I Is For Idiom

Although I am several years out of the English Classroom, I have to admit that there are still many, many times that I have been saddened, frustrated, and Outright Irritated by the abuse of The Language. Most often, it is in print (especially egregious are the ever-lowering standards of my once-proud Cleveland Plain Dealer). But many times, while I am out and about in Society, I cannot help but overhear Terribly Substandard Usages of The Language. Lately, I am noticing more and more people who flog and flay simple, common Idioms.

Idioms, you remember, are common expressions that have a figurative or symbolic meaning. These expressions are ages-old and have been part of The Language for quite some time. For example, if you say, "I had no idea that Vern Sandwaddle kicked the bucket last year!", everyone pretty much knows you aren't talking about Vern's athletic prowess. Rather, it's high time you sent the Widow Sandwaddle your condolences.

Here are a few Idioms that I wish Everyday Speakers/Writers would use correctly:

1. Toe The Line NOT "Tow The Line." This idiom has to do with soldiers, probably, lining up precisely in formation. Imagine all the times that schoolchildren or athletes have to stand precisely at a certain mark. Makes more sense than having to haul a rope, which does not call for precision at all.

2. Cut And Dried NOT "Cut And Dry." I will never stop harping about this, and I mention it constantly. It really hurts me physically to see and hear this. I mean it. Why would anyone misuse this? It makes no sense to say, "The case was cut and dry." Every single time I hear it, I want to follow the person and, if not explain it to him/her, make the missing "D" sound. Can you imagine me following someone at the grocery store harping, "Duh, duh, duh! It's DRIED. DRIED. DRIED!"

3. Tide Me Over NOT "Tie Me Over." I not only saw this recently, but I heard it as well. Two ladies in Walgreens were discussing whether to buy two bags of spice-flavoured jellybeans or just one. "I think just the one," said Capris And Windbreaker. "It's enough to Tie Me Over till Sunday when Iris comes." I hope Iris comes armed not only with more spiced jellybeans, but this URL, explaining the origins of TIDE Me Over.

4. Tough Row To Hoe NOT "Tough Road To Hoe." Get ready to hear this one over and over again, not only with regard to The Politics, but also to Basketball, the Neverending Season. I heard it this morning. Why anyone gets this one wrong escapes me, but with so many oddities in dialect and substandard slang, I guess it is to be expected. The metaphor of farming and hoeing a row for planting is pretty self-explanatory here. An argument could be made that hoeing a road is tough as well, but..oh, shut up. (Why would anyone hoe a road?)

Sigh.  That's it.  Now I'm spent.  It is your turn, and do let's stick to Idioms.  (It is the Letter I Post, after all.)  If we wander off into other Language Atrocities, we'll ruin upcoming Posts; I just know it.


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In Which I Either Lose Perspective Or Highlight It. Either Way, Here's This Instead Of An Alphabet Post (Which Will Resume Later).

Sweating out whether or not George Hill, a game-time decision, will be playing on my fantasy basketball team Sunday night:

Nance: George Hill is really screwing up my lineup.
Rick: You're winning this week. It doesn't matter.
Nance: I want a decisive victory. George Hill needs to put on his big boy pants and get out there.
Rick: The other team has only one player going.
Nance: And I may or may not have George Hill.

(several hours later, after checking Rotoworld, a fantasy sports news site)

Nance: (dismissively, with snark) That's right, George Hill, you'd better be playing! (reading news item) George Hill, sore right toe, will play Sunday. What a load of bullshit! Do you know how many American workers are on the job right now with bigger problems than a sore right toe? How many go to work sick with the flu or worse? George Hill, women go to work six weeks or less after having an entire human being come out of their bodies! And many of them go on to pump their breasts at work every few hours for months afterwards. And you want to sit on the bench and collect your millions for a goddamn sore toe? Hell yes you'd better get off that bench and play tonight!
Rick: (carefully looks up from his pasta) I'm glad he heard you.
Nance: So is he.

End scene.

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H Is For...

Way past due for this post--The Letter H--I know. I'm in such a terrible funk. Were it possible to put me in a coma or some sort of State of Suspended Animation until we had sustained temperatures of at least 60...that would be good. Think of how skinny I'd get! Ah, but that's another Issue altogether.

