Leaning Into Her Ninth Decade

Heidi's mom is turning 80 in March, and like with most things, she's got some thoughts about how she'd like to celebrate. In fairness, we did ask and offered to organize the party and treat her and her guests. Her birthday conveniently falls on the Friday that Heidi's spring break starts, and we've booked dinner for 18 the following evening at a longtime local favorite steakhouse.

I spent part of this afternoon making the invitation on the web-based design site I favor. I really like the way it turned out, considering I started from scratch: just a blank page, no template. We started gathering the items for the gag swag bags, too. Louise wants Bingo cards, reading glasses, pill organizers, and salt substitute for everyone. She also chose the earliest time available at the restaurant, so we can say we got the early bird special.

Is It Though?

One of my bowling friends gave me a spontaneous hug this morning. "I'm so glad you retired and decided to join us!" she said.

"Me too!" I answered. "It's the best thing about retirement so far!"

Another of our bowling buddies raised her eyebrow skeptically.

"I said, so far," I laughed. "Give me some time; it's only my second year!"

It's Still Bad Out There

We woke to a scrape, then the bleating of a backup alarm, followed by tires spinning on the ice. A moving van was stuck on the tight turn in the corner of the driveway outside our condo. The window on the landing gave us a front-row seat to the crew as they tried first to gun the engine, then to push on the truck's cab, neither to any avail. 

The side of the trailer was stuck on an enormous mound of ice and snow at the edge of the drive, where residents had piled it while shoveling out their parking spaces. We winced when one of the men slid under the back and poured salt melt beneath the tire. "That'll get you killed," Heidi said. But his risk was without results. The van was wedged high enough on the embankment that the wheel was off the ground. 

Next, they produced a crowbar and began chipping away at the pile. At last, one of the neighbors on that side of the complex came to the rescue with a snow shovel, and Heidi followed with our steel forged sidewalk scraper, the perfect tool to break through the ice.

The crew themselves produced some cardboard boxes to wedge beneath the tire, and a little while later, I saw the truck bump down once they had chiseled the ice from its purchase. With a little more shoveling, they were finally able to back the truck up, more than an hour after they had run aground. 

The turn proved to be impossibly tight, however, so they backed the van all the way around the loop road that rings our complex until they could finally pull forward and drive down the entrance hill, rescheduling their call for another day.

Prognostication

"If it snows like they say it will," I told Heidi last week, "you won't go to school at all. Especially with a work day Friday. I'm calling it now."

Nailed it!

Good Neighbors

It's not often around here that we get the kind of snow we had Sunday, and that's a good thing. While the community we live in pays for a plow to clear the circular road around the complex and shovelers to do the sidewalks, residents are responsible for digging out their own cars. With no assigned parking, things can get ugly quickly if someone leaves the space they spent time and energy clearing, only to return and find it taken.

Having lived here for decades, it seems like we've seen a lot of mini-dramas unfold over winter parking, but we've seen a lot of neighborly gestures, too. Naturally, in a community of 186 condos, there has been a lot of turnover in residents over that time, and I'm struck by the markedly different vibes from storm to storm. 

Some years have found everyone out together, shoveling out all the cars on our end. Other years we have witnessed people throwing their snow right in front of a car that hasn't been cleared off yet, doubling the work for that other resident. One recent change I've noticed is that at least two of the young men who live nearby have dug out their neighbors, for a price. These guys in their 20s, both of whom live with their moms, will only lend a hand if they are paid.

This year, too, I've noticed another trend. 🤨 Anecdotally, as I look out my window and see which neighbors are helping the community, it's all been middle-aged ladies, like us, carrying one small shovel of snow at a time to make room for others.

Active Reader

I spent part of my day yesterday resting up for snow removal and reading magazines online with my public library account, which turned out to be more than simply recreational. Aside from the interesting information I gained, my reading also spurred me to action. After enjoying a fascinating article about family Christmas celebrations in Montreal, I considered making plans to revisit that beautiful city. But then I remembered that Heidi's passport expired, and so I renewed it online before even turning the virtual page. It will be here in six weeks, and international travel plans will be back on the table.

Likewise, after reading a charming essay about another author's memories of making orange marmalade with his English granny, "The recipe is basically a ratio—2-to-3-to-6, fruit to sugar to water," he says, I was inspired to satisfy my hankering for a bit of the bitter spread by preserving the oranges I had and making a microbatch of Mrs. Barrenger's Marmalade. On homemade sourdough toast with a dollop of burrata, it was a delicious breakfast this morning, and fuel enough for all the shoveling we did today.

