The Blaisdell Blog

I am a smuggler.   There!   I’ve said it!    And, yes, there is a measurable lightening of the burden I carry.   It is my fervent wish—no—my hope and prayer that this public mea culpa will remove the dark shroud of guilt that weighs like a leaded blanket on my soul.   You see, the corruption of my act does not extend just to me, but to my child as well.   But before you judge, hear my story, and then deal with me as you will.             My daughter has a soft heart especially where lost or abandoned animals are concerned.   Living on acreage outside of Minneapolis , she had room for her growing menagerie, but none of this served her well when she accepted a promotion to Atlanta , Georgia .   She was going to have to make a move on the run and a call to her mother was the first task on her, “to do” list.                 I was in Minneapolis in three day.   We worked hard, and in this Norman Rockwell picture of mother-daughter bonding, did I anticipate the crime that was ab

There are two animals that God clearly created on a bad hair day: the camel and the moose.               Moose are not native to Newfoundland , but this island now has 4 moose for every square mile of land and Tom and I were hoping to see some of them.    Unfortunately, despite spending a month here, we had not had a moose sighting.   That changed on our last night on the “Rock.”   Moose were introduced to Newfoundland in 1904.   In that year four moose arrived safely from Nova Scotia .   They were “…in good health, had not missed a meal and played when they were let loose.”   The four beasts were released near Gros Morne National Park .   More moose were sent from time to time, but never more than a handful. The moose didn’t need any help.   They looked around, saw a sub-arctic climate, rugged terrain with food and water aplenty and promptly started to multiply.   Surely there was one out there somewhere for us to see. Our last night in Newfoundland Tom and I went to

I picked up the headset and held one side to my ear.   There was the voice—calm, methodical, every tone measured and precise.   In the Gander Aviation Museum I was listening to recordings of air traffic control.                 “Delta one five heavy, this is YQX approach, squawk zero seven seven niner.”             “United two two three heavy, this is YQX, descend to 5500 and hold for approach.”             “American four six heavy, this is YQX, you are clear to land zero three.”               The term “heavy” refers to a wide body airplane.   Air traffic control handles these by the dozen every day.   You would have thought it was any other day.   But it wasn’t.              This was September 11, 2001, and the voice on that headset was calmly and confidently saving lives. American airspace had been shut down.   Nineteen radical Islamist terrorist had hi-jacked four airplanes.   Two had been flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New

Some times there are real advantages to not having a television.   We are currently in Newfoundland and depending on our Sirius radio. The good news is we can get music, Cardinal’s baseball, and--praise the Lord--Fox News Radio.    That means that I got to listen to the Republican Presidential debate.   Since my party is currently practicing its far too familiar circular firing squad drama, I was most interested in the opening act of the Kabuki Theater.   I also consider politics to be a participation sport, so I got out my legal pad, made my list of participants and reverted to a system I have used for years during debates.    I listen (and here is where the radio becomes an advantage) to each answer and score the response.   Failures to answer the question or a “God, motherhood and apple pie” response get a minus sign which is worth zero points.   By the way, saying “I want to restore America ’s greatness” falls into this category. The question “How?” immediately jumps to min

In case the title did not convince the men in my audience to forgo this column, let me warn you right now that both some of the language and one of the references will make you squirm.               It seems that Gwyneth Paltrow is advocating that all women get their vaginas steam cleaned.   Does Bissell even make an attachment for that?   The first thing I thought when I read that was “…what on earth did she spill down there?”   But one must consider the source.             Gwyneth Paltrow is a movie star, but that term just doesn’t mean the same thing now that it did when Kathryn Hepburn and Bette Davis were on the silver screen.   Paltrow is a pale woman.   That describes her skin, eyes, talent and mental abilities.   Balancing that, she has good looks, good breeding   (sired by producer Bruce Paltrow out of actress Blyth Danner), and a high school diploma from a very expensive New York Boarding school.               She is the classic example of a person born on third base

Life is too heavy today; let’s take a walk on the light side.     I miss Chicago .  Between the CBOT ( Chicago Board of Trade) and the Picasso Thing in Daly Plaza , Chicago is a toddling town.   One of my favorite spots was the now closed Mashed Potato Club.  In the winter of 2000 my husband and I had been recently employed by a Chicago based company and were in town for orientation.   We were staying at a downtown hotel and looking for a place to eat.   Tom was scanning the dining guide in the hotel room.                “How does this sound?   The Mashed Potato Club, featuring roast beef, 70 different kinds of mashed potatoes, erotic art and an eclectic crowd.”   Between the roast beef and erotic art Tom had found the masculine version of gustatory nirvana.   We checked the map, grabbed our coats and were on our way.   On the cold walk to the restaurant we decided that “eclectic” meant the presence of an artsy/college crowd.               It must be pointed out that