Improper Poll: Word Nerdisms

Okay, I admit it. This might well be an Old Lady Thing—and a crotchety Old Lady Thing at that. But lots and lots of people mispronounce certain words, and then it makes everyone else think they’re mispronounced, so everyone else does it, too. But does that make it right? In the case of language, yes. When enough people mispronounce something, that eventually becomes the accepted pronunciation. So that just confuses things more.

The current one that I keep hearing is “pedophile.” When I first read the word, I looked it up. According to my beloved Webster, it is correctly pronounced with a long e: pee-duh-fahyl. And it makes sense. We take our children to the pee-dee-uh-tri-shun. Yes, “pee-duh-fahyl” sounds a bit…icky…but let’s face it, it’s an icky thing. So why am I the only person in the world who isn’t pronouncing it like the root word has something to do with feet?

Do you have a word that you keep hearing people mispronounce?

Improper Poll: Frozen in Time

Last week Kay said something interesting. She said that in her mind, she is 32 again.

I thought that was an interesting number. A few years ago, when my son read The Picture of Dorian Gray, and vampire books were all the rage, my children and I had a discussion about staying one age forever. My son made the assumption that, if we all had the choice to be frozen at one age for eternity, we would not only automatically snap up the chance, but we would all choose to be 18. He was shocked when I told him I adhere more to the wisdom of the beloved little Tuck Everlasting, and if forced, I wouldn't pick 18. I would choose something older, like around 32. Actually I was in my best shape ever at 37, but I did have a few Ugly Skin Things by then.

In dreams (the literal kind), I am always somewhere between about 25 and 35. How old are you in dreams? What age would you pick to stay forever if you could?

Do not fear death, but rather the unlived life. You don't have to live forever. You just have to live. And she did. ~Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

Sub Notes: Seen ‘Em All

I was standing in the high school library, subbing for the librarian. “Lookin’ good!” exclaimed the high school boy as he strode by. “Nice hair!”

I looked behind me. There was no one there. “No, the person behind you,” he laughed.

I was sort of horrified. Was he being sarcastic?

He seemed like a sweet, affable kid. Even though most people my age assume teenagers say horrible things about us, I don’t think they really do that much. At least not to our faces. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of them just don’t think of us much at all. Still, it was weird to have some high school kid tell me he liked my I-have-to-be-at-work-by-6:30 AM-hair.

Yet there was something so genuine about this kid. He will be a P.R. guy someday, this one. Or an amazing salesman. I shrugged and thanked him.

It wasn’t till later that I realized it: he thought I was the woman I was subbing for! Because to a kid that age, we really do all look alike. The woman I was subbing for is about my age, and we both have brown hair. That is where the similarities stop. In fact, her hair is much longer than mine. Which explains it. He thought she’d had it cut! I wonder what he thought when “I” showed up at work with long hair again?
 

I once had a high school girl mistake me for a teacher who is about five inches taller than I am and has short, poufy, red hair. Mine is droopy, shoulder length, and brown. But to a teenager, we were both female and have the same number of limbs. Close enough! After all, we old people are pretty much interchangeable.

So I’ve thought of a new job. Whenever parents of teenagers want to run away (which I’m sure happens often), I will hire myself out (for big bucks, of course) to fill in.  I won’t have to disguise myself at all because the kids will never notice I’m a different person. 

Middle school paper that proves spelling counts: "The man fell off a 
 hor   ." 

Improper Poll: Get the Tact, Jack

Tact is a foreign language to me. As someone who grew up in a family which spoke the more harsh Brutal Honesty, I admire the beauty of that other language even if I’m not fluent enough to fully understand it.I learned at a young age that the less I know a person, the more likely they are to speak that other nice language or its even more flowery relative, Bold Faced White Lies.

For example, here are the various responses to the question, “Does this make me look fat?”

Total stranger:  “Are you kidding? You are so emaciated, I think you should gain twenty pounds!  And I really mean it!”

Acquaintance: “Nooo! You‘re so skinny, nothing could make you look fat.”

Friend:  “I’m just not sure it’s really ‘you.’”

Relative:  “No, it doesn‘t make you look fat. You ARE fat. And what you‘re wearing doesn‘t help any, either.”

I sometimes see a dermatologist. I do this because I come from a long line of people who not only speak Brutal Honesty, but also get Skin Things. Some of the Skin Things are merely ugly, but some are dangerous and ugly, too.  So my dermatologist has the dubious job of telling me which is which.

There is something special about my dermatologist, besides his admirable ability to differentiate ugly Skin Things all day. Whereas Tact is clearly not a course requirement in many medical school programs, this doctor has a minor in it.This particular Ugly Skin Thing was on my back, so I waved over my shoulder in its general direction. “See it?” I asked.

Several seconds passed before he replied, “Can you find it in the mirror and point to it?” As I fumbled in the mirror, the translation came to me: Which Ugly Skin Thing are you talking about? They’re all over the place back here!