My Letter I Post! Remind me.

But I digress. Here is my

List Of Random H Things I Shall Be Nattering About

1. Hello!?
2. Harmonica
3. Hydrox Cookies
4. Hassock

1. From time to time people become habituated to their Lives and lose the ability to truly see exactly What's Going On With Themselves. We all do it, and it's Helpful if an outsider gives them a Wake-Up Call. Allow me to provide this valuable Service. HELLO!? Can you check your Calendar, please? We are Officially Into March, and next week we will be entering Daylight Saving Time. This is Lent, and Easter occurs this month. It is well past time to TAKE DOWN ALL OF YOUR CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. No, really, we are Not Interested in a single one of your excuses. None will pass muster. All of them Must Go, and At Once. (Yes, I am referring to both the excuses and the decorations.)

2. At the risk of offending anyone, I would not be one bit upset if suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, all Harmonicas disappeared from the universe. Whether it be one by one or together in a mass exodus is immaterial to me, as long as it happens in short order. Harmonicas should have gone the way of the musket rifle and the hoopskirt. Why are they still here? And if the answer is Country Music, I might ask the same question about it as well.

3. It may come as a shock to Cooky Aficionados everywhere, but Hydrox chocolate sandwich cookies were the originals, and Nabisco's Oreos came a full four years later. Hydrox were crispier and crunchier, and they were way less sweet than Oreos. They were the preferred snack of Tuffy, the obese cocker spaniel on E. 38th Street where I grew up, whose owners fed him at least six a day from a metal can next to their sofa. Actually, I ate them from that can as well when I went over there, and so did T.W. and Marge, Tuffy's owners. We were all fat, due in no small part to Hydrox.

4. Every so often, I hear a word that rings a little Linguistic Alert for me, and last week it was Hassock. Growing up, I detested this word and preferred that my parents (especially my father) use the term Footstool or even Ottoman. No one--and I mean NO ONE--among my friends used Hassock. But my father stubbornly used that term to denote any piece of small furniture used as a Footrest. He loved them, actually, and used to bring them home with startling regularity. He especially loved the little, round, padded-top things with a big flat button in the middle of them. He only stopped bringing them home when my brother made him a new footstool in Woodshop class. That may have actually ended the use of Hassock, come to think of it, and ushered in The Footstool Era.

I eagerly await your additions to my H words, or your own H words in Comments. Be the Sunshine Of My Life since NEO refuses to.

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G Is For Gallimaufry

Sigh. I know I'm almost cheating with this one. But G is proving to be a toughie for some reason, the greatest being that I am in a Terrible SAD Funk right now (Seasonal Affective Disorder). February always kicks me around pretty well, and trust me, I am bruised and battered.

And if One More Person says to me, "Hey, at least this winter has not been as bad as Last Year!" I will, with some Pleasantness, smack that Person right in the mouth.

Okay.

Onward, then! (She said brightly.)

This Week's Gallimaufry Of Miscellany

1. Shut Up Shut Up Shut Up. I would pay Actual Money if I could eliminate a Certain Name from all newscasting for the foreseeable future. Someone needs to invent this...this Thing wherein you could program your television and/or remote control to recognize words and immediately silence, bleep, or change them into a word you like better. Wouldn't that be so wonderful? I especially like that last option. I would change all mentions of a Certain Gameshow republican to Daniel Day-Lewis, a name I never tire of hearing. Or maybe something really cute, like Koala Ballerina. Can you imagine it? "In other news, Koala Ballerina, presumptive republican presidential nominee, has taken to Twitter to silence his critics." Or, "republican nominee Daniel Day-Lewis is hoping to meet with Pope Francis in order to put any perceived bitterness to rest."

2. Crazy Cat Lady. In my dining room right now are two boxes; I made a special trip to the warehouse club in order to procure them. They are tricked out, cut up, and otherwise Creatively Fashioned so that the cats will hopefully be interested in them and stop eating my iPhone and iPad charger cords. They are, basically, Busy Boxes For Cats. At any given moment, one of the cats is, instead, sleeping in them. Not sure if this is a Win.

