Shift your eyes a few inches to the right and look at my calendar, for sale on Zazzle. Big Places, U.S.A.--some of my photos of places where you can take a deep breath.

I wish Zazzle didn't price things quite so high but since it cost me nothing but time to put it up there, it's worth a shot. It's not just a calendar ... it's a place to rest your eyes and busy mind. And it's made with love.

Happy New Year.

Labels: 2010, calendar, new year, photography, shopping, travel, travel in america

In a not unusual occurrence these days, I reported a story (this one was for the Dallas Morning News) but ever-shrinking space in newspapers meant it never saw ink. Which is particularly ironic in regards to the back story on doing that story, which involved a weekend getaway with friends and my car broken down on a country road.

I went to see, Jen Yates, who writes the ever-brilliant Cake Wrecks blog. She was in town promoting her new book, which you should buy. It includes some old favorites but also lots of never-before-seen wrecks. Buy it through this website and I make a few pennies on the sale. Nothin' wrong with that. I don't shill what I don't genuinely love and I genuinely love the blog and the book.

So anyway, since I went to the book signing and wrote the story that never ran, I decided to air it here, along with an e-mail interview I did with Jen.

A Cake Wrecks book is icing on Jen Yates' cake

Nobody is more surprised than Jen Yates by the success of her Cake Wrecks blog.

It all started when her husband John signed them both up for a cake decorating class as Christmas present. “He thought it was one night, but it was 16 weeks,” said Yates, speaking before a standing room-crowd at Legacy Books in Plano on Saturday. “Sixteen weeks of togetherness,” she added with a grin.

In May 2008, a friend e-mailed Yates, who lives in Orlando, Fla., the first Cake Wreck photo (“…Under Neat that….”) A few hours later, Yates launched the blog she thought would entertain just family and friends. By July, she had hundreds of visitors daily. Within months, book publishers were contacting her. She turned them down. “I said, ‘You guys are really desperate.’”

Finally, though, she agreed. Now Cake Wrecks (Andrews McMeel Publishing, $12.99) is in book stores and the blog gets about 75,000 views and 50 submissions daily. Although, Yates says, “not all of them are carrot-jockey quality.” And that made her fans laugh.

Cake Wrecks fans know their Wrecks and most have a favorite.

“The Darth Vader baby shower cake,” said Rachael Hilst of Carrolton, who purchased two books for Yates to sign—one to keep and one for a friend.

“I like the misspellings,” said Jessa Waterman of Frisco, who wore a Cake Wrecks “I want sprinkles,” T-shirt.

Stephanie Ellis of Denton is partial to “mini hot dog riding a poo wave" because it was her submission, photographed at her local Kroger. That was a good week, she said. First her Wreck was accepted, then her boyfriend Kyle Bradbury—also at the event—proposed.

Though technical difficulties at Legacy killed her slide show, Yates wasn’t rattled. “I’m here, you’re here, there’s cake here, so we’ve got a party,” she said, and instead took questions from the crowd, proving to be as funny in person as on her blog.

She cited photo cakes as a trend on the wane. “I think people realized it’s a little odd eating someone’s face.” She reported that, “Some bakeries have told me they flat-out refuse to make cupcake cakes now.” She said she sometimes hears from moms who confess that they’re disappointed when their child’s birthday cake comes out perfect. And advising the betrothed couple on avoiding a wedding cake wreck, she said they should have it delivered early and, “Don’t have your Aunt Nancy give it a whirl.”

Before people lined up for autographs and some chocolate cake supplied by Bronwen Weber at Frosted Art Bakery, it was time for the cupcake contest—miniature “Wreckplicas” on cupcakes. From about 15 entries, Yates selected three finalists. The winner, chosen by audience applause, was “Push, Olivia Push,” the site’s first censored cake, complete with little fondant censorship bars. All finalists received carrot-jockey necklaces and the winner, professional baker Nicole Honsaker of Keller, also went home with a Cake Wrecks apron.

...

....OK, here's where things tail off in this story, 'cause it then went on to talk about Jen's husband falling horribly ill and being hospitalized in Dallas. It was pretty scary at first and they were stuck here while he got back on his feet. But all is well now and they were able to reschedule tour dates they'd canceled.

E-interview with Jen Yates

You’re hilarious--do you write all your own material?

Aw, thanks! Yep, everything with my name on it is all me. (I occasionally have my husband John or my sister-in-law Anne Marie guest post.)