When I finally managed to identify the correct Thing, my dermatologist hesitated only a moment before giving me the name. They always have a long, official sounding name that means, essentially, “Ugly Skin Thing.” Then he told me they’re hereditary. No surprise there. At this point he spoke one of my favorite lines of Tact, ever. “They’re associated with having lived a nice amount of life.”

Don’t you love it? “A nice amount of life.”  I blinked while the translation sank in. “You mean it’s an Old Age Skin Thing?” I asked. He smiled kindly. I was stunned. At the time I was only in my mid-thirties. Mid-thirties!

He told me it could be removed, then gave a shrug which meant, “But why bother? Who would miss one in this giant field of Ugly Skin Things, anyway?” He handed me a pamphlet which I numbly stuck into my purse, and I slunk out of there.

When I got home, I took it out of my purse and was horrified. The model on the front, in spite of being quite fit and handsome, had lived a much nicer amount of life than I have lived. I would say his amount of life was twice as nice as mine. I was stunned. So I did what any normal person would do. I called my sister. This is because she’s lived a nicer amount of life than I’ve lived, and she’s generally had all of the Ugly Skin Things I’ve had. I described the Skin Thing and gave her the name.

“Oh, I have those,” she said. She told me which relatives had them, too. “Welcome to old age.”

This reminded me. Never ask a medical question of a relative. I will be asking my dermatologist from now on. Maybe I’ll even ask him if my pants make me look fat, too.

Do you have a euphemism that you love?

Sub Notes: A Thousand Lashes

A little sixth grader raised her hand as I was walking around the classroom. She indicated the child in front of her. “Aren’t those the most amazing eyelashes you’ve ever seen?” I looked. Probably a sound came out of my mouth because I felt as if I’d been shoved backwards by the sheer wind force of those appendages.

They resided on a very masculine-looking little boy.

The boy blushed with the horror of his affliction. He looked down, and the lashes seemed to curtsy.

“He cuts them!” the little girl said. The agony, the envy, the indignation and the grief were painful in her voice.

“Nooo!” I grieved with her.

They were exquisite. They looked like an ad for mascara that is supposed to transform the eyes like magic. But these were ironically naked of trickery. They were real, and they were spectacular. They were glossy, sleek, raven-black, at least ¾ of an inch long. They were as uniform as the ridges on a feather, but they swooped upward in a unanimous arc that brought to mind the unfolding wings of a magnificent black swan.

When the boy looked down (with abject embarrassment at his deformity), I half expected him to lift off his chair a bit.

One thing I love about sixth graders is that they haven’t yet learned how to hide certain feelings. Yet they are old enough to try. So in those eyes—which I only caught a glimpse of when the protective wings lifted—I saw a simultaneous war of pride and shame.

“Wow, those are....” Fortunately I caught myself in time. “Those are very handsome,” I said.

 As I turned to walk away, the lashes took a modest bow.

High School Boy (while stroking fuzz on his upper lip): “Dude, when this mustache grows in all fat, I’ll look awesome.” 
High School Girl (overhearing): “Dude, when that mustache grows in fat, you’ll look like one of those porn guys.”

Improper Poll: In a Word

Recently at work I read parts of Life’s Greatest Lessons. In it, the author, Hal Urban, discussed the idea of constantly being reminded by the words “think” and “thank.”

That got me thinking: if you could have one word posted where you would see it every day as a reminder, what word would you choose? I think mine might be the word, “grateful.” The more I see what can go wrong in life, the more grateful I am for the things that are right.

In fact, a friend and I were talking about this the other day. Why is it that the people we know who have it easiest in life are those who seem to think they are perpetually suffering? They have a talent for getting people to rally around them and do things for them while they sit back and complain. These people are invariably masters of the double standard. They don’t seem to return the things they ask for. When asked why, they say it’s because they are more sensitive than others. So sensitive that they will beat people to a bloody pulp with their “I’m Sensitive” signs and then tell them they are mean for running away.

I’m convinced that the happiest people in life are not those who have it easiest. The people who have the things that look like they should be happy struggle so hard to look better than others that I can’t help but wonder if they feel worse.

My friend and I concluded that it’s really the grateful who are the most happy in life. If you could have any one word posted as a reminder where you would see it every day, what would that word be?

Here’s to a happy—and grateful—2013!

Signing and Christmas and Stuff

I know—I’ve been remiss in my blogging, much too bogged to blog. I must nonetheless report that the “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body” book signing was wonderful, and we even got to meet the elusive Val Thevictorian along with some male members of the Thevictorian family.

We collected lots of food for charity and sold an average of 4 books each. Many, many thanks to our friends and family who came out to support us, not to mention to my dear and talented writer friend Theresa Sanders, for doing the work of setting it all up. She begins the preparations at least six months beforehand and did even more work this year to add the extra bookstores.