3. Not In My House. We recently redid the home office. I opted for streamlined stuff, a camel/black/ivory colour scheme, and a mix of textures for the room. I did not, however, opt for this:

Someone get a pulse!

Lee Eun Kyoung's Free Hug Sofa. Thanks, but No.

(Even though it sounds like I could use a hug.)

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In Which I Pause The Alphabet To Talk About Harper Lee And Books And Reading

Today brought the news of Harper Lee's death. She died peacefully in her sleep, said her family, at the age of 89. I sighed deeply and took a few moments to think about her and the literary treasure that is her legacy. To Kill a Mockingbird is, to me, one of the most important books I ever read and taught.

So many of the Twentieth Century writers who became important and special to me over the years are now gone. And each time I heard of their deaths--Arthur Miller, JD Salinger, now Harper Lee--I felt a real sense of loss, and the same loss, one so final and so helpless, even though I did not know them personally, nor had I ever met them.

I think after teaching a book or play so many times (and reading it again each time), it becomes personal. At least it does to me. Because I have not only read the text of the work, I have researched the history of it, the life of the author him- or herself, and anything I can find regarding it. Maybe more importantly, as all Readers do, I have dissolved into the book or play itself. With To Kill a Mockingbird, I fell in love with Atticus as a father. My heart ached for Jem as his pre-adolescent idealism crumbled and broke apart. And my voice always, always faltered when I read aloud Boo Radley's simple request, "Will you take me home?", especially since we knew he was only a child, too, but he had no one to look after him or love him at all.

All the books I ever taught became personal to me. They came to life for me when I taught them, and I always found something new each time, often through the eyes of my students. But even as a young reader, I folded a lot of books into my heart, and they live there still.

That is the Thing With Books. Books are timeless and books are Forever. I still have my copies of The Crucible, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird, among others. And that is wonderful. The Thing I have a hard time with is that, somewhere deep down inside, I expect their authors to be the same way--always There, Timeless and Forever Alive.

I know it's Impossible. I know that isn't a very Grown-Up Way To Feel. I realize that, in a way, I have conflated the Book with its Author. And that is why I feel a sense of loss. It is as if I have lost a friend who I haven't seen in a long time, but one to whom I was very close at some point in my life and shared a great deal with. There is a brief shock, a moment of memories and some wistfulness, but life will go on just like before.

The death of Harper Lee makes me even more resolute in my efforts to bring books back into my life. It has been slow going, but I am making progress. Maybe I'll read To Kill a Mockingbird for the fifty-something-th time, this time without guiding ninety teenagers along with me. My Reading Journey reminds me of something Scout said about her own Reading Journey. Faced with the prospect of never reading with her father again because her teacher said first-grade Scout must start fresh learning to read along with the rest of the class, adult Scout mused, "Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing."


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F Is For Fear

As a girl, when I would get scared, and I mean really, truly terrified, an equally frightening response occurred. Rather than be able to scream, cry out, or even run away, I would become paralyzed--literally rooted to the spot--and unable to make a sound. In my mind, I would be trying desperately to run or shout or do something, but it was no use: my body would simply stand there, stiff and immobile. The most I was ever able to manage was a steady stream of tears until someone, usually my mother, would notice and grab me, breaking the spell.

As you can imagine, this was pretty Inconvenient. I couldn't scream or try to surface when my dad accidentally knocked me off the fishing pier at my grandparents' cabin when I was a kid. I couldn't run when the wild firework came right at me. And the evening some weirdo pulled up on our street and called me over ostensibly to ask for directions but decided to show off his Attributes instead--I think I was fifteen--I just stood there. Crying. I have no idea how that all resolved itself to this day. I do know that, from then on that summer, my brother and all of his friends escorted me to my girlfriend's house half a block away whenever I walked over. And back. The Knights of East 38th Street.

That Fear Paralysis eventually resolved itself, I guess, because since then, I have run away from bad-tempered geese at the duck pond (with children in tow) and more than one ugly snake at the lake. Having children to protect probably inadvertently cured me, taking me outside myself, like those stories you read about mothers lifting cars off their babies.