Mystery Storm

We weren't sure what to expect from the much-hyped impending snowstorm. Unlike many winter events around here, this time temperatures were predicted to stay well below freezing throughout the storm and into the next week. And yet, because of warmer air aloft, the snow was also forecast to turn to a wintry mix before ending, which would refreeze on the ground. 

The result was a shower of tiny ice pellets that lasted throughout the day, leaving several inches of granular, almost sand-like snow that partially filled in footsteps as they were left. This unusual precipitation was pretty, but too cold to pack, hard to walk in, and heavy in the shovel. It was fun to slide down the hill on, though. 

Whatever it is? Is still coming down out there, a little wetter now, with temps in the high 20s slated to fall to the teens after midnight. So who even knows what twe'll see in the morning?

You Dropped Something

I laughed when our cat Tibby bolted past me this morning into the bathroom as I came out. She dashed over to the water bowl we keep in the corner for the pets and nosed something indignantly. It seems I inadvertently swept a small bottle of ibuprofen off the counter while performing my morning ablutions, and Tibby wanted me to get it out of there. 

Message received!

No Need to Panic

My plan was to swing by Trader Joe's early and pick up some fresh produce to get us through the coming storm. I had plenty of pantry staples and protein options in the freezer, so some fruit and veggies were all I really needed. Well, those and a gift card for a friend's birthday today, but I figured I'd be in and out in a few minutes, even if the lines were long with other shoppers. 

I did not expect to see a line of twenty people or more waiting outside the store to be let in, though, and neither was I willing to wait in it! A friend had texted me last night, joking about emergency shopping and sending a picture of the huge parking lot at Wegman's, completely full of cars. "Amazon Fresh is fully stocked," he added. 

That's where I headed, too, driving right across the street from the shopping center with TJs. I grabbed myself a smart cart, scanned the in-store QR code, and added everything I needed directly into my reusable bags. Then I skipped the checkout line and rolled out of the store. Meanwhile, across the street, that line was getting longer.

I'm sure our friend will understand the IOU in her birthday card!

I Guess He'll Find Out

 "It has to be lunch time!" the little boy in front of me whispered to the kid next to him. "I'm starving!"

"You can't die from hunger," the other student answered dismissively.

"Yes, you can!" he insisted.

"Not in school," she shrugged.

I looked at the clock. It was only 9 am, and lunch wasn't until 10:45. 

That Worked Out

"Do one small thing that will set you up to accomplish what you want in the next six months," my meditation guru advised yesterday morning. As I considered her words, I thought of all the trouble I have been having with my right foot since I turned my ankle in Maine last summer. 

Despite custom orthotics, exercises, NSAIDs, and a variety of splints and braces, my heel screams every time I walk farther than a few yards. I've been toughing it out, but if I want to get in shape to take advantage of that reservation I finally scored in theGrand Canyon Phantom Ranch lottery, I need to be 100 percent. 

With that in mind, I opened the portal to schedule an appointment with my podiatrist and was pleasantly surprised to find availability this morning at 9:45. He saw me right away and offered several treatment options. One was PT, which happened to be right across the hall.  

Another was an X-ray. "Do I have to call to schedule?" I asked. "You can go there right now," he said. "They'll take you today." The third was a prescription-strength anti-inflammatory, which he sent to my pharmacy. 

After scheduling my follow-up appointment in four weeks, I walked over to PT and booked three sessions. Then I drove up to the hospital and had barely sat down after checking-in when they took me back for my X-ray. I was out of there so fast, I didn't even have to pay for parking. As I headed out of the garage, my phone buzzed; it was the pharmacy: my prescription was ready, so I stopped on the way home to pick it up. 

I walked in the front door less than two hours after leaving home, with a sense of accomplishment and optimism that my foot will soon be better.

Crisis or Opportunity?

I know myself well enough to understand that doing something active early in the day usually gives me positive results. Once I get started, I stay started, but the temptation to sit a while reading the news and drinking coffee can be powerful now that I'm retired. With no strict schedule, I can sit there for hours, and soon it's time to walk Lucy and wait for Heidi to come home. Not much gets accomplished on days like that.