The above is video footage accidentally shot by my friend Jeffry. None of us knew the camera was on “movie” setting. I thought Jeffry was just one of those people who make you wait forever before he snaps the picture.

Shown left to right are Nina Miller, Theresa Sanders, Dennis Tidwell (co-owner of All on the Same Page bookstore), me, and Patt Hollinger Pickett. 

Friends, family, chocolate, books, laughter…does it get any better?

Which brings me to Christmas, and:

Ten Wonderful Themes of Christmas, No Matter What Your Religion

1. Give.
2. Celebrate babies.
3. Let there be chocolate.
4. Spend time with family.
5. Spend time with friends.
6. Embrace traditions, because we never outgrow them.
7. Make children feel special.
8. Create magic. Believe in magic. Be magical.
9. Decorate. Sing. Get in touch with your spiritual side. One of life’s many paradoxes is that the greatest of people are the ones who know they are not the greatest thing out there.
10. I am now going to reveal what I find is the greatest miracle of Christianity. It’s the miracle that for over 2000 years, so many people worship, as the greatest king who ever lived, a man who was born in a barn. A poor “nobody” who taught that the most valuable riches are found within. Now that’s something.

May Christmas find you with exactly what you value most in life. May it be light in darkness and comfort in need. May it raise humanity to new heights and cause your soul to sing with angels.

"Better joy in a cottage than sorrow in a palace..."    ~ Proverbs

Improper Poll: Death by Christmas Décor

When I was growing up, my mother used to decorate with nostalgia. I don’t mean decorations with a nostalgic feel, either. She had to have every ornament and light that had survived her own childhood—even if her entire childhood would have been outlawed by today’s EPA. I still consider it a miracle that her tree had once been lighted by seriously frayed 1940s bubble lights rather than actual flaming candles.

Then there was the wreath. In life it had been made of real holly, but that holly hadn't seen life since at least two wars earlier. In death it had atrophied and mummified into a vicious, gnarled business I still think of as The Wreath of Wrath. It was a cruel crown of thorns that lived in the bowels of the scary-crawl-space during the rest of the year and drew blood even through the most heavy duty pair of mittens. It was always below zero in Nebraska at that time of year, so the unfortunate Christmas decorator was besieged by all sorts of peril. And guess who was always voted Noel Ostentatious Ornamentation Operator (N.O.O.O.)?

So when my daughter and I decorated, I tried to get an honest look at what I was putting up. Some is trying to be pretty, and some is a little nostalgic, and some is blatantly tacky…or what the children liked to call “fun.” Not only does baby Jesus slumber in front of a strobe-lighted manger of pine garland, but a quilted Rudolf-trophy head presides over the room just because I enjoy its satirical feel.

So tell me: Do you have dangerous décor? Or do you do pretty, tacky or nostalgic? Or all of the above? Or nothing at all?

P.S.-Many, many thanks to those of you who came out to see us for the Fourth Annual "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body" event!!! I will be posting more about this later!

Fourth Annual "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body" Book Signing

Next Saturday is the fourth annual “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body” book signing! This combination book signing and canned food drive has now expanded citywide in honor of Chicken Soup's upcoming twentieth anniversary.

Bring a canned good and receive 20% off your entire purchase. There are three stores this year:

From 10 am to 12 noon: All on the Same Page, 11052 Olive Blvd., Creve Coeur, MO. Picture a cozy and unexpected little reading oasis featuring books from lots of local authors. Featured will be Nina Miller, Theresa Sanders, and me, T'Mara Goodsell.

From 1-3 pm: Main Street Books, 307 South Main Street, St. Charles, MO. Imagine a Thomas Kincaid painting complete with brick streets and horse-drawn carriages, and you will have a pretty good idea of Main Street. Signing books will be Cathi LaMarche, Linda O'Connell , Lynn Cahoon, and Pat Wahler.

From 4-6 PM: The Book House, 9719 Manchester Rd., St. Louis, MO. This charmer looks just like it belongs in a Dickens Christmas Village (both inside and out). Featured writers will be Beth M. Wood, Donna Duly Volkenannt, and Sioux Roslawski.

This is a great day to do your book shopping if you live in the Saint Louis area. If you don't, it's a great day for a road trip! Hope to see you there!

Thankful for The A-Muse-ments

When I had a birthday not too long ago, my WWWPs (Wild Women Wielding Pens) had my back. Literally—they had made my backside in effigy. Except this one is considerably more skinny and uplifted than the real thing. Even the legs might be a tad less lumpy. I have it propped up near my desk where it alternately entertains, motivates, and startles me (due to its resemblance to a small torso).

It even has the cutest little accordion-bundle of words coming out. But flattering though it is, the A**-Muse—A-Muse for short—is a lie.

