In Which I Lighten Up My Life And Get A Little Airheaded

 Let me just say this:  I'm feeling delightfully lighter in February. After 48 straight days of Absolutely No Sunshine Whatsoever, we've been treated to several bright, happy days of sun. Yesterday and today, I took my daily walks without a coat or a jacket in 60 degree temperatures. Yes, it will all come crashing down next week, but until then, I'm basking in this Joy. 

And fresh air! My windows are open! Can you even imagine that--in Northeast Ohio! in February! What luck!

Another reason I'm feeling lighter is that this morning, I watched as a volunteer from the Vietnam Vets of America came to my home and picked up bags of clothes and several boxes of dishes, shoes, purses, and two pieces of furniture from my porch. All that stuff is now G O N E from my home. Hooray for decluttering and giving to a good cause.

Now let's see if I can declutter my head a bit and dump off a few things here.

1.  This ad was in the Cleveland Plain Dealer a little while ago and hurt my eyes and my feelings:

First of all, absolutely nothing in this estate sale interests me, thanks to the ad's key words and phrases:  Every room full (they were hoarders); CB radios (no one ever left the house or had contact with the outside modern world); precious moments (dust bunnies galore and stuck in the 80s); bennie babies (Precious Moments turned out NOT to be the moneymaker they thought, so they glommed onto these, which tanked even worse, and, again, dust); seasonal (my experience with this is that many Collector-type people also collect tons of Xmas and holiday tchotchkes which also sit around collecting dust; these types of items do not sell, even at garage sales, trust me). 

Also, let's talk about The Spelling now, shall we? Obviously, it's Beanie Babies, not bennie babies, like some sort of homage to Bennie and the Jets or the drug benzedrine. And it's collectibles--the noun form--not collectables--the adjective form. An easy way to remember is "if it's an Investment, it's a collectIble." Sigh. I know, I know, I should stop reading the Classifieds.

2. On my walk today, in addition to a dandelion, I saw this and it made me smile:

I apologize for the quality of this photo. I couldn't get very close because this is not a friendly cat. It's also Not Their Cat. Did you think I was just posting this for the Irony?

This is a neighbourhood stray who hangs around on various porches. It's the first time I've seen it on this particular porch, however, and I'm rather surprised. This is where a St. Bernard lives. There must be something really good inside that Chewy box. You know what they say:  no risk, no reward.

3.  Finally, this conversation occurred on Monday night:

Nance:  I'm exhausted. I was so busy all day. (proceeds to list all chores accomplished that day)

Rick:  Wow. Well, thank you. That was a lot.

Nance: Oh, and by the way, I barely had enough battery left to finish using the leaf blower on the porch. Then I saw the charger wasn't even plugged in. What's up with that?

Rick:  You what?

Nance: I used the leaf blower to blow all the peanut shells and sunflower seed detritus off the front porch. It's ridiculous out there, you know? And the battery went dead, and I had to put it in the charger, but first of all, the charger was crammed behind stuff on that shelf, and then it wasn't even plugged in.

Rick:  I unplugged it.

Nance:  But why?

Rick: (carefully, looking right at her) Because I assumed that we wouldn't be needing A LEAF BLOWER in the WINTER.

Nance:  (light finally goes on) Oh! 

So tell me--What's lightening up your life in February so far? (And do you have the Winter Dumbs like me? Sigh.)

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It's The Word Of The Year!

Editor at large Peter Sokolowski of Merriam-Webster (the dictionary of record, apparently) made a big announcement this week that we finally have The Word Of The Year for 2023. Before I tell you what it is, let me assure you that this Word isn't chosen at random by some Word Nerds in a dusty room full of card catalogs. Heavens no! Mr. Sokolowski and his team pore over vast quantities of data, watching spikes in the words that people look up and the events in the world that correspond to those words. This year, it would seem that there was a constant interest in The Word overall, and people were always looking it up to find out exactly what it meant. What word were they looking up?

AUTHENTIC

That's your Word Of The Year, ladies and gentlemen.  Let's now take a look at the Words that AUTHENTIC beat out. These words also spiked the lookup data, but are also-rans:

1.  RIZZ:  slang for romantic appeal; possibly short for Charisma. (never once heard/read this out on the wild)

2.  KIBBUTZ:  communal farm or settlement in Israel. (this has a sad reason for being in the news lately; I already knew what this was from my reading)

3.  IMPLODE:  to burst inward. (probably spiked during the Titanic submersible tragedy; I thought this was a fairly common word)

4.  DEADNAME:  the name a transgender person was given at birth and no longer uses upon transitioning. (this is a term that I learned from being an ally and trying to educate myself)

5.  DOPPELGANGER:  a double; a lookalike. (it's so fun to say! I think it also has some nuance, like the double can also be your alter ego or opposite personality)

6.  CORONATION:  the act or occasion of crowning, as a royal. (probably spiked during the ascension of King Charles)

7.  DEEPFAKE:  a manipulated recording/video made to look like someone or something did/said something they did not. (these things are scary, and I worry about the election cycle and social media platforms like fb and Xitter, which are not very responsible or discerning)

8.  DYSTOPIAN:  relating to an imagined state of intense human suffering and misery, usually brought upon by injustice and inhumanity. (I think we can all imagine why this word spiked)

9.  COVENANT:  a formal, solemn, and binding agreement. ( Lots of talk of covenant marriages--a Supreme Court Justice has one, the new Speaker of the House has one, and the latter even uses a software app called Covenant Eyes to track his and his son's porn viewing and report back to each other. Not creepy at all!)

10. INDICT:  to formally accuse of/charge with a crime. (I can think of 91 reasons why this word spiked, can't you?)

The Word Of The Year--Authentic--is always my word of the year. As Miss Maudie said about Atticus Finch, I'm the same in the house as I am on the public streets. I was raised on it. My father always quoted Polonius to us from William Shakespeare's Hamlet--"To thine own self be true." He never quoted the rest, but I will here:

“This above all: to thine own self be true

And it must follow, as the night the day

Thou canst not then be false to any man/"

My dad was Authentic to a fault. Still, he had a lot of Rizz.

Chat me up about the Word(s) of the Year in Comments. 

Let's See If We're A Success (According To A Millennial Guy)

 

It's Sunday and even after beaching myself on the couch in my jammies like a Leisure Whale until almost noon, I still managed to have a productive day. My Streamline/DeClutter Project continued, and I got rid of or put away a lot of stuff, stuff that will later be donated or sold at the community garage sale in the spring. I was feeling quite Accomplished, let me tell you, and my efforts will continue tomorrow.  