Do you have an all-time favorite Wreck, and/or a favorite Wreck theme?

There are too many fabulous Wrecks to have just one favorite, but I especially love the misunderstandings (like the flash drive cake) and the Beyond Bizarre category. Trying to understand just why someone would put little plastic babies on icing carrots can hurt your brain, but it's also guaranteed to tickle your funny bone.

Do you think you're seen everything a Wreck can be or are you still sometimes surprised?

Every time I think I've seen the creepiest, ugliest, or most ridiculous cake imaginable, I get one even worse - or better, depending on your perspective. So yes, I still get surprised! That's part of the fun of writing Cake Wrecks; I never know what to expect in the inbox each morning.

Do you ever hear from the bakers whose Wrecks are featured?

Not very often, no. We've had a handful of bakers ask us to remove something they made - which we always do - but of those only two or three were particularly nasty about it. Most bakers seem to have a sense of humor about Cake Wrecks, and these days we actually get quite a few of them submitting their own cakes!

A friend (and passionate Cake Wrecks fan) wonders if your hostility towards cupcake cakes is due to some childhood birthday party trauma.

Hah! Well, if so then I've managed to repress it pretty well. ;) Besides, cupcake cakes are a relatively new creation, aren't they? Before I started Cake Wrecks I'd never even heard of them. No, my disdain for CCCs is easily explained: they're ugly, messy, and, you know, pure evil. Obviously.

(BTW, the same friend suggests that your next book should be Make Wrecks, a cookbook showing step-by-step instructions for reproducing the “more terrifying” cakes in your collection. )

Whoah there, I'm not so sure we should be encouraging the Wreckerators! Heh. Although, a lot of readers do recreate their favorite Wrecks, and send me the pictures. You can't ask for sweeter fan mail than that!

Labels: blogging, blogs, cake wrecks, dallas, jen yates, legacy books, naked mohawk baby carrot-jockeys, plano

I learned so much while working with Audette Rackley, of The Center for BrainHealth on the book I Can Still Laugh: Stories of Inspiration and Hope from Individuals Living with Alzheimer's. The 13 individuals with dementia whom we profiled, and their caregivers, were warm and friendly, smart and determined, open-hearted and unforgettable.

The book profiles members of the Stark Club, an intervention program at the CBH named for the charismatic Temple Stark, one of the people whose story we tell (and who is quoted in the book's title). The CBH focuses on strength-based intervention--in other words, they figure out what skills and strengths people with dementia retain and help them do those things as long as possible. For example, because Temple retained his ability to read for a long time, the CBH arranged for him to read to children at the Callier Center for Communication Disorders, also part of the University of Texas at Dallas. The children, many of whom had hearing impairments, adored Temple, who joked that it was a perfect set-up, "Because I can't read and they can't hear." It was this sort of humor and good nature from Stark Club members that helped make what could have been a depressing writing job inspiring instead.

The Stark Club brought together a group of people with early-onset Alzheimer's--they developed the disease in their 50s and 60s, while they still held jobs, had children in college, looked forward to continuing long, active lives into retirement and beyond. The club met on a regular basis for guided discussions, led by Audette and graduate students, slowed down and targeted to allow everyone to contribute. This helped maintain members' cognitive functioning as long as possible and helped stave off the isolation and depression that exacerbate the symptoms of dementia.

But the book is not just about the meetings; it also is about the individual members, each of whom had his or her own strengths. The chapters look at the many ways they lived active and engaged lives for as long as possible. As Audette said to me at our first meeting about the book: "When you've met one person with Alzheimer's ... you've met one person with Alzheimer's." People with dementia are no less individuals after the disease than they were before.

What the CBH hadn't really expected when they formed the Stark Club was the intense and very important bonding that developed among the members, who understood each others' challenges and fears in ways even the most compassionate and knowledgable caregivers never could. Support groups for caregivers are common, but members of the Stark Club (as well as the caregivers) became a tightly knit group. They grew to rely on each other for emotional support, understanding, and fun--they had parties, outings, a couple of the couples even took a cruise together.

The members of the Stark Club were all very successful professionals before the disease struck. I was terribly nervous about my first Stark Club meeting, but that anxiety dissipated the minute I entered the room--it was like entering a boardroom while a conference was in session. The conversation was more free form, but everyone in the room contributed to his or her ability and the warmth and camaraderie were palpable.