Now my fears are less concrete and less definable. I have an almost irrational fear of Being Sick. A conversation like this in our house is not unheard of:

Rick: (sneezes or coughs) Ugh.
Nance: (sits up, alert) What was that? Are you sick? Are people at your work sick?
Rick: No. And No. It was nothing.
Nance: (severely) Are you sure? You better not be sick.
Rick: (calm, but knowing it is hopeless) Nance. I am not sick. All I did was cough/sneeze. It might just be allergies or sinus.
Nance: (resolutely) Rick, I am not getting sick. I mean it. I am megadosing Vitamin C, just to be safe. Stay over there. Don't touch anything.
Rick: Okay.
Nance: I mean it. I'll unload the dishwasher. Do not touch anything. If I get sick, you're in big trouble.

Also, since I have retired and no longer bring in The Huge Teacher Bucks (ha!), I have periods of Obsessive Concern that we may, one day, be poor. Rick has offered approximately eleventy billion times to Show Me The Money (i.e., our Financials) so that I will not be so overwrought. We have visited with our Long-Suffering Financial Advisor (and wonderful former student, so he knows me), who has patted my hand and dabbed my tears and recommended a therapist. (Okay, not that last thing. He actually recommended that Rick take me On Vacation and that I Drink More.) Everything is Really Okay. But sometimes I cannot help myself, and I start getting afraid of money all over again. This all stems from being poor at the start of our marriage. As in rolling change for expenses, plus eating meals and doing laundry at The Parents twice a week.

Finally, I'm afraid Something Really Bad Will Happen. I'm not too sure exactly what this means. After all, lots of Really Bad Somethings have already happened in our lives, and we've made it through all of them pretty much okay. And Really Bad Somethings happen--inevitably--in the course of people's lives all the time. That's Life. It's lumpy and full of Unexpected Somethings.

Most people who know me are surprised that I have any fears at all; they think I am bold and brave and stride purposefully through the world with determination and limitless confidence. To a large extent, that is true. But everyone, I think, has Fears. Everyone has those small, nagging tugs that shadow their joys and deepen their sorrows; those sudden and rare down-hard clenches that make your breath ragged and your stomach lurch and your heart almost batter your ribs. "Fear," said Frank Herbert, "is the little-death."

"What are you afraid of?" a psychology professor once asked me. "I mean it. What are you most afraid of in your life? That you'll die, right? Now, whenever you're really afraid of something, ask yourself, 'What are the odds that this will kill me?' If the odds are less than even, then do that thing. You'll be glad you did." I think of that more often than Dr. McKinley probably ever imagined.

I am not Ashamed of my Fears. Why would I be? Everyone is Afraid Of Something. The shame would come from Not Doing Something About Them. I like to think that, by acknowledging them, I face my Fears and Do Something About Them every day. And I push them away, little by little, every chance I get. I've vanquished other Fears before. I think I can smack these down, too. To paraphrase another author, "Fear is a story we tell ourselves, and so I tell myself a different story." In My Story, I want to be the Hero.

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E Is For Endurance

Here's a short list of a few things which tax my Endurance. They require that I Soldier On gamely and mightily, often times with more Good Nature than I truly feel.

1. My Hair
2. Presidential Primary Season
3. Chapped Lips
4. Rick's Windshield Wiper Behaviour
5. Downton Abbey's Final Season

Please find something to grip tightly and To Steady Yourself, and allow me to Explain.

1. Something has happened to my hair in the past year or two, rendering it limply soft and Completely Impossible. There is no shampoo, no gel, no spray, no hair mucilage invented that can make my hair do a damn thing. Additionally, it is (cue horror movie music) Growing Out, which means it is Completely Awful and an Endurance Test each time I try to, oh, let's say...do any damn thing "with" or "to" it. Thank you to anyone who is crying empathetically whilst reading this.