Tuesdays are usually pretty productive; I'm up at 6 to get Heidi off to school, and I have my bowling league at 10. Even so, I sometimes skip my meditation and have to rush through breakfast and showering, just to linger in my comfy chair. 

This morning, though, as I opened the bedroom drapes, the curtain rod came crashing down when the center bracket screw pulled out of the wall. Consequently, I was up on a ladder with drill and drywall anchor in hand, making the repair before 7:00 am. 

Now that got me going! Meditation, shower, and breakfast were all checked off my list by 8:45, and I even had a few minutes to relax in my chair before heading out to bowling.

Anglophilia

My brother and I were recently talking about our mutual admiration of the actress Claire Foy. We agreed that she was luminous as the young Queen Elizabeth in The Crown, and it seems as if she's been a bit underutilized since. 

I was just telling my sister yesterday about my new pastime of reading magazines for free on the public library app. I'm especially fond of those published in other countries; they offer a glimpse into everyday life and culture that feels immersive. They also cover topics that are not widely reported on in the US publications I usually read. 

For example, this morning I read about a new movie based on Helen Macdonald's memoir H is for Hawk, which I read and loved when it came out a decade ago (right around the time the early episodes of The Crown were first broadcast). 

And, what do you know? As HELLO! magazine informed me, the main character is being played by Claire Foy!

Two Decades On

In another case of too much to watch on TV and none of it appealing, we clicked play on the first episode of The Closer a couple of weeks ago. Back in the mid-oughts, when the show was new, we TIVOed it and watched the weekly digital recordings religiously. 

We were a little late to the game, though. The first episode we ever saw was sometime in August of 2005, after the series premiered in May. It was a Monday night in Stonington, Maine, and Heidi, our dog Isabel, and I were staying in an efficiency motel room on the harbor. We had taken the mail boat over to Isle au Haut that morning and hiked the uninhabited side of the island all day. 

It was the same summer that Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was published, and there was a moment on the cliffs on the windward side of the island that I just knew the entrance to the cave that Harry and Dumbledore visit in the opening chapters was right below us. Later, on a cobblestone beach, I fastened a fetch toy for Isabel from driftwood and the line of a washed-up lobster buoy, and she swam tirelessly in the cold water of that little inlet.

That night, the three of us tired and happy, we ordered fried seafood platters and feasted on the saggy couch in front of a bulky cathode ray TV. There were only a few channels available, and we settled on a show with an actor we recognized, Kyra Sedgwick, playing Chief Brenda Lee Johnson of the LAPD Major Crimes unit.

In the way of watching back then, we never saw the episodes of the series we had missed; broadcasting reruns was a thing of the even more distant past. I wasn't sure if I would know it when we got to that first episode, but the other night, when the squad started investigating the death of a young Mexican girl, I knew that was the one, even though the details were very hazy. 

Twenty years is a long time, but the show has held up somewhat well. Sure, technology has progressed, and there's not a single bearded character. The bigotry toward immigrants, women, and the LGBTQ community that some characters flagrantly express may have seemed anachronistic a year or so ago, but you know what? 

That might be coming back around.

Mature Audience

To prepare for the upcoming season of Euphoria, my 18-year-old niece recently re-watched the series. It's been four years since the last episodes aired, and her take on the show has changed a bit. "I can't believe you let me watch that when I was in middle school!" she told her mom. "Those kids are messed up!"

A Little Extra Pep in Our Step

A typical Friday night for 2 50+ladies: dinner, one maybe two episodes of some TV show, and bed by 10.

Friday night for the same ladies with an 18-year-old niece in town: dinner party, late-night crow gazing, corn chip taste test, still having fun at 11:30.

Good Puppy's Choice

 Lucy and I were on the last leg of our walk and passing through the little local shopping district when a sign on a door caught my eye. Holiday Merchandise Half Price, it promised, and below it was a placard that read, Dogs Welcome, so in we went from the cold. Two little boys and their mom were standing near a display midway along the wall, and they were thrilled to see Lucy.

"Dog!" said the teeny toddler.

"Can we pet it?" asked his brother.

"She's friendly," I assured the mom and asked Lucy to sit. Immediately to our left was a jumble of, of all things, squeaky dog toys, on the floor, so the command presented a bit of a challenge, but Lucy is a trooper, and soon her butt was on the floor. 

