for a meatloaf to create thick sandwiches on rye for Saturday’s tailgate with real football folks.

I looked up holidays assigned to October; most are silly and commercial except for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when pink rivals Halloween orange and black. One year KitchenAid marketed a bright pink stand mixer.

In colder climates October stands as the bittersweet portal to winter. Not here, where golf is played on Christmas Day and nobody buys snow tires. But to me, month number 10 will forever remain the glorious conclusion, the reward for surviving June, July and August when the electric bill is more dreaded, even, than the bugs.

So, once again, welcome, October. I am so ready.

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A Case of the Whys

But without the wherefores

By Deborah Salomon

Several conundrums pertaining to recent events are driving me bats. Help me reconcile.

The Constitution stipulates an age requirement to run for president. I’m assuming an upper number wasn’t necessary because back then, life expectancy hovered in the 60s. Teddy Roosevelt and Calvin Coolidge died at 60, George Washington at 67, James Garfield at 49. Time to revise?

Why are cars built to achieve 80-plus mph in a few seconds when that speed could cost the driver dollars, points, license revocation? It’s like advertising burglary kits or frozen obesity entrees.

Why have the arbiters of women’s hairstyles decided to uglify their groupies with an oeuvre I call The Weedwacker, which starts with a severe middle part and devolves into angles that frame the face like a barbed wire fence? On purpose. But there they sit, six little TV anchorites in a row, fingers plugged into electric outlets to refresh the coif. To my knowledge, the last gal to get away with this austere look was Mona Lisa.

Looming large: the flight plight. Hopefully, the IT crash in mid-July was a one-time deal that shut down American, Delta and others, leaving passengers to sleep on terminal floors. I’m talking about frequent reports of tires falling off, fires breaking out, windows cracking, near mid-air collisions, turbulence injuries, spoiled food. Holy Biscoff! We’re way past recalling bygone days when meals were hot, booze free, “stewardesses” young and friendly, passengers dressed up and on their best behavior. Not even a double Bloody Mary would allay fears when an aircraft packed with 200 sardines drops 10,000 feet in 20 seconds. Maybe calamities were hushed up in the past. But c’mon: On a chilly flight, I was told blankets were only available in business class. So I wrote a letter to the airline’s “customer service” department. They replied with an apology and, of all things, two drink vouchers.

Inflation comes in many sizes. Tucked in the back of my linen closet was a small box of tissues. Must have been there quite a while because the label read 115 tissues. The box I usually buy lists 85 but felt a bit light recently. Sure enough, only 70. The price, however, had crept up. Reduction in contents without shrinking packaging is an old trick now evident in dozens of items, like cookies. Caveat emptor and read the fine print, not that knowing makes a difference.

Thou shalt not drag politics into an “art and soul” magazine. Agreed, but fashion isn’t electioneering. Ever wonder why the vice president prefers pant suits? Hillary Clinton’s situation doesn’t apply. One theory has her being taken more seriously in male attire. Poppycock. European potentates alternate skirts and pants, no problem.

Say it isn’t so. The mighty Charlotte Observer will reduce print editions to three days a week starting in September. Some eras end with a bang, others with a whimper, others with the sad rustle of newsprint.

“Elocution” or “diction” training should be a given for cable TV’s talking heads. Once off teleprompter they wallow in “well . . . uh . . . ah.” At that salary level I expect not only fabulous ties and interesting earrings but complete sentences.

Whew! Feels good with those pesky conundrums off my chest.

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The Brain Game

Digesting dinner for $1,000, Ken

By Deborah Salomon

When Jeopardy! starts appearing in obits you know it has become part of Americana without being slapstick or offensive. Instead, the 30-minute TV show elevates erudition to entertainment on several levels. This isn’t just another quiz show. This one has heft.

Recently, a deceased fan was memorialized for shouting out loud when he scored an answer. Because it owns the 7 p.m. time slot, family members are still gathered for dinner, so competition gets keen. I’ve visited homes where a kitchen TV enables simultaneous eating and watching, normally forbidden but here allowed as “educational.”

I am a long-term addict as were my kitties Lucky and Missy, who — I kid you not — would appear for their nightly tussle to the opening music.

I’m convinced the mystique began and ended with Alex Trebek, the Canadian-born host, somewhat professorial, yet friendly, in impeccably tailored suits and clipped mustache. No rowdiness or slapstick screech as on Wheel of Fortune or (ugh) Family Feud, which I call “Family Lewd.”

Trebek died in 2020, at 80, having hosted his last show a few days before his death. In July the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp in his honor. Fittingly, the stamp bears not a likeness, but a question. The answer: Alex Trebek.

Settling on a replacement was a rigorous task undertaken by producers who paraded out a series of pretty and not-so-pretty faces, including the NFL’s Aaron Rodgers. In my book they were all chocolate syrup on chopped liver, but none as bad as Mayim Bialik, of zero charisma, a wardrobe from hell and embarrassing flubs. Bialik proved so painful I stopped watching for a while.