This whole thing came from a few times when I went to the critique group with something I’d pulled out of a file of old stuff, and Sioux mistakenly thought I’d just written it that day. Sad to say I’m really a slow and plodding writer, who stashes everything having to do with my love of words into computer files. The Computer Guy tactfully refers to it as my “uh…files, and…stuff” because it’s the virtual equivalent of a Hoarders episode.

What I really do is dump large, steaming piles of stinky stuff into that compost heap of files and then give it a stir from time to time with the fervent hope that, given long enough, something will someday actually grow from it.

So one of things I am really thankful for this year is the WWWPs, who are the ones who ironically have wit and wisdom and heart and soul and humor and beauty spewing out of them in abundance. Beth sits down and daintily deposits nearly flawless final drafts on her lunch hour. Linda drops heaping loads of warm, clever published work everywhere. Lynn squirts out almost finished NaNo novels that have us all spellbound (then acts like it’s no big deal). And Sioux releases the written equivalent of a soul-purging frolic on a page…and even shares pictures of (oh la la!) hunky Frenchmen aussi.

Ladies, your tales are the inspirational ones.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Thankfulness does wonders for the soul. ~Hal Urban

Improper Poll: Travels with Guillaume

In all fairness, I was still a child when it first came out. I thought “getting it on” was like getting on with it—running along, moving on. So when that T. Rex song came out, I thought the refrain was, “Get it on, vagabond Guillaume.”

I had no idea who this Guillaume was, but I always wanted to picture hippies wandering around France. Even then I knew Guillaume was a boy’s name, but everyone knew those hippies were weird and gave their children monikers such as “Rainbow Fescue” and “Sunshine Albatross Beef Jerky.”

Lately there’s been a television commercial that uses a few lines from that song, which causes it to get stuck in my head, forcing me to dance around a bit and—horrors—sing. This is bad enough when I actually know the words, but this time I got to wondering if it really was Guillaume getting on with things.

So although my computer is still ailing, I managed to squeeze in some valuable research to find out what the heck those words really are. It was like that time I realized Madonna was singing, “Last night I dreamt of San Pedro,” and not “Last night I dreamt of some bagels.” I’m glad no one ever plays 80s music, because I bet that one would still make me hungry.

So here we are: the real lyrics.

I might just keep singing about Guillaume the vagabond. And P.S.: Have you ever been a wee bit confused about song lyrics?

Well you're dirty and sweet, clad in black don't look back and I love you
You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well you're slim and you're weak, you've got the teeth of the hydra upon you
You're dirty sweet and you're my girl
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on

Well you're built like a car, you've got a hub cap diamond star halo
You're built like a car, oh yeah
Well you're an untamed youth, that's the truth with your cloak full of eagles
You're dirty sweet and you're my girl
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on

Well you're windy and wild, you've got the blues in your shoes and your stockings
You're windy and wild, oh yeah
Well you're built like a car, you've got a hub cap diamond star halo
You're dirty sweet and you're my girl
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on

Well you're dirty and sweet, clad in black, don't look back and I love you
You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well you dance when you walk, so let's dance, take a chance, understand me
You're dirty sweet and you're my girl
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on

Get it on, bang a gong, get it on get it on....

Improper Poll: 10 New NaNoWriMo Terms

I’ve never participated before in National Novel Writers’ Month, or NaNoWriMo. This year I had better intentions—I really did—but it’s already clear I’m not going to make it. This is a shame, because the WWWPs had a logo and everything (see above).

Still, NaNo is such a wonderful exercise for writers, I’d like to try to do something. So while sitting around with writer’s block, I came up with:

10 New NaNoWriMo Terms and Their Definitions: 

1. Not getting your novel started, after all: Na NoGo 
2. Participating in NaNo in a very small way: Nano NaNo 
3. NaNo rule-breaking: NaNo No-no 
4. A NaNo novel about Mork from Ork: Nanoo Nanoo NaNo 
5. Having your word count come up short at the end of the month: NaNoWriTooSlo 
6. Going over your word count at the end of the month: NaNoWriWayMo 
7. Grown woman who sits around writing silly NaNo words instead of writing novels: NaNoDohdoh
8. Snack for late-night novel writing: NaNoHoHo 
9. Failure to make that daily word limit no matter what you do: NaNoWriNoMo 
10. A NaNo book designed to be a guide for prostitutes: NaNoWriMoFoHos 

How about you? Are you a NaNo…or a NaYes? And if you’ve done it in the past, do you have any tips for the rest of us?

Haunted Memories

I used to live on the edge of a forest just outside of Savannah, Georgia. On Halloween, especially, I miss the eerie beauty of the place, where acorns falling from monster Live Oaks sounded like Sasquatch crashing through the woods.

I still cling to the Spanish moss, tillandsia usenioides. It drapes my sunroom—my own way of remembering the way it dripped from those sprawling southern trees like the cobwebs of an ancient and ghostly past.