This book, self-published by the CBH, was actually released last year, but it was kind of unattractive and expensive and I was a little reluctant to promote it. But now it has been redesigned and the price is right and I am proud and happy to spread the word. I learned tons from the members of the Stark Club and you can too. We included not only inspirational profiles, but also practical tips and advice.

Many of the people in this book are no longer with us but, as the title says, they wanted their stories to bring hope and inspiration to others facing this terrible, still-incurable disease. I think of all of them often and feel grateful for having had the opportunity to meet and work with them. In fact, many of the lessons they taught me about living with Alzheimer's apply to life in general--lessons about living in the moment and appreciating the here and now.

Working with Audette was also a great pleasure--she taught me so much, our writing styles were compatible, and she was lots of fun.

Labels: alzheimer's disease, alzheimer's support groups, audette rackley, center for brainhealth, congnitve science, dementia, university of texas at dallas

Today is release day for the latest anthology to which I contributed. Here, I get to say what I never got to say to a former friend who dumped me.



If you're interested, I also contributed to this anthology, compiled by the same editor:



Ah heck, let's go for broke. I'm in this, too:



So start that holiday shopping early!

Labels: anthologies, books, cats, friendship, travel, writing

Here's a new post for you, though it's an old story.

I've been thinking about this short story, written when I was in my 20s, because of the story about which I wrote this blog post, for The Introvert's Corner, my Psychology Today blog. Life imitates fiction. Like the character in this story, the author of Spiral Jetta thought she would find romance and poetry in a roadside bar but ended up sneaking out and fleeing when the exotic started feeling threatening.

Trucks

By Sophia Dembling

There was almost no one on the highway but Elizabeth and the trucks.

It was the dinner hour on a lonely stretch of Interstate between Arkansas towns. Elizabeth had been driving since morning. The beginning of the journey was receding, but its conclusion was still distant place at the end of a long road. She was neither here nor there.

It had been pretty easy. She got in the car and got on the road. A small street led to a big avenue, to a state highway, to the Interstate. But there she was struck by the distance she had to travel and the solitude of the journey.

The Interstates are a place in themselves, but that is no place. Designed for passing through, they allow no leisurely meanderings. Elizabeth was in new places before she even realized she had left the old ones. Signs led her from city to city, and in between was mostly billboards and nothing. The houses that sat by the Interstate were stripped of their intimacy, exposed to millions of passing eyes. Some had probably been cozy until the Interstate plowed through and changed everything.

This time of day, when the world is bathed in gray, always made Elizabeth feel as though she was dying -- as if it were not the light that was slipping away, but her life. Even with her headlights on, she made no impression on the darkness that descended on Arkansas. The radio was a tinny rattle. She had it on for company, but it made her feel lonely and far from home.

After the jilting -- an ugly, painful affair -- she had sold what she could, packed the rest in her old blue Chevette, said a few tearful good byes, and begun her journey. She thought it a brave adventure, when she didn't think it a foolish gesture or a cowardly retreat.

While the Chevette held the road with determination, the trucks possessed it with assurance. They shook the car as they passed, sucking it into their wind, pulling it faster and faster until it broke free with a shudder and the trucks sped off into the distance, points of red light disappearing into the twilight.

They moved with purpose, carrying America's products: Levis, Oreos and toilet paper, Jiffy Pop and Pontiacs and widgets and gears and cows packed nose to butt on their way to becoming burgers. Next to the trucks, Elizabeth felt inconsequential in her little car full of clothing and small mementos.

She could see nothing of the drivers but an occasional arm hanging out a window or a shadowy face in a side mirror.

She passed a roadside rest area where a dozen of the great machines were parked. Elizabeth imagined the drivers napping in the little bedrooms behind the cab. She wondered if they hung pictures of their wives and girlfriends inside. Thinking about it made her feel less nowhere. Even the road is somebody's home.

She turned the radio to a country-western station and sang along loudly with Johnny Paycheck, but her voice was immediately swallowed by the highway. She passed a sign welcoming her to Tennessee and imagined another chunk of land falling between her and who she had been.

As the last light faded, she was overtaken by a convoy of five trucks. They came up behind her suddenly, then ground and rumbled into slower gears as the road began to climb. Carefully arranging themselves on the road, they settled in at the speed limit, surrounding the Chevette. It was like driving in a school of buildings. Elizabeth's car seemed practically lifted off the road by the great wind and roar.