Lest you feel overshadowed by my Great Success, I've got you covered. I came across this article, brought to you by the hugely respected journalistic source known as HackSpirit. The author of the article, a man in his mid-thirties who admits he's "gearing up for his mid-life crisis," says there are "11 accomplishments that could mean you're more successful than you think." I don't know about you, but I'm definitely interested in what a thirtysomething man deems Success In Life. Let's go!

1. College degree or equivalent

2. Mastery of a hobby

3. Marriage

4. Own property/real estate

5. Have a job, a car, a home, a partner at the same time

6. 3 months' expenses in savings

7. Someone has said they are envious of you

8. Someone has asked to interview you

9. Good credit rating

10.Childhood self would approve

11. Feeling of accomplishment

I cannot believe that Decluttering is not on this list. Nor is Restraining My Urge To Give Advice To Adult Children.

But I digress.

Obviously, a few of these are just bullshit. Does anyone have to be married to be Accomplished or Successful? Has everyone been asked for an interview? I think we all know plenty of accomplished people--successful people--who lack a college degree (or equivalent). 

I will say that I like Number 10 quite a bit. Personally, my Childhood Self would approve of Grownup Nance many times over. I think I mentioned before that I keep my kindergarten photo on my dresser to remind me of the little girl who wanted to be a teacher and a mom. I look at her often and think about how so many of her dreams came true and then some. It helps me stay grateful.

Many of these smack of great privilege. Not everyone can own their own home. Not everyone can maintain 3 months' savings for emergencies. And we all know that Success is relative.

Some days, my only criteria for Success is to remain vertical during a migraine. Others, it's to refrain from saying anything about the pile of papers on the table next to Rick's chair. Or, it might be to get dinner on the table five days a week.

How do you feel about these 11 criteria for Success? Do you feel like you're a Success? Which criteria would you change or add?

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Holy Cow! And Did I Ever Pay A Lot For Produce Today (But It Was Unattached, Ambulatory, And Mobile)

 Today's post has to be quick and easy. It's BDay--Baby Day. Jordan and Jared report to the hospital today where she will be induced. I'm distracted, and I just paid FIFTEEN DOLLARS for Brussels sprouts at the grocery store today. I had to buy a large quantity, and rather than pick through a big bin like a fussy old lady, I bought two big bags of prewashed and sorted ones without even looking at the price. That's how you know I'm not quite myself.

So! In order to make this a Fast Dash Post, here are a couple of things I noticed lately.

Goes with any decor!

This was from a recent Rural King ad. That's my go-to store for bulk quantities of birdseed and now raw peanuts in the shell. I'm not even interested in the idea of two breeds of cattle footstools. I just want to know why the ad felt it necessary to note that they were Deployable. The usual definition of deployable is a military one:  able to be moved to a place of readiness or usage. A more general definition of deployable is unattached, mobile, or ambulatory; able to be moved from place to place. Now, yes, those all can describe a Simulated Bovine Footrest, but must it be noted? And must such a highfalutin word be used? In a Rural King ad? (Oh, and how many do you want?)

This slogan does not inspire confidence.

This was the contractor who was doing some work on a home in my neighbourhood. This sign made me stop and think. Exactly what are they trusting in God for? Are they largely unskilled and have faith that He will help them do a good job? Do they not take a downpayment for materials and figure that the Almighty will provide? Do they bring all the stuff to your house, pray awhile, and hope that God shows up to do the work for you/them? I have so many questions. Too many to ever hire them, and as a Recovering Catholic and atheist, I feel like they just aren't my people.

Can you answer my questions--or make me feel better about overpriced Brussels sprouts--in Comments?

I Need A Big White Pen

This is Tim Misny--he'll make you pay.

This billboard is all over northeast Ohio. Every single time I see it, it's like having a cat hair in my eye. It's painful and annoying. My eyes roll and I scream inwardly (most of the time; sometimes I do it aloud), "-ly! -ly! -ly! Adverbs! Adverbs! Ever hear of them?"

Please tell me that I'm not alone in noticing or caring about things like this. 

It's a billboard! It's enormous. Come on! How did this happen?

 

The Word Is Diplomatic, And I Wonder About Its Nuance

 

Before I get started on my Random Word, I want to take a moment and catch you up on a couple things happening here at the Dept. Firstly, I am somehow managing to exist without my dear Biscoff cookies these many weeks. Each trip to the grocery store(s) has been dismaying and sorrowful. Is there a National Shortage like there is with sriracha? I am bereft and there is no suitable substitute. Secondly, it is Cold here, too. We did get the polar freeze, but since we are not New York, Chicago, D.C., or Philadelphia, you would not know of it. Way back in 2016, when Cleveland hosted the RNC (ugh), we were briefly featured on weather maps, but that was short-lived. Once again, I'd like to acknowledge the Kindness of my Canadian Friends who selflessly shared their weather with us and again ask that they Not Do That Anymore.

On to today's word, which is Diplomatic. 

As a Teacher in a large (2100+), urban public high school, I had a great deal of practice with this word. Not only did I have to practice being Diplomatic with students, but more often, I had to exert an enormous amount of Diplomacy with their parents. Parental Contact was the number one mantra at our school, and to talk to the principals, you'd think it was the panacea for all concerns. Every single problem taken to a higher-up that involved a student was met with, "Did you talk to the parent?" Tardiness, cell phone usage, failing performance, violent behaviour, absenteeism, missing work, you name it, a call to the parent had to be the First Line Of Defense. Many times, the parents were baffled as to their student's behaviour, and many times my Diplomacy was put to the test, especially at conferences when I was face to face with parents, step-parents, grandparents, legal guardians, and/or probation/parole officers.

I will say that my Usual Way is always to be Straightforward and Honest. I'm naturally Direct, and that can sometimes come across as bitchy or mean. Of course, this is largely because I am a woman. If I were a man, it would be a non-issue.

It is not, however, difficult to temper Honesty and Directness with Kindness. It took me a little bit of time to discover that, and I think that was due to being a small woman in a tough school. It was important for me to establish my authority and learn how to command a room, to keep order and convey my expertise in the subject matter (along with my passion). 

But, after all, isn't being Diplomatic simply being Kind? Diplomacy is "handling people and situations so as to cause no feelings of ill will." It's the reason I used to bring in tubs of crackers, cookies, and granola bars for everyone in my class to share even though I was really making sure that the four or five kids I knew were going hungry would get something to eat. 