Then came Ken Jennings, the $2.5 million-winning contestant with no hosting experience, only a sweet smile and endearing lisp. OMG, I thought, they’ve got Doogie Howser subbing for Sir Laurence Olivier.

But the little Munchkin in Ivy League uniform has grown on me, although I get the occasional vibe that he’d rather be answering the questions than asking them.

However, other changes — some during Trebek’s reign — don’t fare as well. Categories are esoteric, more specialized. Science, for example, demands professional credentials. I’m not bad at opera, art, food, lit, famous people, politics and vocabulary, but pre-Victorian English kings are just a bunch of Roman numerals. As for geography, I’m lost beyond the Balkans, especially Asia and the Middle East. Africa? Not a clue. But this backfires, comically — upping the difficulty causes contestants to bypass obvious but often correct answers. The result? More players are professionals with photographic memories, sharpening their skills at trivia contests.

I wasn’t familiar with trivia contests. How would you study given the breadth of material? What criteria, I wondered, do the question-writers employ?

Next detraction: spin-offs, almost as prolific as Oreo flavors. Several levels of “masters” tournaments are OK. But daytime Jeopardy!, college Jeopardy!, celebrity Jeopardy!, teen Jeopardy! the “second chance” tournament et al. dilute the appeal.

I learned that how you operate the buzzer is almost as important as knowing the answer. I’ve also observed that, generally speaking, men do better than women, and that a notable number of contestants are attorneys.

Other emotions color my enjoyment. A few champions have been obnoxious, even poor sports when faced with defeat. My heart goes out to those so nervous or under-prepared that they flame out before “Final Jeopardy.”

But Jennings’ ties never disappoint, even if my acuity does.

Whatever . . . watching Jeopardy! is like eating a healthy fudge sundae, even when my critiques hit closer to home than my answers.

Now, here’s one for ya: Whither the name? And why the exclamation mark? Jeopardy is a horse-racing term but the punctuation, forever an enigmatic Daily Double.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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Dream House

Home, sweet imaginary home

By Deborah Salomon

These days, what with high interest rates and low inventory, house-shoppers are lucky to find anything, let alone a dream house. This shouldn’t keep wannabees from daydreaming.

I do, although unlikely I will ever own another house, let alone anything dreamy.

In the past 16 years, I have written about more than 200 houses for PineStraw, sporting every possible feature, learning along the way that living space often defines a person. I’ve seen a classic mansion built during Pinehurst’s Gilded Age with a walk-in closet retrofitted as a control room for systems — temperature, lights, alarm, locks, music. I’ve seen Alice’s topsy-turvy down-the-rabbit-hole abodes, and kitchens with gadgetry so fantastical it defies explanation. So, it’s only natural that, price notwithstanding, I would daydream my perfect home — and hope that you’ll do the same.

Heading the list: an ultra-powerful generator. I’m not satisfied with juicing up the fridge and the AC. For the duration of any outage I want lights, ice cream, a hot shower and CNN. Sure, I could endure a tepid shower, but without a hair dryer I’d be forced to hide under the bed.

I’d want at least two bay windows, with low window seats so the resident pet(s) could watch the world go by. No blinds, no shrubs to obstruct their view. However, a lilac bush should rise up below the bedroom window so that on cool summer nights I might open it a crack and drink in the perfume. I’ve actually experienced this one and believe me, it’s divine.

The kitchen must have a pot rack low enough for me to reach. This could be a headache for tall folk — I’m 5 feet, 2 inches tall. As for burners and/or sink in the island — also used as a breakfast bar — no thanks. Too much going on, too messy, potentially dangerous. But my island needs an electric outlet for the mixer/blender/processor so I can spread out while baking.

Heated bathroom floors and towel racks don’t make the list, nor does a warm toilet seat. But a heat lamp over the shower exit would be lovely.

With a nod to yesteryear I’d appreciate a cold pantry: a shelved closet with a secure-fitting door and a window that could be opened on winter days to thaw the turkey or cool cauldrons of soup and prevent potatoes from sprouting. Even with two refrigerators and a screened Carolina room a cold pantry is useful, at least during the winter.

I’m a basics gal but might indulge in soft lighting glowing from trench ceiling moldings in living and dining rooms, perhaps upstairs hallways, which I’d leave on all night.

Swimming pools require major maintenance. No thanks. Lap pools, too specialized. But I just discovered plunge pools — long and narrow, 3- to 5-feet deep with submerged benches along the side, perfect for jumping in to cool off, or water walking, which is excellent exercise. A lot less expensive, too.

Now, the kicker: My dream house has only two TVs, neither jumbo. One would have a built-in DVD player for the stacks of perfectly good discs I have saved. They would be linked to a service provider that removes all ads for prescription drugs whose possible side effects include nausea, diarrhea, shingles, cancer, blindness, stroke and death.

Dream on, Deb. Ain’t gonna happen.

But wouldn’t it be nice?  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.