After the boys said hello, we all explored the pile of toys together. "Which one should we get?" I asked them, drawn to a pair of crinkly sandwiches, one a BLT, the other a PBJ. "Should we let Lucy choose?" They liked the idea, and so they each put a sandwich down in front of them. Lucy had other ideas, though. When I gave her the okay, she snuffled through the pile instead.

"Maybe she's not hungry," I joked.

Just then, she picked out a squeaky plush soda can.

"She must be thirsty!" the older boy said, and collapsed in giggles at his own joke.

In Case

"I can't even imagine living in a place like that," Heidi said as we idled at a traffic light across from a high-rise apartment building. "What would you do in the middle night if your dog had to go?"

"The elevator?" I shrugged. 

"That would be ugly if it were an emergency," she answered.

"Then maybe if there was a balcony, you could put a little emergency area in the corner. Kind of like a litter box for your dog." The light stayed red, so I considered the logistics further, picturing apartments I had been in. "I guess you could also put newspapers down in a bathroom, or the laundry room, if there was one."

Those words hurled my mind decades into the past, from my mother's apartment in Minnesota to the laundry room in our family's first house. "I think we used to put newspapers on the garage floor for our dog," I said, remembering out loud. "And then it was someone's job to change them-- roll up the used ones into a garbage bag and lay down clean ones." 

I pictured the two steps down and the single bulb illuminating a one-car garage in the Levitt colonial we lived in. Our '64 blue Ford Falcon was never in there, but our bikes and the lawn mower were. There was also an empty oatmeal carton with its bottom cut off, tacked to one of the side walls. It was a makeshift basketball hoop my dad created that we used on cold and rainy days with tennis balls, being careful to avoid the dog poop.

The light turned green. "I guess you find a way to make the situation work," I said.

Rookie Mistake

The first-grade students were practicing the trigraph 'tch' during their phonemic awareness lesson yesterday, copying words ending in that sound onto a whiteboard. One of the words was ditch, and as the teacher checked their work, she stopped and tutted at one little boy. He had made a common error of new writers, accidentally reversing the first letter. 

"Boy!" the young teacher said to him. "You better fix that d!" Then she looked at me, checking to see if I was tracking the conversation. I could almost hear her thinking, Please don't let the consultant say that one of my students wrote bitch!

She visibly relaxed when I laughed and shook my head. "I've seen much worse in middle school," I told her. "And they weren't accidents!"

We Have Company!

"Are you a new one?" a first-grader asked me, jerking his thumb toward the teacher and assistant as I borrowed a tiny chair from the desk beside him and sat down.

"No," I told him in a confidential tone. "I'm a visitor!" I pointed to the sticker on my coat.

His eyes brightened, and he did a little happy dance, as if this turn of events had made his day.

"I guess you don't get many of those!" I laughed.

Double Duty

A while ago, Chrome introduced a screen-splitting button to its browser toolbar. Admittedly, once I moused over it to find out what the heck it was, I ignored the little icon that looked kind of like an open book to the right of the home button. Why would I ever want to split my already tiny laptop screen? I thought. 

But tonight, one of its uses became clear to me when I needed to compose my daily blog entry while the Golden Globes were being broadcast. Heidi had gone to bed early with a headache, and turning on the TV and tuning it to the award show in progress seemed like an unnecessary disturbance. I'll just check the award winners so far, I said to myself as I booted up the computer, but quickly changed my mind and streamed it in a classic FOMO moment. But what about the blog?? my conscience countered as glamorous images from the Beverly Hilton sparkled before my eyes. 

Never fear! Split screen is here! And that, dear reader, is how I'm both writing this and watching that. Is it distracting? You bet. Might the quality of my viewing be compromised by the obvious effort I'm putting into writing? Alas, perhaps. But I can only hope the Golden Globes will forgive me for multitasking.

Confuzzled

"We're late!" Heidi called down the stairs in a panic. We had both forgotten about Lucy's grooming appointment this morning, and she had missed the reminder texts asking where we were. She had replied to ask if an hour late was too late, but hadn't heard back. "I just want to take her and see!" she said, so the three of us rushed to the car in the pouring rain.

Right as we rounded the corner with less than half a mile to go Heidi received a text. "It's 11, and I haven't heard from you. I'm going home."

"But she didn't text me back," Heidi said in confusion.

"Call her," I shrugged.