Perhaps Kindness is Diplomacy With Heart:

 "This haircut is terrible. I'm really unhappy with it," says your friend.

Diplomat says, "I'm sorry you're unhappy. What don't you like about it?"

Kind says, "Oh no! You're beautiful and I'll help you fix whatever you don't like."

What do you think? 

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The Word Is Plane, And I'm At War With Disney And Air Travel

January's weather is killing me, giving me horrid headaches and recovery days full of fatigue. Thankfully, there has been no meaningful snow, so I've been able to walk outside when I feel up to it. Another assist has been provided by NGS over at her spot The Time for Change--the idea to use a random word generator to give me a blog topic when I get stuck. Today's word was Plane, so here's my Plane story.

I was returning from visiting my dear (now late) friend Ann in Orlando, Florida. She was a vice president for a major resort company (second only to Disney), and had invited me for several days to relax at their properties and take drives into Georgia and North Carolina as well, where we visited some lovely places and just had a Ladies Getaway. It was wonderful.

She dropped me at the airport in Orlando, and while I was still unnerved by the somewhat overwhelming presence of the National Guard, I felt a little comforted. It was October 2001; the attack on the Twin Towers had occurred less than a month before. I also resigned myself to being pulled out of the line and wanded separately again. It had happened on my flight from Cleveland to Orlando, and I chalked it up to my olive complexion and almost black hair. Sure enough, I was pulled again despite not having set off any alarm. Soon enough, I was on my way.

On the plane my seatmate in the middle was a woman of about forty or so. Nonetheless, she was wearing her Minnie Mouse ears and was clutching a pair of winter white fur Mickey and Minnie plush figures. Her husband had the window seat. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I could see my spinal column. There is nothing that annoys me more than an adult with a pathetic Disney fixation, and here I was, sitting next to one for the next two and a half hours.

I had brought a book, and I pulled it out. I always bring a book with an off-putting title, and this one was about the Salem witch trials (The Devil in Massachusetts). Unfortunately, this didn't deter her for long. Pretty soon, it started:  Was I coming from Orlando? Did I go to Disney World? Why not? Oh, she and her husband celebrated their anniversary there, and she just looooves Disney. And she was soooo happy to get these Special Edition White Mickey And Minnie Dolls! And on and on and on. I smiled and nodded and kept trying to look at my book.

Finally, I said, "I'm sorry, but I'm expected to present at a panel discussion tomorrow. I really need to study this," which was a complete fabrication, but I was desperate. She apologized and left me alone.

As we got near to Cleveland, the pilot spoke over the intercom, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to have to delay our arrival in Cleveland for just a little while. They're not quite ready for us yet." Everyone sighed and grumbled. My seatmate futzed with her fluffy friends and wondered aloud what was going on. Our plane circled and wandered, and I looked out at the night sky, hoping that Rick knew our flight would be late and wouldn't be worried.

It seemed like we were waiting forever. No one knew anything. It was the Age Before Twitter. Before Smartphones. We were virtually disconnected.

My memory is a bit fuzzy on this detail:  I cannot remember if we landed and were held at the gate or if we were still in the air at this precise moment, but I finally pulled out my credit card and grabbed the AirPhone from the seat back in front of me. I called Rick and asked him if he knew what in the hell was going on after telling him what our status was.

"Nance," he said, "the US just bombed Afghanistan. And some idiot in the airport ran past security at this concourse. They shut the whole thing down and are making every single person go back through again. No flight is allowed to come in until everyone here has gone through security. They're being very careful because of the US action tonight. I'm sure they're worried about terrorism."

As Rick was talking, I couldn't help but react. "We bombed Afghanistan?!" As soon as I said this, Disney Fan lost it. She clutched her Special Editions and half rose in her seat, facing the rear of the plane. "We just bombed Afghanistan!" she announced dramatically.  "Oh My God!" 

Please remember, SHE WAS WEARING MOUSE EARS THIS WHOLE TIME.

Obviously, this night--October 7, 2001--was stressful and auspicious. I remember feeling dread, confusion, and anger about the invasion itself. My overall sentiments about this war and its instigator are well-known to longtime readers of this blog.

But what I remember most about the night of the actual bombing is that Plane ride and my incredible annoyance at Disney overall. As a matter of fact, that night put together two of the top things on my Most Annoying Things Ever List:  Air Travel and Disney Cult Members. Someday, perhaps, when I'm very, very old and really, really crabby and somewhat demented, I may even conflate Disney and the Afghanistan war and hold all of Disney responsible for it and for making me take my shoes off at the airport.

It's the Circle Of Life.

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When I Went Bananas And Took My BFF And Rick With Me (And A Little Politics)

 

It's back to the Bananas War with me again. Devoted readers will recall that, back in April 2021, I introduced you to my Ongoing Outrage at the price of Bananas at my funny grocery store. I continue to not only fuss about the Banana Fee, but I also faithfully text a photo of the sign (and price) to my BFF Leanne in Maryland. 

I know she appreciates these Vital Bulletins and that they enrich her life immeasurably.

Not so long ago, it pained me to have to send this message to Leanne:

(That is not, by the way, a photo of Leanne. That is a picture of her Boston terrier, Stella.) And I truly did not buy the wretched BananaS.

The following week I went to a different town so that I could shop the same store and avoid the dumb spelling of BananaS. They were still 59 cents a pound, but I took it as a win.

Soon after, Rick had a day off, and he accompanied me to the grocery store in town. He is brave and tall, so this happened:

(Sadly, I did not have a red pen, but Rick pulled down both signs--one from each side--so that I could make the necessary correction to both:  no apostrophe for plurals!) I felt victorious and overflowing  with relief. The whole world seemed somehow righted. I smiled and felt...lighter. I didn't even mind paying 59 cents a pound for BananaS.

The following week I strode confidently to the produce department. I looked up at the sign for BananaS and was rewarded tenfold. I couldn't wait to text Leanne!

Indeed. I may be retired, but I am still Out There, Defending And Promoting The Language. Teaching In The Wild, as it were. It never stops, you know. 

Until it does.

Because here's what I found the last time I went to the grocery store.

Bless her. We have a motto, Leanne and I. Everything crummy can eventually be traced back to the republicans. And she can always make me laugh.