We had what Southerners called “Black Widdahs,” beautiful spiders, shiny black and leggy and delicate. I watched one once. She folded herself over that lipstick-red-hourglass almost protectively.

But my favorite thrill was watching the migrating blackbirds descend every fall. There were so many thousands that they darkened the trees just like a scene from The Birds. The sound was deafening and the air itself felt electrified. It was eerie and exciting and awe inspiring all at once, like National Geographic-gone-Goth. But the real magic came when they suddenly rose as one to leave. Every single one suddenly fell silent, as if someone had flipped off the volume switch, and they lifted in a hushed, magnificent cloud so thick and black that it momentarily blocked out the sun.

Happy Halloween wherever you are!


Conversation between two trick-or-treaters (as I opened the door while they were walking away): 
Trick-or-Treater 1: Told you that’s not what ‘No Soliciting’ means.
Trick-or-Treater 2: Then what does it mean?
Trick-or-Treater 1: It means hanging around and stuff.
Me: It means I don’t want people trying to get me to buy stuff.
Trick-or-Treater 2: Oh, we don’t want you to buy stuff! We want to take stuff. Your candy.

Improper Poll: Adventures in Reading

I grew up in an old, 2 ½ story colonial that was known among the neighborhood children for “The Attic Man,” the ghost who stomped and slammed around our third floor. My copy of Amityville Horror came with floor plans of the house in which the tale took place. Except for the fact that we had a second-story sunroom addition, it was the mirror image of my house.

But my favorite adventure with scary books was when I read ‘Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King.

I was in high school, and I had the good luck to be reading the book during a violent thunderstorm. My house was groaning under the assault of the driving wind and rain just as the vampires in the book were sneaking into the main character’s house. I seem to remember the vampires couldn’t go upstairs because the lights were on. So they cut the power.

At the exact moment I finished reading about the lights going off, there was a loud crash of thunder outside my window and the lights went out, leaving it so black you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

It was the most perfect timing ever. I’ve read a lot of scary books, but that one will forever stand out to me because of that freak incident. What’s your favorite scary book?

Improper Poll: Let Us Pause for A Word from Our Past

It seems there’s been an influx of lime green hatchbacks in my area lately. What this means, of course, is many opportunities for me to quote from one of my all-time favorite commercials advertising Car.com: “Oh, sweet mercy! A lime green hatchback!!! It’s a thing of beauty!”

Unfortunately the YouTube seems to be unavailable, but the following one is. This was my first favorite commercial. The line, “Madam, how do you do?” definitely helped spur my love of quotes:

What is/was your favorite commercial?

Ten Good Things About Having All of Your Computer Equipment Fried in a Lightning Storm!

1. No way to access the internet means more time to read books!
2. Many valuable opportunities to learn lots of new things about computer equipment. Even if that sort of thing makes you want to hurl.
3. Bonding time holed up at children’s colleges stealing internet and borrowing equipment.
4. Experience with other cultures while spending hours and hours (and hours) on the phone with outsourced techs in Pakistan.
5. Many opportunities to remember about writing in longhand.
6. Learn valuable lesson that surge protectors apparently do not work.
7. After much thought about how to pay bills, remember that there used to be such a thing as paying bills by mail, using stamps. Bonus: remember to buy stamps!
8. Unaccustomed trips to basement reveal need to spray for spiders.
9. Frequent trips to basement reveal whereabouts of diminishing pen collection.
10. Frequent frustrations necessitate need for “mental health outings,” such as hanging out with friends in a beer garden at Oktoberfest and relearning to polka.

I'm borrowing a tiny laptop for emergencies but am hoping to be back next week!

 …life's like an hourglass, glued to the table /No one can find the rewind button, girl. So cradle your head in your hands/ And breathe... just breathe, Oh breathe, just breathe… ~Anna Nalick, “Breathe (2 A.M.)”

Improper Poll: Another Season of Hoarding

 I was recently flipping through channels when my attention was captured by an episode of “Hoarding.” A mental health professional was holding up a pen and looking gravely at his patient. “How many pens do you have to have before it’s enough?” he was asking her.

For a minute I was pretty sure he was talking to me, too.

I’ve already mentioned that I cleaned out my purse and counted 15. That is how many I must have, I’ve found, before I can consistently find one.

In my house, too, I have pens everywhere because so many of them don’t write. And I hate to throw out brand new pens that don’t write well, so I let them sit around for months before I will throw them out—I guess in case they change their minds. The brand that claims it writes “first time, every time” doesn’t seem to write at any time for me.

Papermate, with its little double heart logo, is the brand I call The Precious, but my beloved blue is usually sold out. I recently found out why. I subbed for several Language Arts teachers in a row, and they all had their own drawer full of The Precious.