"I'm so sorry!" Heidi apologized when the phone was answered. "I tried to text you."

"Where are you?" said the voice on the other end of the call. "I'm still at the farmer's market."

I turned into the groomer's parking lot as we tried to make sense of the information. "Uhhhh," Heidi stalled, looking at me wide-eyed. "I'm right outside."

What followed was a comedy of errors, based on missed and miscommunication. The woman on the phone was the instructor for Heidi's beekeeping class, trying to deliver the required books before the course begins on Thursday. She had been mistakenly texting someone else and agreed to wait until we could get up to the market. Meanwhile, we received a text from the groomer waiving the cancellation fee but informing us that she had no more openings for the day.

"What should we do?" Heidi asked.

"We're here," I said. "And it's our fault we missed the appointment. Go pay the cancellation fee and book the next available."

Lucy let out a little whine when Heidi exited the car.

"You're off the hook today," I told her, but a minute later Heidi was back.

"They can fit her in," she reported with visible relief. "When I walked in, she took one look at me and said, 'Oh girl! I got you!'" Heidi paused. "Do I look that rough?"

"It has been a rough 30 minutes," I agreed. "But somehow? It's all working out."

Lucy may have seen it otherwise.

Cold Hard City

There were blue and red lights flashing up ahead and to my right as I approached the intersection of H Street and New York Avenue. The light turned red, and my attention was understandably drawn to the scene on the sidewalk. Three emergency responders stood near the steps of the church on the corner, looking at a man sitting motionless, his back to the foot of the balustrade. I watched to see how the man would react to the attention and lights, but he didn't move at all. When the traffic ahead of me inched forward, I could see that his eyes were open, but he was beyond any help the EMTs could offer. He was dead. The light changed then, and I continued on my way.

Just Here for the Chalk Dust

I was observing in a first-grade classroom this morning when the teacher approached a student sitting at her desk, staring into space. "You need to get started on your work," she said sweetly to the girl. "Read the word and then put checkmarks in the boxes that fit," she continued, repeating the directions in case there was some confusion.

The little girl turned to her teacher in disbelief. "I can't read!" she scoffed.

I had to stifle a laugh as I saw the teacher's eyebrows shoot up. She quickly regained her first-grade educator's composure. "That's what we're learning," she explained. "And that's why you have to do your work!"

Sing Again Please?

I noted with interest that one of Barack Obama's favorite new singers in 2025 was one of mine, too. Like the former president, I love Olivia Dean's warm, soulful voice, especially when you can hear her British accent peeking through. 

And although I preferred her single Nice to Each Other even more than her big hit Man I Need, you can still hear me singing loudly along when either comes on the radio. That's how Heidi caught me in a classic lyric blunder the other day. 

We were running errands, and I was belting out the chorus to Man I Need with gusto. 

Tell me you've got something to give, I want it! I sang.

I kind of like it when you call me on the phone, I continued, ignoring Heidi's quizzical look.

Whatever the type of talk it is, come on then
I gotta know you're meant to be the man I need
Talk to me!
Talk to me!

When I parked and turned the car off, the radio stopped, but I didn't. I repeated the chorus a capella as we strolled toward the store.

"I'm pretty sure she says 'wonderful' there," Heidi interrupted me when I got to the phone part.

I was stunned. "I kind of like it when you call me wonderful?" I asked skeptically. "No way! It's all about talking, of course, she says 'on the phone'!"

Heidi raised her eyebrows and shook her head with pity. "Just sayin'."

Oh! But it was that accent I love so much that fooled me! She draws out the first syllable, waaaaaan, and it sort of does sound like on, and then she clips derful. 

So, I forgive myself for hearing 'the phone'. Plus? In the long tradition of misheard songs everywhere, I think mine might be a slightly better lyric anyway.

On the Twelfth Day of Bowling

Like many new hobbies or pursuits might, my weekly bowling league inspired several stocking stuffer gifts, especially from Heidi. In fact, because of backorders and such, I was receiving new bowling-themed items almost every day for the week after Christmas. Among other things, I got an ornament, a rosin bag, a ball sling, and a t-shirt. 

This morning was the first competition of the new year, and I used them all, as well as my favorite little item, a tiny crocheted bowling pin holding a positive affirmation. "You will bowl them over!" it promises.  

Before the holiday, I was in a bit of a bowling slump, but today, on the Epiphany, that little totem kept its word. I put up scores of 122, 135, and 154, a personal best day for me.