Want to give it a try, tracing this Sign Saga back to republicans? Do you have a BananaS Story to share? Have you ever corrected a sign? Can you relate to my Pain or are you the Leanne in this story?

Or, just natter away in Comments about the Silliness Of It All.

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Z Is For Zydrunas

 Meet Zydrunas, my granddog.

Zydrunas's name is pronounced zih-DROO-niss, but you can call him Z. As is usual in our family, he has a lot of nicknames, too:  BrownDog, Brown, Best Brown Dog, Bubba, and Big Brown are just a few of them. There is not a single person or pet that exists in our family who doesn't have a dozen or so nicknames. Your family may be the same.

His name comes from the Cleveland Cavaliers All Star center, now retired, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, who both of my sons greatly admire. 

Jared and Sam, who lived together in 2014, adopted him from the Cleveland kennel. They told them that he was already a year old, had been found wandering around a chemical plant, and was in very good health. Sam and Jared specifically chose a dog from the city kennel because they euthanize dogs after they've been there too long. 

Here's a photo of Zydrunas on his Rescue Day.

 That smile was the first of many in his new life. There cannot be a more joyful, more exuberant, more completely happy dog than this Big Brown Dog. Here he is right now, just so darn happy to be alive and with the people he loves.

When the boys stopped living together, Jared took full custody of Zydrunas. Then when Jared moved in with his new family, Sam took full custody. Throughout it all, they have co-parented Z and shared the costs associated with his care. Jared comes for visitation frequently, and Z can barely handle it. The zoomies are cataclysmic; nothing is safe.

Like many big and strong dogs, Zydrunas has no idea of his size, and he often climbs onto me for a Visit and a Cuddle. He is a 70-pound dog, and when on his hind legs, he is only about a foot shorter than I am. Still, when he wants Nance Time, he must have it. And because I am so completely and crazy in love with this dog, I am more than happy to oblige.

For Christmas this year, I got Sam an Embark Dog DNA kit (which he has yet to use) so that he can finally find out exactly what kind of dog Zydrunas is. We think he's probably part pitbull and part boxer. We don't really care; we're just curious. We love this dog no matter what he is.

Wouldn't you?

(Other posts about Zydrunas's early days are here, and here.)

Zydrunas wraps up the Alphabet Posts for me. We hope you have a restful week ahead.

Y Is For Yes

 

It's dreadfully cold here in Northeast Ohio (aka NEO), and there's nothing I want to do less than leave my home where it's warm, comfy, and everything I need is easily within my reach. I'm wearing leggings, a fleece zip-up, and behind my back is my heating pad--on High. I'm hoping that This Is It for me for the rest of the day and night; however, if, say, Sam called and invited us down to his house, or our friends sent a text and invited us to see their new home, I'd say Yes.

My Campaign Of Yes began some time ago, when I retired. It was inspired in no small part by a quote in the book The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. In it, a countess is trying to flee her brutish foreign husband and seek comfort back in her American home and family.  Society is unkind, and she is confused by its coldness to her. She ignores Society and does what she wants. "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely," she tells a friend. 

I certainly didn't have the countess's problems, but I decided that I'd take her advice and go wherever and whenever I was invited so that I would fill my days. And I did--to movies, to lunches, to shopping trips, to various outings and visits--as often as I could, saying Yes as much as I was able. 

After a time, those things naturally faded as retirees started to spend more time with their families or travel or find other things to do. And I did the same things, too. But it was fun while it lasted.

I still continue with my Campaign Of Yes, however, and I highly recommend it. Of course it's easier to say No and stay home with a cat on my lap and read or play Words With Friends. But I have almost always been happier that I went to Wherever It Was. This morning, Rick had to go to the lakehouse and troubleshoot the Nest thermostat, which we had lost connectivity with almost two weeks ago. It was a bone-chilling five degrees when he asked me if I was going along. My face must have been a mix of horror and panic because he immediately said, "You don't have to! I just thought I'd ask." I admit that I did struggle for a moment or two, but stuck to my Campaign. "Yes," I said. "Of course I'll go."

We hadn't been to the lake in a month or so. The community is shrouded in snow and quiet. From the driveway, we could see the lake, silent and frozen. Here and there in our yard were pawprints from rabbits and squirrels. I knew that if we went out and looked down at the lakeside, we might see hoofprints from deer. As we looked farther out towards the southern end, we could see several people ice fishing. The sun broke through the clouds and revealed a brilliant blue sky.

As always, being at the lakehouse was relaxing and brought back such happy memories. The place is a Haven Of Yes--everyone is encouraged to do what they want. If you want to swim, fine. If you want to fish, do it. If you want to just lie on a chaise longue and enjoy the day, do that. If you want to stay inside and watch TV, then Yes you can. 

I said Yes, and again I was glad I did. It was good to get out, go for a drive, and get things sorted out at the lakehouse. It was lovely to gaze out at the frozen lake and appreciate its sleeping beauty. One small and simple word gave me all of that. Yes.

Do you have your own Campaign Of Yes? If not, how do you feel about trying it out?

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X Is For eXhausted, eXasperated, And The X Factor

 

As you can see, I'm Creatively Forcing It for letter X. I don't have a lot to give these days, but I wanted to pop in here, wish you all a Happy New Year, and tell you that in addition to some really thoughtful and wonderful Christmas gifts, I also got COVID.

Like you, I am fully vaccinated and boosted, and so are all of my family, yet by the time this exposure ran its course, ten of us tested positive, including my 91-year old mother.  And there was never a time when all ten of us were in any place together. 

Also perhaps like you, I mask up anytime I'm in public--the grocery store, the pet food store, the pharmacy--and as soon as I get in my car, I use hand sanitizer, even before I take off my mask. I'm religious about handwashing, about social distancing, about wiping the handles of carts with the disinfecting wipes at the stores. It's eXhausting, but I never wanted to get sick.

The thing is, not everyone does that. Ohio's corrupt and gerrymandered republican legislature has gutted all COVID safeguards. Many people, even those who are vaXXed and boosted, are eXhausted by this pandemic and don't even wear masks at work or in stores. And when Omicron arrived, that behaviour did not change, sadly. And here we are. 

My symptoms began the day after Christmas with a slightly scratchy throat, which I shrugged off. Jared and Sam had both been fighting a cold for a day or two, and Jared had already tested negative for COVID. By that Monday, Sam had been sent home from work with a positive test result, and Rick and I were scrambling to find an at-home test. Quite simply, there are absolutely none in Ohio, period. 