2. We are now in Year Eleventy of the Presidential Primary Season, and I could throw up. Again. After ramming DTrump down our collective gullets for months and months, pollsters and pundits and news anchors are now gleefully performing gory post mortems on his Primary Corpse. After one primary. In Iowa. Listen, I'd be thrilled if we really could lay TheDonald to rest for real, but come on. One primary. And it was a caucus, which is like a coffee klatch, really. Is it okay if, oh, I don't know, THE REST OF THE COUNTRY HAS AN ELECTION? WITH REAL VOTES/BALLOTS AND SUPER DELEGATES AND STUFF? When is the country going to finally have one primary election date and stop this staggered primary voting? It's insane, and more than we should ever Endure.

3. This has been the mildest winter in years (NEO had temps in the 60's yesterday!), but I am Enduring the worst case of Chapped Lips in decades. Nance, you say, have you tried Burt's Bees, Carmex, Vaseline, olive oil, Blistex in a million varieties, and scrubbing at them with a washcloth? Oh, ha ha; it is to laugh. But of course I have. I have even tried the Super Duper All-Natural Remedy of Plain Honey. Here is what is working the best: None of them. None of them is working.

4. I am going to stop riding in any car with Rick when it rains because he cannot handle the windshield wipers. As soon as it stops raining, or if the rain lessens, that does not matter in the least; the wipers must still be employed continuously as before, even if they are screeching across a completely dry window. This is His Rule, apparently, and it is Consistently Applied. I have tried to Endure this with Extreme Patience And Silence. Believe me; I have. It is Impossible. After many minutes, I completely Lose It. "PLEASE TURN OFF THE WIPERS OR I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF/JUMP OUT OF THIS CAR/SCREAM MY BLOODY HEAD OFF!", is what I usually say if I don't simply reach over in a lather and shut them off myself.

5. How can PBS and creator/writer Julian Fellowes do this to me? That this is Downton Abbey's final season is too much to Endure! Why do all of My Shows end up gone but terrible and awful shows seem to go on forever and forever and forever? I've become a DA junkie. I've started watching each episode twice a week: once on Sundays, then again midweek when it's offered, savouring each little character moment, each costume, each British-accented word. Oh, how I'll miss it. And nothing--nothing--can take its place.

Oh, darlings.  What do you think?  And what are you currently Enduring?

D Is For Doughnuts

Approximately eleventy years ago I heard a Doctor on tv or radio say something that both amazed and impressed me, and it has stayed with me ever since. It changed not only my life on that day, but it changed my husband's as well. Here is what that Doctor said:

Every doughnut you eat takes twenty minutes off of your life.

The Doctor went on to explain how and why this was true, and it probably had to do with empty Calories and Fat and Sugar and a bunch of Crap like that I'm sure, but I didn't really listen at all to any of that. Not one bit. For me, the Takeaway was clear: Doughnuts Were Death, slowly and in twenty-minute increments, and that was all I needed to hear. No way was another Doughnut going to ever breach this bastion. And, in deference to The Agreement, Rick would now be Off Doughnuts as well.

Oh, The Agreement? This is another Thing Which Occurred Approximately Eleventy Years Ago, but preceded the Doughnut Edict. I'm not sure what crisis brought it about, but Rick has made a solemn vow that he will take excellent care of himself in order to outlive me. It is vitally important that I Die First. Someday I will explain why--in more detail--but suffice it to say that I cannot imagine carrying on with Absolutely Everything by myself. The amount of passwords to deal with alone would put me in an asylum.

But back to Doughnuts.

Since that Fateful Day, I have not had One Single Doughnut, Period. Not Any Doughnuts. I have not had a fry cake, a glazed, a cream stick, a fritter, a cronut, a cruller...you get me, right? And Rick swears he has resisted Doughnuts as well although they have appeared at meetings, seminars, and at work many times. Oh, once in a while he tells me he's succumbed to a Krispy Kreme here and there, and I try not to get judgy or emotional. I resist the temptation to intone--in a doom-filled, deathly voice--"There goes twenty minutes."