When they reached the top of the hill, the trucks reorganized with a series of signals, flashes, crunching gears and lane changes and Elizabeth lost them as they barreled down the other side. But climbing the next hill, she caught up with them and rode their wind again.

This went on for miles. It was a game, a dance. Elizabeth moved aside politely when a truck came up behind her, flashed her lights to let him know when he had cleared her and could move into her lane. Sometimes the drivers honked in appreciation and Elizabeth would wave, but she didn't know if they saw her.

It made her feel safe to see the same arms hanging out the window, the same license plates, the same "Wash Me," written in dust on the back of a truck with a load covered by a filthy blue and white striped tarpaulin. It was a mobile neighborhood.

An arm with a tattoo and blue shirt hauled a massive piece of machinery, or maybe it was just piece of a piece of machinery. It was round, it had valves and bolts. Elizabeth couldn't even guess at its purpose and the scale was almost frightening. She admired the muscles of the arm. The man who dumped her had slender arms and serious eyes and a million excuses for not making love. She didn't imagine the arm with the tattoo made or needed excuses.

A load of boat trailers was hauled by a beefy arm with hair that was turning white. The cab was painted with elaborate gold scrolls and identified the owner as Arthur "Bud" Uerlich of Tulsa, Oklahoma. A skinny arm with thick, black hair drove a moving van.

She imagined that from their high perches, the truckers could see only her legs. In shorts and barefoot, Elizabeth felt exposed. It seemed so intimate to be witnessed in her little pod, all her dials glowing.

And it was exciting. She was aware of the size of the trucks, the size of the men driving them, the size of the country she was crossing mile by mile in the deepening darkness. She had only ever driven as far as she needed and no further. She had only ever loved boys with skinny arms and no tattoos. She had only ever done the sensible thing.

Now she was Interstate. Everything was dark and fast and she was part of something big.

After about an hour, the trucks began a ponderous set of maneuvers that put them single file in the right lane. Elizabeth let them all pass and dropped in behind the last truck to see what they would do, as they were obviously working in unison. Ahead glowed neon announcing the Hi Way Truck Stop, a huge, brightly lit plaza that offered Food! Showers! Clean Restrooms! and Diesel. Dozens of trucks rested out front.

Elizabeth flipped on her signal, retaining her place behind the van as the line of trucks exited the highway. She would eat at the truck stop among the truck drivers. She was one with the road.

While the trucks pulled around to the side of the restaurant Elizabeth parked out front, next to the four or five other cars that had ventured into the land of the behemoths. Her legs were a little wobbly and the lights of the plaza were jolting after the soothing darkness of the road.

The walls of the dining room were decorated with hundreds of gimme caps bearing the names of trucking firms and horse ranches. Under the clatter of silverware and rumble of conversation, a small television droned on the end of the counter and a jukebox played Hank Williams, Jr. Along one wall was a row of huge booths with seats covered in red vinyl. Formica and chrome tables and chairs filled the rest of the room.

Elizabeth sat at a small table against the wall. There were just four other women in the room -- two waitresses, a fat middle aged woman sitting with a fat middle aged man, and a woman at the counter who might have been pretty before life got hold of her. Otherwise, the room was about half filled with men who surely belonged there.

A waitress with ratted blonde hair slapped a menu in front of Elizabeth.

"Coffee?" she asked, not looking up as she swabbed the table with a soggy grey rag.

"Please," said Elizabeth.

She opened the menu. Behind her, she could hear new customers entering.

"Hey, Texas" said a voice close behind her.

Elizabeth froze. What had revealed her point of origin? Then she remembered her license plate and looked up to see the tattoo, a grinning skull, standing by her table. Attached to the arm was a young man with a sunken chest, angular face, dark shock of hair and a day's growth of beard.

"You eatin' all alone?" said a bearded man in thick glasses and a cap.

"I reckon we'll sit right here and keep you company," said the tattooed man. "Since you been keepin' us company for so long."

He sat at a table across a narrow aisle from Elizabeth and the others joined him.

"My name is Ray," he said. "This here's Charlie." The bearded one grinned. "That's Bud," -- Arthur "Bud" Uerlich looked to be in his fifties and wore a sharp flattop. Another man, muscular and with mournful eyes and a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth, walked up to the table. - "An' this here's Don," said Ray. Don sat at the table with the others.

The waitress returned with Elizabeth's coffee. "Are you boys bothering this young lady?" she asked.

"No we ain't," said Ray. "We're just gettin' acquainted."