A friend with a stockpile of tests gave us two, and we tested positive. Each day last week, our symptoms worsened. I felt like I had a head cold with the flu. The fatigue and muscle weakness were almost debilitating for me. I never got a fever, but I lost my sense of taste and smell. I've only today regained a bit of them both, and not consistently. I'm still weak and tire easily. Rick is still coughing and weak. He never lost his sense of taste or smell and never fevered up, but the coughing takes a lot out of him. He is working from home until he has a negative test. 

(A quick aside--my mother is great. She largely had cold symptoms, and under the fine care of my brother, she not only recovered, but continued her daily exercise regimen as well. She's a marvel.)

 I am finding All Of This incredibly eXasperating. I did everything right. I worked so hard to Be Safe. And for so long! Why are we still fighting this virus, one that we have vaccines for? Why are we in Year THREE of this pandemic? 

What in the hell is going on?!

I'm sick of all of it and sick of being sick. I thought I'd be able to toss my masks by now, yet I read that I have to go looking for new ones, that N95 are the only ones that will keep me Safe now. If there is such a thing as Being Safe.

That Safety is an Illusion, really. In the end, we're only as Safe as the people around us allow us to be. Other People will always be the X Factor. That's a Tough Reality, but that's the Way It Is, especially with Omicron out there now, and the monitoring of yet another variant in France. All we can do is our best to Be Safe, but we have to know that, ultimately, it's not completely in our control. Other People never are.

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W Is For Wishes

 My Wishes for you, my Friends, this Christmas of 2021, are that you find the Warmth of family and friends; the Joy of selfless giving; the Love of kindred hearts; and the Hope of brighter days to come. 

As always, thank you for your bright presence here. You are all a light in my life, and I am grateful for your loyal readership. And to my Commenters, especially, I am grateful for your continued conversation. May we always have something to talk about together.

I Wish for you a Peaceful Christmas and a Healthy Holiday Season. 

Best Wishes,

Nance

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V Is For Volume

 News Flash--I am old. All the symptoms/warning signs are there, and every single one of them can be put under the heading of one word, Volume.

As in:

1.  The fact that some television shows are SO LOUD and others make me strain to hear dialogue irritates me almost unreasonably. Commercials that feature music seem incredibly cacophanous and annoying. And car/truck commercials are also terrible. We have several streaming services, and the Volume of one set perfectly is way too soft for the other. Sam, my gadgety son, has a sound bar for his television. It is a nightmare.

2.  About a hundred years ago, I used to decorate copiously for Christmas. Every room in the house reflected the Yuletide merrily. My mantel was a showpiece. Now, that Volume of holiday decor is not only worky but smothering to me. We just this week finally put up our tree, and it was a sort of perfunctory exercise. I hung the stockings on the mantel, period. That is the extent of my holiday decorating. I simply cannot stand any more.

3.  Oh, how I do miss my thick, thick hair that used to burst elastics and defy brushes and combs with its Volume. It was downright huge when it was curled, and I never had to use a thing on it or brush it hanging upside down or anything. Now, I have to buy a Volumizing Root Spray to get any fullness at all. (Thank heaven for that stuff!)

4.  Volume itself is the measure of space that an object occupies, and I've started to begrudge the amount of room a lot of things take up in my home. "Why is this still here?" and "Why do we have this?" and "Why am I keeping this?" are constant questions I ask myself as I move around my little home. Now that Indoor Season is here, I'm feeling the need for more and freer space. The sheer Volume of Stuff I/we have collected over the years makes me feel fussy and weighed down. My sons aren't going to want to deal with all this in the future if I don't want to deal with it now.

What do you think? Am I old or just fussy? (Probably both.) How are you doing with these Voluminous Things?

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U Is For Undone

 

I've been feeling Uninspired lately--another good U word--but to write about that would be boring and terrible. It would likely result in a woeful and pathetic treatise about The Travails Of Dinner At The Dept., something I've written about many times here before. Let me just say this:  Sam now works dangerously close to the pie shop, and it is taking all my Restraint and Resolve not to call him at least once a week and say, "Hey, could you stop on the way home and get Dad a 6" cherry and me a 6" lemon meringue for dinner?"

But I digress.

Here are a few things in my life currently that remain Undone, for one reason or another.

1. The Back Yard:  Nearly everything in my landscape beds died in the past three years, including my ornamental junipers and my hydrangea tree. Even my viburnum. We called Marv, our original landscaper, made a plan, and picked some stuff out (with consideration of the evil black walnut behind us). Then did nothing about it. We never finalized anything, and here we are. Sigh.

2.  The Wall:  The entire wall behind the fireplace at the lakehouse is fake brick and I hate it. We've been talking about tearing it up since we bought the place seven years ago. "We'll do it in the winter when we don't have the nice weather and boating to distract us," we keep saying. The Wall is still there and I still hate it a lot. I also hate the mess of remodeling and drywall and demolition a lot. The entire situation is a Hate Crime.

3.  Someone's Clothes Hoard:  Someone has no less than thirty pairs of jeans hanging in the closet for various Jeans-Wearing Situations, should they arise. This same person has another closet full of work clothes from a company previously worked for, even though that job was held over a year ago. Another drawer is full of that company's shirts. Yet another drawer holds teeshirts, given away at professional basketball games, that no one has ever seen this someone wear. When I put away this person's clean laundry, I have to cram stuff to get it to fit. "I'm going to go through this stuff," Someone tells me. I prepare bags and bags and bags of donations to Vietnam Veterans and Easter Seals many times a year, and not in secret, but Someone has not put anything in them.

4.  The Wrought Iron:  We have wrought iron accent pieces in both the front and back yard, a lot of them. They are faded and a few of them have some rust spots. I bought everything I needed last summer to refurbish them, like wire brushes and black Rustoleum spray paint, and even a cheap tarp to paint them on. Did I do it? No I did not. All that is waiting for me come spring. Or summer. Or fall, if we have one next year.

Are there reasons for all these Undone Things? Yes, and many of them are pretty decent, and some are even good. In the end, however, the result is the same; Stuff Is Undone. All of it is waiting, and in each case, mocking me because I continue to see it and be aggravated by it.

What things Undone are bothering you? Share and commiserate in Comments.

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T Is For Tea

It's almost week ago since Rick and I returned from a relaxing and long overdue visit with friends in Southern Maryland. We talked, ate shrimp, oysters, and crabcakes, watched fun movies, visited a local winery, and drank wine. And, for the first time in a long time, I drank a couple of glasses of Iced Tea. 