But I have to tell you, it has worked no real Hardship on me, truly. Doughnuts--and oh, how I hate the common spelling "donuts"!--hold no power over me. True, they often look tasty and even pretty, especially the frosted ones (but never sprinkles--what a waste: those things taste strange, have a terrible texture, and are really for children). The glory of the doughnut fades for me, however, after one bite. Most of them are...boring. And, really, terrible.  They leave a film of grease in my mouth. Or are too sweet. Or simply aren't Worth It: aren't worth the calories, the heavy feeling in my guts, the guilt, or the Twenty Minutes Off My Life.

I know that plenty of other foods are probably taking Minutes Off My Life. The rare creme brulee, my occasional piece of pecan or cherry pie, my brie with sour cherry jam appetizer.

But what a way to go! Way better than by Doughnuts.

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C Is For Comment

When my sister Patti's kids were little, our parents were their babysitters. Mom and Dad hung out over there and got the older kids on the bus, stayed with anyone too little for school, and basically took their show on the road. My mom and dad rarely acted much differently in front of the grandkids since they had perfected the Art Of MicroBickering long ago. Often, their arguments consisted of each merely saying the other's name aloud in various tones, and that would be sufficient. (Name being a general term here: my parents used their ages-old pet names exclusively, Honey and Doll.) Kids, of course, are incredibly perceptive, which was proven not only when the grandchildren put on a skit entitled The Honey and Doll Show, but also when the following scene occurred as my dad encouraged some indoor football with my then-toddler nephew:


Mom: (after several potential disasters) Honey! Now stop egging him on! TJ, you know you're not supposed to do that!
Dad: (not at all sternly) TJ. Grammy says we have to stop.
TJ: (disdainfully, to my dad) She's don't has to comment.

Ah, the Comment! TJ's remains a Family Classic to this day. Even he agrees it's The Best Thing He's Ever Said, and he probably doesn't really remember it. It is now part of Family Lore, and it gets repeated over and over again, sometimes as a punchline for new stories at family gatherings.

A Comment can be that way. It can be like the dozens and dozens on a Yahoo! article--sheer entertainment to fill a few minutes of your day. Sometimes, when I need a laugh, I click on a particularly inane Yahoo! article and read the Comments.

Often, the Comments section of any page is the most interesting and the most illuminating. It is the vast advantage which digital media enjoys over print: internet readers can instantly respond and react to whatever they read. And their Comments can expand other readers' understanding or serve to refine it.

Like TJ said, however, we don't always have to Comment unless we have something to say. But I sometimes find myself hard-pressed to Comment on blogs where the writer doesn't engage with his or her Commenters. Maybe they feel that their original post is enough, and I get that. They've already Made Their Comment, so to speak. But I like chatting with my Commenters and...Commenting on their Comment. I mean, they've reacted to my writing. That means It Worked--I was successful. If they said something that was important to them, or something that made me think or react, I want to acknowledge it. If I had hundreds of Commenters, maybe I would have to rethink this philosophy, but with a core group of Less Than That, I can easily acknowledge and respond to Commenters. And I enjoy the exchange immensely.

About a hundred years ago, bloggers were pretty obsessed with Comments. Then PinTwitFace came along, and now, most bloggers are old and way more relaxed about Stuff. Now we Antique Internet Writers (aka BlogWriters) let PinTwitFace users get all exercised and calisthenic about Likes and Followers and Twits and Pinners or Whatever. Most of us don't care. We let those on PTF worry about those stats. You all know how I feel about All Of That.

No Comment.

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B Is For Books; How I Miss Them

Much like Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, I feel like I was reading since I was born. I went to kindergarten already reading well above all those Little Golden Books, and a very grateful Miss Osborne used to plop me on a spare teacher's chair and have me read to the rest of the class at naptime while she was busy at her desk. Any spare minute found me reading, a habit that continued well into adulthood, and I have rung up an impressive tab over at My Boyfriend's Place (amazon.com) to prove it.

Imagine my Shock and profound Dismay when I tell you now that I have not read a book in almost a year.

Oh, it's not for lack of effort. Believe me; I have tried so hard to Do Something About This. I desperately miss Reading. It was one of the things I looked forward to most in Retirement--the chance to finally, finally read and read and read like I always did during the Summer when I would order six or eight Books to devour like icy sorbet on a steamy hot day.