The psychologist on TV explained that his method of treating hoarders was to take the pen and see how long they could live without it. Whew! I must not be nuts, because I’d let him take it. I’d just go out and buy a whole bunch more. How many pens must I have before I have enough? So many that when I reach for a blue pen, I can find one. And it actually writes.

Do you find yourself stockpiling anything?

Improper Poll: Headlines of Horror

Ten MSN News Headlines that Really, Really Annoy Me: 

1. Anything at all about that little Twilight girl who supposedly cheated on her boyfriend with the married guy who looked way too old for her, how sad the boyfriend is, or what she is wearing that may or may not belong to him or speculation on whether or not they will get back together

2. How—OMG!—other celebrities are super mad at her!

3. Anything whatsoever with the phrase, “baby bump” in it

4. Headlines about celebrity girls and their “wardrobe malfunctions”

5. Headlines that ask people to speculate on who should be a celebrity’s new boyfriend or girlfriend

6. Headlines about girls who apparently have no occupation on earth other than sitting around sporting silicone and obnoxiousness and inspiring inane headlines

7. Three words: Honey Boo Boo.

8. One word: Suri. Or any update having to do with a child or play-by-plays on her custody visitations, bike rides, schools, or what she ate for lunch

9. All news about the exposed naughty bits of British royals. Okay, I have to admit, I’m always initially curious about that one because when I read about royalty exposing themselves, I want to picture them resurrecting the streak or maybe begging for beads at Mardi Gras. But when it turns out that voyeuristic members of the media are capturing sneak shots of them in private, it makes me so disgusted with those publications that I would boycott them if I ever read them in the first place. As an American, I may not be loyal to the British monarchy, but as a human being, I am loyal to basic human rights, such as the right to be naked in private without worry of creepy stalkers and peeping Toms. Ewww.

10. Anything else that would cause Walter Cronkite to roll over in his grave

Are there any headlines that disgust you?

Honored

Hard to believe it’s been an entire year since our beloved dog, Buddy, died. The new Chicken Soup for the Soul dog book, called I Can’t Believe My Dog Did That, is coincidentally due out next Tuesday.

A few months ago, I had a dream. I don’t remember my dreams much anymore, so I’ve taken to writing them down. This was a particularly vivid one, so I wrote it right away. Here is what I wrote:

I dreamed I saw Buddy. We were in a pretty, shady park that was lined with hydrangeas, and Buddy was just sitting in front of me, staring at me. Which is what he used to do when he was alive, come to think of it. I knew he was dead, but it was possible for him to come back for a visit. In fact, he somehow let me know that he was back due to a special occasion. I have no idea what the special occasion was—it wasn’t his birthday, which was back in March or April, but I didn't want to ask him because he seemed to think I should know.

Later that day, I looked up the meaning of hydrangeas: friendship, understanding, devotion, gratitude.

Still later that day, I received the message that my story about Buddy, “Happy Holi-dog,” was accepted for publication in the aforementioned book.

Friendship, understanding, devotion, gratitude. I will always feel those things for Buddy. And for Chicken Soup for the Soul, come to think of it.

 Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. ~Edna Buchanan

Improper Poll: NOW I Get It

When I was a little kid, I noticed—since I’m so sharp and all—that all calendars had the same name across the top: SMTWTFS. I thought that SMTWTF’S was a company that had a monopoly on calendars. Then one day in school I was daydreaming—which is pretty much how I spent grade school—and noticed that the teacher had made her own calendar. Weirdly enough, it still claimed to be owned by SMTWTF’S! That was when I finally went, “Ohhhhhh.”

Did you have something you believed when you were a little kid?

It Hinges on Decency

It started with a hinge that broke on a cabinet door. I contacted Home Depot, who gave me the number of the company that made them (called R.S.I.),  and ordered new hinges. They came almost immediately in a little envelope, free of charge. I took them out…and they were the wrong ones. That’s when I realized with horror that my cabinets had come from a different store. Different cabinet company entirely.

How embarrassing.

 I hate dishonesty. If the lack of empathy is the devil—and I believe it is—then dishonesty is the car (s)he rode in on. I’ve known some of the most honest people in the world as well as some of the most dishonest. I’ve always admired the former tremendously. The latter inspire nothing but pity and contempt.

So I mailed the hinges back with postage. I included a note explaining what had happened and apologized. If it had been their mistake, I would have expected them to make it right. But this was mine, so I tried.

A few days later, along came my check for postage. It included a little note thanking me and explaining that they try to help when they can. The note even had a smiley face on it. That note really made me feel good. I smiled all day…about that smiley face.

Two days later, along came a package in the mail, express delivery, from R.S.I. It was a bigger envelope…filled with hinges. No kidding—there was every possible kind of hinge that my door could need. And it did, in fact, contain the very hinges that worked for my cabinet door. Even though I didn’t purchase the doors through their company.