It's strange, this estrangement between Tea and me. I grew up on the stuff, both hot and iced. Each was a significant presence in my life at home. 

As a kid I was often sick--earaches, chest colds, sore throats, high fevers--these were my common companions throughout my childhood. I could spend hours and hours coughing, trying to sleep propped up on pillows or rolled blankets. You name the illness and I got it--measles, rubella, scarlet fever, mono, bronchitis, strep throat, and a bout of chicken pox at the age of fifteen that was so rampant and hideous that my brother, seventeen and also stricken, covered the mirrors in the house so we wouldn't have to see ourselves. (Those blisters were everywhere on our bodies. Everywhere.) 

One weapon in my mother's arsenal against all illnesses was Hot Tea. Hot Tea with lemon was her go-to for soothing just about everything. It was going to help my cough, my congestion, my sore throat, and it would help me sleep. (It is important to note here that her cure for stress and headaches, however, was not Hot Tea. Those were cured by Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater. I'm sure you understand her strategy.)

I drank in my youth probably several tanker trucks full of Hot Tea. My father was also a fan of Hot Tea, which he would on very rare occasions lace with wine. Because of all the medicinal Hot Tea I drank, I now associate Hot Tea with illness. I cannot stand to drink it at all. Thankfully, there are herbal Teas that contain little or no Tea whatsoever, and I can drink them when I want a comforting hot drink on a cold afternoon.

In addition to Hot Tea, we also had Iced Tea regularly in our home. My mother was an Iced Tea addict, and a gallon pitcher of it, homemade, was always in the refrigerator. She had an enamel saucepan designated solely for Tea making, and in it she would place (I think) seven or eight Teabags, and cover them with water, and set it to boil on the stove. That would boil frantically, and she'd set it to simmer for a time as she filled the gallon pitcher with ice, a half of a lemon squeezed and tossed in, and a scant cup of sugar. She'd let the water run ice cold, grab her long-handled spoon, and then the pan of hot Tea. After squeezing the Teabags dry against the side of the pan with her spoon, she'd quickly pour the Tea over the ice and start stirring and filling the pitcher to the top with water. We never once had cloudy Iced Tea, thanks to this method, a method I perpetuated in my own home once I was married. (But I skipped the lemon. Too reminiscent of Hot Tea.)

There was never, ever a time that my mother was without a glass of her Iced Tea by her side. As a matter of fact, once, when called home from her job at the bank because of an emergency (I had attempted to shave my legs in secret and cut a huge swath off the front of my shin and was bleeding), she bustled in the side door, dropped her purse, and before she did a single thing, poured herself a huge glass of Iced Tea. Then, and only then, did she call out to me and ask what on earth had I done to myself. 

My Iced Tea days fell by the wayside years and years ago, partially due to my migraine medication.  It's important that I drink water on this medication, and it has also rendered Tea almost flavourless to me. Thus, it seemed a heck of a lot of work to make Tea when I could--and should--just drink water if they tasted pretty much the same anyway. 

Ironically, my mother doesn't make or drink Iced Tea anymore. Occasionally, she'll get it at a restaurant. She drinks Hot Tea now and then, but she prefers coffee. Rick is the Tea Drinker, having given up coffee due to blood pressure and stomach concerns. He especially likes Earl Grey, which smells so much like Hot Tea with lemon to me that it sometimes gives me little flashbacks and twinges of feeling sick. And no, I'm not being dramatic; there's Science behind that reaction. Imagine if I were British! I'd have to renounce my citizenship.

Tell me about your Life With (or Without) Tea in Comments. 

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Q Is For Quicky Questions

Right now I have a great many Questions:  Where is Fall? Why am I sweltering in 80 degree heat and high humidity? How much longer am I going to have to run my air conditioner, and will I merely switch it over to the furnace and not be able to have any fresh air in my house, ever? Will the godawful black walnut tree behind us never be done dropping its fruit, fronds, and general detritus into my landscaping and pond? Why are the cats such shits about being brushed? And whose underwear is this, left in the middle of the sidewalk next door, discovered by Yours Truly on my walk today?

But those are all Imponderables, and best left for another day when I'm not feeling so snarky. And fussy. And Over It.

Instead, let's have some fun, Quicky Questions for a fluffy post. Here we go.

1. Favourite Colour?

Red

2.  Reading?

The new biography of Oscar Wilde, Oscar Wilde:  A Life by Matthew Sturgis is being delivered tomorrow!

3.  Streaming/Watching?

ER

4.  Wine?

(Yes, please.) We've found a label we really like, Z. Alexander Brown, out of California. I'm back onto cabernet sauvignon for my all-purpose red and (Barton & Guestier) vouvray for my AP white.

5.  Latest Food Obsession?

Haagen Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream

Making my own spice blend coffee

6.  What will you miss about summer?

Boating

7.  Which childhood dream of yours did you fulfill?

Among others, I became a teacher.

8.  What historical figure do you wish you could go back in time and meet?

President Abraham Lincoln

9.  What three words can describe you well?

Intelligent, kind, impatient

10.  Did you play a sport in school?

Oh, heck no.

11.  What's the last thing you bought for yourself?

The aforementioned book and two cozy cardigan sweaters.

12.  Are there places you do or don't shop/patronize because of your political beliefs?

Absolutely. I believe in voting with my wallet.

13.  Do you like your name? If not, what do you wish your name was?

Hate, hate, hate my given name. I wanted to be named Samantha, which was my grandmother's name for me.

14.  What popular phrase or saying really gets on your nerves?

It is what it is. 

15.  You find a hundred dollar bill in your mailbox. What will you do with it?

I put it in my wallet and wait for the time to come when I want or need something unexpectedly. 

Your turn.  I can't wait to see your responses to any or all of these Quicky Questions in Comments.

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O Is For Olio

 Those of you who are Crossword Puzzle People recognize Olio immediately as a word that means a hodgepodge of things; a collection of miscellany; a mixture. It's often an answer in crossword puzzles, right up there with Etui (a needle case).

It's an O word that is saving me for this post because I'm sort of Overwhelmed and Out Of Ideas at present. It has been a vicious couple of weeks, and I'm Over It.