Sh!t

The last time I had my car serviced, the oil light had come on well before the recommended time between changes had elapsed. The technicians checked things out, but my adviser suggested I return in 1200 miles for a second look. After driving to the beach for Thanksgiving and Buffalo for Christmas, it was time to take the car back today. The dealership was deserted when I pulled into the bay at 8 a.m., but the crew was as friendly and helpful as ever. 

While they were checking me in, I mentioned that the eyesight feature that assists with cruise control and collision avoidance has been cutting on and off a bit more than usual. "I know it can be affected by glare or ice or road salt," I shrugged, "but it seems like something is off." 

The advisor looked through the driver's side door at my windshield. "Could it be your EZ Pass?" she asked. 

"That's been there for years," I answered. "Probably not." 

She went around to the front of the car. "There's a huge blob of what looks like bird poop," she pointed. "Right in front of the camera." 

I frowned. "It's been through the car wash a lot," I told her. But then I laughed. "Because the crows have been pooping on it regularly! They probably hit that spot all the time."

"That could definitely interfere with the camera function," she nodded. "I'll check with tech, and we'll make sure you get your free carwash!"

Who Knows?

The crows were raising a ruckus in the dark when I took Lucy out for the last time around 11 last night. "What woke them up?" I asked her, but her attention was riveted on a rabbit racing down the drive. "And what's got into him?" I continued. Then there came a raucous rustling from within the nearby woods as something big crashed through the undergrowth. 

We didn't stick around to ask any questions, but instead? Headed right back inside.

Left, Right, No Center

My heart sank this morning when I read the banner headline on my New York Times app that the U.S. had invaded Venezuela to capture Nicolas Maduro and his wife. As I scrolled through the coverage, I paused to read the editorial, "Trump’s Attack on Venezuela Is Illegal and Unwise," which, as the title states, is an unvarnished criticism of the action. 

While I agreed with most of what I read, I wondered what the counterargument might be, and considered looking at a right-leaning publication to explore the other side of the issue. I didn't have to look far, though. Clicking over to The Washington Post's coverage of the event, I was immediately confronted with that editorial board's piece, "Justice in Venezuela."

I was shocked to read a piece so supportive of the military action in a publication once known for its liberal journalism. As I scanned through the reader comments below it, I saw that I wasn't alone. Although the editorial had only been published minutes before, there were already over one hundred responses, every single one of them deploring the view expressed by the board, and many of them informing the paper that they were canceling their subscription.

Oh, what a year it's been.

Trash or Treasure

I spent an hour or so in the attic today surveying a quarter-century's collection of stuff. In theory, I was organizing the Christmas decoration space, but in reality, I was quickly overwhelmed by so many possessions. I want to declutter and downsize, but.

Later, I took Lucy for a walk in the neighborhood, and it just so happened that tomorrow is large-item pickup day for one of our neighboring communities. As we walked, I examined the items that folks were discarding. In just a few blocks, I saw a gas grill, a kitchen island, a vacuum, two Christmas tree stands, several couches and chairs, a mattress with sheets and pillows still on it, some vintage end tables, a bunch of bookcases, pictures, posters, mirrors, and clothes. As the full moon rose, residents were still dragging their discards to the piles forming on every corner. Others were scrutinizing the forsaken possessions as well, many in cars or trucks, and I watched as the grill and the vacuum were loaded into vehicles and taken away.

A little further up the street, as one guy dropped a load, a woman passing by gasped. "You're throwing that away?"

"Please take it!" he said sheepishly as she examined the large cast-iron braiser and lid. "It's a great pan! It's only been used three times, but it's just too big. I don't have any place to keep it." He shook his head sadly. "I would feel so much better if I knew someone else wanted it."

"Thank you!" She told him and smiled at her good fortune as she carried her treasure away.

Meanwhile, he returned to his house for another batch of stuff.

We'll See on March 15

We revived a New Year's tradition and went to a movie this morning. The earliest show we could find was 11:45, and although the lobby and concession stand were busy when we arrived, our theater was sparsely seated and remained so for the movie. No matter, though, halfway through Song Sung Blue, I leaned over to Heidi with a big lump in my throat. "She's going to win the Oscar this," I whispered.

I stand by my prediction! And Kate Hudson's nomination will likely fill some seats.