I’m still smiling. I may not have purchased my cabinets from RSI, but I sure would next time. Who wouldn’t want to buy from such a pleasant and helpful place? I would show you the note, which made me feel so good that I saved it, but it fell off my bulletin board and landed behind the filing cabinet. Which is okay. I imagine someday I’ll move that filing cabinet and find it. And then I’ll smile all over again.

From the rocking horse to the rocking chair, friendship keeps teaching us about being human. ~Letty Cottin Pogrebin (whose name alone should be a quote.)

Improper Poll: Tiny Poof of Magic

I have a theory that there are wine people and coffee people. I wish I were a wine person. Wine people are cool. They are calm. I imagine when not sipping wine, they go to gyms. I picture them celebrating relaxation by inviting small groups of people to eat gourmet health food and discuss…what? I have no idea, but I bet it’s cool. I bet it makes them all laugh softly and toast one another.

Like it or not, I am a coffee person. I walk too fast, eat at my desk, and have been known to laugh until I have to run to the bathroom because all that caffeine is a diuretic. Gourmet health food, to me, is buying the GOOD TV dinners.

Usually I drink it black, but this summer I developed yet another vice when I discovered that the little parking lot shack a few miles away makes a mean iced coffee. On more than one occasion I’ve found myself driving miles out of my way. Then I started making it at home.

The easy version doesn’t taste as good as shack-bought, but I secretly get a little thrill pouring the fat-free half and half into the glass. It’s a moving work of art that’s gone in the blink of an eye. It’s so quick, I couldn’t even get a decent picture. That tiny, magical poof was almost done by the time I picked up my camera.

Gone in an instant.  Goodbye, summer. Farewell, iced coffee.

Do you have a weird little thing that gives you thrills every time?

Improper Poll: Feed a Cold

I haven’t blogged lately because I recently took one of those colds that makes you feel like someone stuffed steel wool into all of the orifices in your head, and then cemented it in there with super glue and maybe some of that expandable foam insulation. And then they unscrewed the head and baked it at 350° for twenty minutes in a toaster oven, eyeballs up.

The good news is that I can now eat the off-brand chips I bought on impulse from a Walmart display that have been sitting in my pantry all summer possibly emitting radiation. Although the brand sounds like an island in the South Pacific, they are “Fuego” flavored and make my eyes water just by opening the bag. They are fire engine red and rolled up like little Cuban cigars, and they might be making my throat bleed, but who cares? I can sort of taste them and they are delicious.

What is the nastiest snack food you’ve ever eaten?

Don’t Eat Rubber Grapes and Other Vital Warnings

When I was about ten years old, my mother bought some rubber grapes and put them in a bowl on the dining room table as a decoration. Then she delivered the very dire warning: Don’t eat the grapes! They are rubber. Don’t eat them! They may look real, but they are not. Not real! They will poison you or lodge in your throat and choke you to death!

I was ten—why on earth did she seem to think I’d want to eat rubber grapes? To me, the implication was that I went around indiscriminately vacuuming up objects into my mouth, like a giant goldfish, in case they might remotely resemble food. Worse than a goldfish, even, to inhale with such force that they would lodge in my windpipe.

Besides, this was in our formal dining room, which was not a place I associated with eating, anyway. It was for homework and jigsaw puzzles and class projects. But the main thing was, the grapes were rubber. They looked rubber. And even if they had looked that real, wouldn’t I have figured it out when I tried to pick one? And even if a rubber grape made it to my mouth, would I swallow it for lack of knowing what else to do with it?

So I was pretty insulted by that warning.

But then came the time I was grown and trying to germinate poisonous Morning Glory seeds in a little container in my kitchen. Being apparently more passive aggressive than my mother, I made a little Post It note that said, “Don’t eat! Poisonous seeds!” And I drew a little skull and crossbones for good measure. My daughter was then about twelve. She looked into the little cup at the brownish water with a few little black things floating in it, looked up at me, and said merely, “yum.”

She was right—they didn’t appear very appetizing. But still, I was a mother and couldn’t take any chances.

Then the other day I discovered a jar in the kitchen that looked like a science experiment. Both of my children are into science, so I wasn’t surprised. It was a jar of water with colorful chunks in it. Turned out she’d found some old “Magic Rocks” in the basement that she’d missed as a child, and she and her friends had mixed them up. Under the jar was a note: DO NOT DRINK GROWING ROCKS!

I am so proud.

Also, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death. ~Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter and the Socerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling

Improper poll: Those First Apartments

It’s that time of year when college students everywhere head back to dorms…and those really bad apartments. My very first apartment was one I shared with two other girls. The living room had a beanbag chair and little else. The carpet looked like the fur from a stuffed animal that’s been hugged way too much and washed way too little.

I moved in after the rules had been established, and the others had decided to split the chores. Problem was, there was that inevitable roommate who never did hers. You could always tell when it was her turn because garbage and dishes would become ridiculously tall sculptures. It was a game to see how high we could get them before they either fell over or she noticed that it was her turn. The garbage always fell over.