Obviously, the Overarching Situation in the world is worrisome. I've gone from being a News Junkie to a cartoonish News Ostrich, almost burying my head in the Sands of Oblivion. I'm Outraged at the republican taliban's takeover of women's bodies in Texas; I'm on constant simmer waiting for justice for January 6; I'm sick of the bashing about of President Biden, who ended an unwinnable war, airlifted more than 100,000 people out, and took full responsibility. Where were these Erstwhile Patriots when 45* made his deal with taliban leaders and agreed to release 5000 prisoners, one of whom is now the Supreme Leader of the new Afghanistan? 

Never mind. I can't anymore.

Two weeks ago, I got a horrific phone call from Rick at about 7:20 AM telling me, in between gasps and moans of pain, that he had just been hit in a head-on collision on his way to work. His airbag had deployed. Talk about feeling scared and helpless! He was still in the car, unable and afraid to move. I asked if he could move his legs and arms; he could. All I could think of--and I know it was the same for him--was his two spinal fusion surgeries and the rods and pins in his back. Once the police arrived, I told him I would wait for a call to meet him at the hospital.

Fast forward to the Good Stuff--he's Okay! The ER doctor made sure to take scans that allowed him to check for fracturing of the spine and the proper placement of his hardware. Miraculously, no fractures and no displacement. He has a nasty bruise still healing from the shoulder seatbelt and is still very, very sore. 

And very, very frustrated. The driver who hit him--and was cited--totalled our car and did not report the accident to her insurance. Rick did, however, and they tried several times to contact her. They also told us that "until she accepted liability" they couldn't do anything, even with a police report. Then they tried to tell us they were having trouble getting the police report--until we emailed them one. (We could have sent them any number of copies:  lawyers from all over northeast Ohio were sending them to us, offering to consult with us and possibly take our case. You may have had a similar experience.) 

Finally, ten days after the accident, the cited driver accepted liability, and her insurance company asked if we needed a rental car. 

Duh. 

Obtuse much? That would have been a useful suggestion a week ago. We already went and bought a replacement vehicle. Both of us need a vehicle. Even though I'm retired, I don't want to be without a car when I have a 91-year old mother who may need assistance. (And buying a vehicle now is No Fun. Thanks, pandemic.)

So this is Where We Are. Waiting. Trying to decide if we need one of those lawyers or not. 

And Oops--last month, the Dept. of Nance turned Sixteen. Good Heavens. I was in my forties when I started this blog. My sons were sliding out of their teens. I still had two cats, but they were TravisCat and EmilyCat. The Office made its television debut. We lost the giant of American playwrights Arthur Miller and two history-making Black women, Shirley Chisholm and Rosa Parks. We watched in horror as GW Bush ineptly responded to Hurricane Katrina. And, thank goodness for all of us who love to watch funny stuff, DIY stuff, or entertain our cats or dogs when we're away, YouTube went online the same year, too.

I'm Overjoyed that so many of you read me and care what I have to say. Thank you for these past Sixteen Years. I'm up for at least a few more.

Get me through it in Comments.

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N Is For Needles

 

A little while ago, my grocery store with the fun and astonishing Closeouts section suddenly burst forth a Crafts Aisle. I wasn't the least bit surprised; remember, this is the store that routinely offers all sorts of eyecatching items in its Closeouts department. I've previously seen the following:  air conditioners, recliners, sofas, cabinet doors, folding tables, dorm refrigerators, lamps, winter coats, bathroom vanities, Subway hats and aprons, a Benjamin Franklin bobblehead, and a bank shaped like a rhinoceros, among other things. I recently purchased a pair of (originally Target) animal print high-top tennis shoes for eight bucks. I mean, why not?

But I digress.

Anyway, this Craft Aisle was full of--among other things--Knitting Needles. If you know anything about knitters, you know that we cannot pass up yarn or needles. It's impossible to have too many/much of either one. I scored a nice set of 10" bamboo Needles, sizes 6-10, for only 99 cents. This pricing is very typical of my store, and some single Needles were two and three pairs for 99 cents. Many, however, were plastic, and that's not my preference. I did what damage I could and felt pretty good about it. Among the knitting Needles were also a bevy of crochet hooks, singles and sets, similarly priced. Just for a moment, I understood how hoarders must feel:  I hated to leave a single thing hanging there when the prices were so ridiculous and I knew someone someplace could enjoy them. But that is for someone else's inspiration.

And speaking of Needles, I had to make a small repair on one of Rick's shirts not long ago, which meant a bit of hand sewing. I waited until I had everything else done for the afternoon, gathered my materials, sat in a comfortable position, and talked myself into a Patient And Relaxed Frame Of Mind. Because I knew it was going to be at least ten minutes before I got the damned needle threaded. I wish I were kidding. I don't care how sharp my scissors are or how neatly that thread is cut. I can be as steady-handed as a marksman. It does not matter. I will be poking that thread all over the goddam place trying to get it into the eye of the needle. How in the hell do those of you who do needlepoint do it? What can I do to end my torture and pain? Help me, please.

One last Needle.  My grandson, seventeen in about a week or so, and I are both big Elton John fans. He was almost impressed that I was an actual card-carrying member of The Elton John Fan Club back in the early 70s. On a boat ride one summer afternoon, he shared with me some video he took of an Elton John concert, and we sang along with the songs. The last time he came over, I dragged out my Elton John albums on vinyl and let him look at them, see the cover art, the lyrics, and the photos of the band on the inside of some of them. "Do you play these sometimes, Nana?" he asked. I hated telling him no. Rick and I both have lots and lots of vinyl, and I miss hearing our albums. We really need to get a new Needle for our turntable. It can't be a difficult thing to do. I know so much music is available to me now on streaming services, but I want to listen to my old LPs. And for that to happen, we need to get a Needle. One little Needle, and all that music--Tina Turner, Queen, Earth Wind & Fire, ELO, and of course, Elton John--comes back to life. 

Talk to me about the Needles, both in my life and in yours.

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M Is For Movies

One of the first Movies I can remember going to see was The Sound of Music. That movie came out in 1965; I was six at the time. One of my parents dropped us kids off at a theater downtown with ticket money and enough for a concession snack. I chose a box of candies called Chocolate Babies, which were little child-shaped Tootsie Roll-type things. It never occurred to me that they were not only unfortunately named, but that eating them was also sort of cannibalistic.

I spent a large part of the movie feeling confused, having no idea as to the politics or the history of it all. My father served in World War II, but he rarely spoke of it, and being six years old, it was not something I had encountered in kindergarten or first grade. Still, I had a good time and loved the huge screen and sitting in the dark, getting lost in the atmosphere of it all.