"Well don't you bother her none," said the waitress. "What'll you have?" she asked Elizabeth, without displaying any sign of being an ally in the strangeness.

Elizabeth ordered a cheeseburger and the waitress turned to take the orders of the truckers. When she was gone, Ray turned back to Elizabeth.

"Where you goin', Texas?"

"New York."

"New York, eh? New York City?" Elizabeth nodded. "I been to New York City. That's a helluva place. A helluva place."

"A helluva place to git ripped off is what it is," said Charlie. "What you wanna go there for?"

"I'm moving there," said Elizabeth

"Where you moving from?" asked Ray.

"Dallas."

"Dallas," said Charlie. "Now Dallas is all right. I've had some real fine drunks in Dallas."

"I think," said Bud quietly, gaining the immediate attention of the rest of the men at the table, "I'd rather live in Dallas than New York City any day."

"That's the truth, Bud," said Ray, and the others nodded in agreement.

"It's awful crowded there," Bud continued slowly. "And I never seen any place so dirty."

"I've got a friend there," Elizabeth explained.

"Must be a special guy to get you to drive all that way," said Ray.

"It's a woman."

"You drivin' all that way for a woman?" Ray was incredulous.

"I thought it would be fun to live in New York," said Elizabeth. "She talked me into it. She needed a roommate."

"Don't seem like a very fun place to live to me," mumbled Bud.

"Ain't you got no husband?" said Charlie.

"No," said Elizabeth.

"You're pretty cute not to have no husband," said Charlie. "What's the matter with you?"

The men laughed.

"Maybe she don't wanna get married," said Don. "Maybe she likes being a free woman."

"I do," said Elizabeth. "I like being free."

"How free are you?" Charlie said, and the men laughed again.

Elizabeth, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men, was relieved to see the waitress approaching with an aluminum tray heaped with food. She served up the dishes like a dealer flipping cards. The men's table was laden -- great steaming mounds of mashed potatoes, slabs of roast beef in thick brown gravy, bowls of yellow green broccoli, baked potatoes, hamburgers, eggs, bacon, grits, French fries, pie, coffee and Coca Colas.

Elizabeth bit into her cheeseburger. Ketchup, grease and blood oozed out, forming a small pool on her plate.

The men didn't say much while they ate. Don commented on the good weather they'd been having and the others grunted in assent. Bud gave his opinion on gun control, prompted by a news item on the television.

"Somebody comes after something that belongs to me," he said quietly. "I'm gonna blow his head off. I don't care what the law says."

Elizabeth ate silently. The burger had little bits of gristle in it and her soda was flat. The smell of the truckers' food was making her queasy.

"What you gonna do in New York City?" Ray asked through a mouth full of roast beef.

"I don't know. Get a job I guess," she said. "I sold clothes in Dallas."

"You work in a mall?"

"No. In a boutique on Greenville Avenue."

"Ain't that where all the bars are?" asked Don.

"There are bars there. There's other stuff, too. Stores. Restaurants."

"I just been to bars there," said Charlie. "Met a real nice girl there, once. Texas women is the best lookin' in the country."

"You drivin' that whole way by yourself?" asked Don.

Elizabeth nodded.

"You gonna drive all night?"

"No, I'll stop somewhere."

"Shoot," said Charlie. "You can stay with me. I was just about to catch a few winks here. Course, we wouldn't have to sleep."

Ray laughed.

"Shut up, Charlie," said Don. "She don't wanna catch none of your diseases."

Elizabeth looked at Don, her savior. His face was puffy and his dark hair dirty, but he was attractive. He caught her staring and winked at her.

"You got a nice wife at home," said Bud.

"I guess I'll have to go to a motel," said Elizabeth, trying to play along, hating the conversation.

"Don't you mind us," said Ray. "We been on the road a long time. A pretty girl just gets us thinkin'."

The thought of their thoughts frightened her a little.

Elizabeth left her hamburger half eaten and ordered another cup of coffee.

When the men finished eating they leaned back, lingering over their coffee, smoking cigarettes and complaining about someone named J.J.

"That sumbitch has his head up his ass," Bud said. "Pardon my French," he said to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth nodded.

"Shit,'' said Charlie, without even an apologetic glance at Elizabeth. ""He's too busy worrying about his dick to worry about his job."