Those Summers I would get my puttering done, my gardening out of the way, and grab my Book du Jour along with a cold drink and my Reading Sunglasses and skip out to the patio. I'd position my chaise exactly perfectly to keep the sun on my legs and the shade of my head on the page and read in undisturbed bliss. If I got too warm, I'd seek the oasis of the umbrella table, steps away.

Lovely.

And then, it seemed, my brain went on summer vacation...and stayed there. The last book I read took me over a month; I couldn't concentrate and stay with it. I tried re-reading a book that I had loved before, but that produced the same result. I abandoned it after less than fifty pages of plodding and distraction. I tried reading short stories, and that was a little better, but not much. Poetry was unsatisfying in that it wasn't solving my problem. I still read the newspaper every day, but you and I both know it's not like reading Books.

I miss Books.

Books were such a huge part of my life for over fifty years of my life. I don't think a day went by when I did not read from a book. I became an English teacher, in part, so I could talk about Books. There are Books in almost every single room in my house--wait--they are in every single room of my house. Until last year, they occupied space on every wish list I made for my birthday and Christmas. I took them to bed, on vacation, to the hospital when I had my children, and on my honeymoon. They helped teach me how to parent, how to understand the world, and how to dream. I feel lost without them.

This...brain fog seems to be a menopause leftover, like my migraine resurgence. Sometimes I feel like I'm losing the battle against both of them as I take my pills and do my crossword puzzles and order two new Books from My Boyfriend. Those Books are on my night table, looking more foreboding than inviting. One is a true crime story about arson in the California wine industry, and the other is an old novel I have wanted to read since long ago. All I need to do is pick one up and start it. That, of course, is the Hardest Part.

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A Is For Alphabet...

In 2016 I'm going to try to Write More Often, and to that end, several things have occurred. One of those Things is that Rick got me a new Desk for Christmas, one at which I can actually sit and write and not feel encroached upon by Lots Of Clutter. Another Thing is that I have stolen an Idea from another writer (The Bug, I think), one which is so simple that even I, in my Sloth and Disinclination, can lean upon to yank up a blogpost from the depths of my Inertia.

I'm simply going to start alphabetically and grab a word--either from the News or my Life or Whatever--and write a weekly blogpost using that word as my subject. If more than one word comes to mind for that letter, then a List Post it shall be. (Rather than zip off the whole alphabetical list of topics at once ahead of time, though, I'll wait each day and see what comes to mind for that day's letter.) Let's On, then, shall we?

A Is For Anger: I overheard one of Sunday's talking heads chatting about this NBC poll in which they teamed up with Esquire magazine to gauge just how angry Americans are and how it breaks along gender, racial, and political lines. "American women are really angry!" one commentator observed with real surprise. According to the survey, women report a greater rise in anger than men over the past year. No one could get over it. I looked up from my newspaper, already simmering because of the eleventy billion times I had heard Trump's name on the two "news/politics" shows Rick had already watched. They were surprised that women were angry?

Every single Intelligent Woman should be Angry. I have my Anger on Emotional Speed-Dial when it comes to The Politics and The General State Of Things. I am Angry about men (and some women, to be fair) in government using Planned Parenthood funding as a whipping boy and bargaining chip when so many women rely on its services for health care (and, yes, pregnancy services including terminations, the latter being a legal and personal decision of the woman's, however unfortunate).  I am Angry that women still earn 78 cents on the dollar in relation to men among full-time workers in the U.S., and that this inequity in pay still exists, no matter how you sort the data. I am angry about the non-existent Equal Rights Amendment, introduced almost one hundred years ago and allowed to die a slow and humiliating death in 1982, thanks to political wrangling.

Those are just the Big Angries. Smaller Angries include the restrictions on liquids for air travel are more of a hassle for women than men; cash incentives for perfect attendance at a job automatically penalize women with kids; alterations cost extra for women, not for men; women are held to a higher standard of beauty more often than men; school dress codes target girls more than boys; that working women are still responsible for the lion's share of child-rearing and housework...oh, too many to enumerate without completely frosting my cupcakes and destroying my Zen.