We didn't go to the Movies as a family, ever, so the rarity of Movies made them wonderful to me. Even as a teenager going with friends, I always got a thrill when the lights would go all the way down and the previews would start. I loved the feeling of anticipation when the title of the feature I was there to see would go up on the big screen. I was immediately ready to be swept into the story.

My first date with Rick was a movie. We were going to go see Star Wars, but neither of us was entirely sure how to get to the theater where it was playing (oh, the days before Google Maps and GPS!). We ended up seeing Oh, God! with George Burns and John Denver instead. To this day neither of us has ever seen Star Wars on the big screen.

I went to the Movies quite often, years ago, with teacher friends. We'd go to early shows and, during the summers, matinees. One memorable Last Day Of School, a teacher buddy and I even went to a movie just a little bit drunk on some terrible frozen margaritas we made at my apartment. When our friend arrived to pick us up to go, our attempt to appear sober failed entirely. That movie was Star Trek II:  The Wrath of Khan, the only movie playing that afternoon at a convenient time for us. I have no idea what it was about, (none of us had seen Star Trek I; was there one?) but I had fun. We were the only people in the theater.

Back then, I saw so many Movies! I wanted to see as many Oscar Contenders as I could. A colleague and I would print out the Oscar nominations and make our picks and vie for bragging rights. A friend and I went to the Movies at least a couple times a month. In my retirement, I said wistfully, I'll be able to go to the Movies all the time. I imagined myself sitting afternoons in almost empty theaters, watching Movies on Tuesdays or Thursdays and emerging into the sunshine two hours later, blinking and smiling, then heading home and back to my Real Life.

That didn't happen. I think the last movie I saw in the theater was Lincoln, with Daniel Day-Lewis in the titular role, in 2012. Going to the Movies slowly became less and less of a Pleasure for me. First, the theaters became smaller and smaller, and the walls became thinner. I could hear some of the heavier, deeper bass notes of the films going on in the adjoining cinemas. Then, audience member behaviour got worse:  it's hard to lose yourself in the Movies when people near you are talking (not whispering); when the lights from their cell phones are distracting you; when their cell phones ring AND they take the call right there in the theater; and when parents bring children to Movies that are really not for kids and then refuse to regulate their behaviour. I simply gave up, completely and totally. 

"Wow. It's just a movie, not a religious service," some of you are probably saying. And, of course, you're right.

Although the last religious service I attended was equally as annoying as what I described above, with the addition of it being a religious service. But I digress.

My point is--and I do have one--that Going To The Movies has been spoiled, like so many things, by a Lack Of Common Human Courtesy. Whether its demise was hurried by technology (cell phones, digital projectors) or greed (multi-plexes, short staffing), Common Human Courtesy at the Movies has definitely dwindled to the point where for me, there is not enough of it to get me to the theater. Like many others, I'll wait until the film comes to a streaming service. And then, I find, I don't care enough to seek it out.

How about you? Do you still go to Movies (or did you, before the pandemic)? Am I expecting Too Much? Chat me up in Comments

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K Is For Knee

Right around 1996 or so, I had to get knee surgery. My right kneecap had begun to slip out of place and wander back and forth, causing not only some pretty awful pain and noise in my knee, but some damage as well as it tried to form a new pathway each time it moved.

The orthopedic surgeon had to do a TTT surgery, a tibial tubercle transfer, which basically was to cut a piece of my tibia to which the kneecap tendon was attached, and relocate it, using a titanium screw and collar. As a result, I have a bump below the skin of that knee, and you can easily feel the screw and collar, which are about a quarter inch total width, and they stick up noticeably about the same height, kind of like a prominent spider bite.

The orthopedic surgeon once offered to "slice that open and back the screw out with a drill, no problem, under a local," but I declined. He assured me that the bone, now healed, would quickly grow to fill the cavity left by the missing screw and present no immediate danger. I think I recall saying, "Do I look crazy to you?" and that was the end of it.

Every so often, the presence of a titanium screw in my leg would arise during my time in the classroom. When one teaches English, one teaches Life. There is no end to the topics of discussion that would arise during the teaching of novels, plays, poetry, and even grammar. As one of my students once said, "Mrs. D., you have to know everything to teach English, don't you?"

Anyway, at one point, I was asked how I got the titanium screw in my leg. I merely replied that it was an old hockey injury and moved on. The students all exchanged surprised (and some incredulous, some impressed) glances, but did move on. For a minute or two. Soon, a brave soul asked, "Mrs. D, when did you play hockey? What position did you play?"

"I thought we were moving on," I said. "I played a long time ago. I don't anymore. And I played goalie. And now, we are moving on."

It only takes one class period for word to travel in the halls of a high school before cell phones were in common usage. The very next period, I could see students looking at my legs. To their credit, no one asked me about my hockey injury, but to be fair, they were honors kids and not the type. But by the time my junior regulars arrived, they came in the door with the story and all their questions:

"Ms. D! Lemme see that hockey injury!"

"Ms. D., how much time you spend in the penalty box?"

"Ms. D., ain't no way you played no goalie."

"If you got titanium in there, you could probably hock it, right?"

The best thing about the whole Hockey Goalie Story was that it persisted and took on a life of its own. By the time my own sons attended high school there in 1999-2006, they were confronted with it as well, and asked by total strangers over and over again if their mother did indeed get hurt playing hockey and was her position truly goalie. My kids of course played along.

Here's the most confounding thing about the whole hockey injury story:  as a goalie, I would have worn a ton of protection, especially around my legs. Even back in high school--the late 1970s--there would have been decent protection, and the leagues wouldn't have been coed. It's not like they could have thought I was in a professional or college league, could they? Did they think I got hit with a high-speed puck? Did they think I was in a brawl? With teenage brains, who knows what they thought. It's hilarious.

And here's another thing:  whenever a student had a visible injury or a cast or something, I always said, "Oh, no! I hope that doesn't hurt right now. Do you mind telling me what happened?" Sometimes the story would be that they shut the car door on their hand, or that they had to wear a sling during a bursitis flare-up, or that they sprained their wrist at tennis practice. After hearing those explanations, I'd say, "No. That's a terrible story. No one wants to hear that. Tell people that you fell during your first wing-walking class. Or tell them that you were climbing a tree to save a cat. Or say that you were going for the Guinness World's Record in paddle ball. Always make up a good story."

They never caught on; I practically told them I was lying all the time.

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