She also cooked huge meals for herself when it wasn’t her turn to do the dishes. It was torture for me to have to wash them, because we didn’t share food. My grocery store had specials on five yogurts for a dollar and five cans of soup for a dollar, so that was what I lived on during the work week. On weekends I’d eat at my future mother-in-law’s and listen to her exclaim to everyone within earshot what a mystery it was that I could be so skinny and eat like such an enormous pig. I just smiled and ate.

What was your first apartment like?

Rain, Rain Don’t Go Away. Again.

It’s raining right now. Ordinarily I wouldn’t consider that an earth-shattering enough statement to post on my blog, but at the moment it really is.

It rained only once in my area through June and July, but for some reason it skipped my yard. A few blocks away it poured for a short time, but all my house got was what felt like a little warm spittle. It was like the joke about having the storm cloud following over your head, but the opposite, when—irony of ironies—that storm cloud would make you so very happy.

The lawn hasn’t been mown all summer. My grass is as brown as an African savanna. When I just thought it was dormant, I was perfectly okay with that.  Now I think it's just truly dead.  More irony:  my grass may have gone to greener pastures. The lush plantain lilies, usually cool-elegant as a southern belle this time of year, have curled into fried pork rinds.

For a while I turned my blog blue. The color of Arctic ice. Of shadows on snow. Of cold, predawn light. Of the breeze I imagine runs a hand over lavender fields in Provence. But then it got even hotter and drier, and blue started to look hot again. It was the color of that ceaseless sky that sizzles clouds off like a blue flame. It’s the distant lightning, blue and electric and ominous, that tormented us all summer with distant growls and threatened to burn us all to cinder, but rolled on.

This free water that falls from the sky from shivery-silver clouds is now an exotic thing. Guess that’s one of the true gifts of aging. I've learned to take nothing for granted, ever.

Simplify, simplify…We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without. ~Henry David Thoreau

Improper Poll: Ten Alternate Signs for Discouraging Salespeople

1. I ♥ My Rottweiler…and My Rottweiler ♥s Attacking Door-to-Door Salespeople.
2. Welcome to the center for the communicable diseases halfway house. If latex glove and mask receptacles are missing, please ring doorbell and step back ten paces. We suggest you wash your hands real well as soon as you can, too.
3. Welcome salespeople! Please ring doorbell so I can tell you all about my religion! Two hour time frames are required, so please bring your own beverage and a light snack. Doors lock from the outside.
4. Smile—you’re on hidden camera. Okay, now dance a little. Swing your hips more. That’s nice. And can you unbutton your shirt just a few buttons? Good….
5. Dear salespeople, please come right in and leave your literature and tools in the pile with all the other ones. Come and find ♪ me in the root ♫ cellar!
6. Dear salespeople, please deposit pants in the receptacle on your left, enter, turn to your right, and state your name clearly into the microphone.
7. This home is guarded by head lice.  Slide the medication under the door and back away.
8. Please be advised that the ringer of this doorbell or pounder on this door, hereafter referred to as “Guest,” hereby agrees to pay Door Access Fee of $100 (one hundred and no/100 dollars) before obtaining ingress to this residence. (a.) The following actions shall be collectively considered as attempts to gain entrance, including and without limitation: ringing doorbell or touching doorbell in such a way as to create audible noise; knocking; pounding; scratching; thumping; tapping, and/or kicking with any body part and/or object or creating any sound with the express purpose of obtaining attention of doorbell owner, hereafter referred to as “Queen Spiffy.” Deposit cash (correct change only) under door before ringing. Personal checks or debit cards not accepted, but expensive gifts will be considered. Standing on doorstep reading this sign will be considered the legal equivalent of binding agreement. If Guest is unable or unwilling to remit heretofore stated door fees, wages will automatically be garnisheed and fines of not less than $5000 (five thousand dollars) will be imposed. Queen Spiffy might not answer as per Doorbell Act (D.A.) 78-39550.   
9. This home is Clowns Only. Please don either the “Nerdoux” or “Mr. Puffypants” costumes (located in shrubbery bin) before ringing bell. Note that all parts are required, including noses, hats, wigs, and blinking suspenders. You must have Queen Spiffy’s prior written approval should you wish to bring your own costume.
10. Our house is protected by the Good Lord and a gun. Also a bent nine iron, a virulent case of scabies, some roman candles, some pretty smelly garbage, a potato shooter, a rather amorous, ankle-humping Chihuahua with a bad case of fleas, some especially icky spit wads, a guy wearing camouflage and goggles nicknamed “Bean Dip,” an awesome homemade slingshot made with those really big rubber bands like the kind that come on broccoli, and some expired eggs that’s mighty good for throwin’.

Do you have any suggestions for new signage that might discourage door-to-door salespeople?