"Well, a man's dick is his best friend,'' said Ray. "Ain't that so?" he said, turning to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth knew women who would know what to say to such a statement; she knew there was a certain bantering tone required, a way of joking back that would let them know she'd been around and could take their nonsense, but wasn't going to. Except she didn't know how to do all that and so she just turned red. Ray grinned and turned back to his conversation.

Suddenly, Elizabeth was embarrassed by the incongruity of her presence in the restaurant. The truckers' mystique seemed to have been left outside in their rigs.

Why had she expected poetry from them?

In their eyes she was just an unwanted salesgirl driving across country to a crummy place for no particular reason.

Ray's tattoo leered at her.

Elizabeth got a five dollar bill from her wallet and tucked it under her plate. She stood up.

"Where you goin', Texas?" said Ray.

"I've got to get back on the road," she said. "New York's a long way away." She attempted a friendly smile.

"Well, don't go yet," said Charlie. "I was just gonna take a shower."

While the men laughed, Elizabeth slipped away. As the door closed behind her she heard Ray shout, "So long, Texas."

The parking lot was loud with the roar of idling trucks and the buzz of neon. Her car was quiet and warm. It smelled slightly of the apple she had eaten earlier that day. She turned the key and flipped on the headlights. The dashboard lit up. She pulled out of the bright plaza and onto the highway, the road unfolding before the small pool of illumination her headlights cast. The Hi Way Truck Stop slipped into the darkness behind her.

Elizabeth drove another two hours that night. She stayed in the right lane and let the parade of trucks rumble past her.

Copyright 2009 Sophia Dembling

Labels: fiction, interstates, spiral jetta, travel in america, trucks, writing

I don't know when I first published this. I do know that we got a new DVD player and are free of that damn remote.

----

Today’s topic for discussion is design.

Not cool design. Bad design. Specifically, bad industrial design—the kind of design that makes you aware of design, since unless industrial design is intrusive, we barely notice it.

I will start with bad design as it relates to my morning toilette.

In my shower is a metal corners shelf. I bought at Bed, Bath and BEYOND (insert echo here). It’s got a tension pole and we store our shampoo and conditioners and multiple rusty disposable razors on it. The other day, I noticed large unsightly black flakes in my tub. The tension pole was rusting and large pieces were flaking off. You would think the designers would have considered the possibility that a shower shelf would get wet. I mean, I’m not a professional, but….

Out of the shower, on to the sink. For some reason (so they can sell more toothbrushes) toothbrushes have undergone a renaissance. I can only imagine the toothbrush-related problems that inspired this ...toothbrushing-related carpal tunnel syndrome? Toothbrushes flying out of people’s hands, causing injury to spectators? Fortunately, new-model toothbrushes are ergonomically designed, with all sorts of strategically placed bulges and grips. Toothbrush holders, however, have yet to catch up with these new-generation toothbrushes. The bulbous toothbrush handles don’t fit in holder holes.

Clearly, this industry needs a confab to discuss the future of bathroom organization. Our toothbrushes lie willy-nilly around our sink and that annoys me.

Time to dry my hair. My hairdryer has an on-off switch right where my hand wraps around it, so that I’m continually accidentally turning it off mid hairdry. It’s a small annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. Ugly words are spoken.

And now, to dress. I found a pair of wide-leg low-ish slung pants at Ann Taylor that fit so well, I bought three pairs in different colors. The pants fit wonderfully but they require a belt. So, why no belt loop in the center back of these pants? They have loops on the sides, but in the back, where you really need to keep things in place—nothing. Was it really worthy saving the fraction of a cent it would have cost to put another belt loop on when you consider the hours of irritation this causes your customers?

That concludes the grooming part of our discussion, but now I would like to give a special award to the remote control for our Memorex DVD player which, I learned from customer service, is “for some reason” not compatible with any universal remotes.

This remote is about 1.5 inches wide by 4.5 inches long. Tiny. It has itty-bitty buttons marked with itty-bitty type that, even if I fetch my Walgreen’s old lady magnifying glasses, is hard to read. I have to stand under a light and peer.
In addition, there is nothing intuitive about the placement of the buttons. The on-off button is on top, the open-close button is somewhere in the middle, the pause button is nowhere near the play/start/rewind buttons.

And, oh yes, the remote is the only way to access menu buttons on the DVD player, so that’s not an option.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I think of things I’d like to say to the rocket scientist who designed this remote.

It's kinda like the old you, minus accessories. Not so exciting, really.

It's been a long time since I mocked Dillard's. But this one touched my heart.

Labels: advertising, dillard's, fashion