(Oh, and may we add anyone--men especially--saying condescendingly, "Um, wow. Why don't you tell us how you really feel?" any time we express our anger about anything?)

So, yes, American women are angry. They have been for a long time; it's just that no one ever bothered to ask them until now.

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2015: The Year Of The Shark

Goodbye, 2015. You were a Year Of Many Lessons. Some of your Lessons, I enjoyed (driving and docking the boat, making fish tacos, the joy of simpler living); others, not so much (well...let's not talk about them). But, your biggest Lesson is one that I keep learning, and it is sometimes your Hardest Lesson of all.

That is why I call 2015 The Year Of The Shark. For ages and ages, it has been said that sharks have to keep moving or they drown. Even though this isn't exactly true for the majority of shark species, it's still accurate to say that there are some varieties of sharks who have to maintain forward swimming motion or they will, indeed, die. 2015 made me realize that I had to be very sharklike and only move forward, too.

It is hard to be disappointed, to suffer loss, to be angry, to be hurt, and to feel sad. But if I'm going to replay those feelings, or dwell upon the episodes that caused them, I'm paralyzing myself. The Year Of The Shark almost made me forget my mantra of "Do whatever you can and then move on, knowing you did what you could."

Almost.

As I've said before, both here and on my defunct blog Stuff On Our List (co-authored with Jared years ago), I don't usually make actual New Year's Resolutions because I think of myself as being on a Continuous Journey Of Self-Improvement. Last year, I did make two, which I promptly forgot, but they sort of roll into my Big Three Resolutions, which are guideposts for my life and have not changed. They are:

1. Be kind.
2. Shut up.
3. Never say never.

Pretty self-explanatory for the most part: I try to make kindness my default in every situation; I try to listen more than talk, which can be a challenge for me; and I try not to deal in absolutes, especially in discussions. Rather than say, "I would never own a gun," I say, "I can't imagine a scenario in which I'd own a gun." Beyond this, I continue to be grateful and work on my patience. Remember--Continuous Journey!

Goodbye, 2015. I look forward now to 2016 and what and who it may bring me. Happy New Year to all of you, and thank you again for reading and commenting. I hope to give you much more for both in the coming year.

Warm Holiday Wishes From The Dept. Of Nance

Welcome, Christmas, bring your cheer. 

Cheer to all Whos far and near. 

Christmas Day is in our grasp, 

so long as we have hands to clasp. 

Christmas Day will always be 

just as long as we have we. 

Welcome Christmas while we stand, 

heart to heart, and hand in hand.

I've been sick with a nasty virus since late Saturday night and my strength is just now coming back. As The Grinch says, Christmas comes just the same, so with the help of My Men, we're hosting The Family for Christmas Eve as usual.  

Bless them, they'll overlook any dustbunnies and cat hairs we miss and focus on food and wine and togetherness, as usual.  They're the best.

May all of you have Hands To Clasp this holiday, Warm and Loving Voices to hear, and Time for Togetherness with those you love.  

And once again, thank you for Being There.  I am more grateful than you know.

Nance

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The Dept. Is Back And With A New Feature: Ask A Large Cat

The Dept. is back, and with a new Feature, Ask A Large Cat. Without any Further Ado, here is Piper, resident Large Cat, to answer your Queries.

Query 1: Is it Just Me, or is Christmas feeling Blah and Tedious this year?
Large Cat: I feel the same way. I don't even watch Nance wrap gifts this year; I just lie under the tree and sleep. Here in NEO, everyone thinks it is due to the weather, which is extremely warm and snowless. I think that's Zzzzzz.

Query 2: Do you think the rest of the world is laughing at us due to Donald Trump leading in the polls?
Large Cat: No. I think they are shaking their heads in dismay and pity. The laughter ended with the re-election of George W. Bush.

Query 3: Every year, I ask for a pair of navy blue or red leather riding style boots. They do not exist. I don't understand why. I feel like they should, and that I cannot be the only one who thinks so. What's the deal?
Large Cat: Look, I understand. I feel like my dish should always be full of either albacore tuna or, at the very least, wet cat food. Keep hoping. I do.

Query 4: Our dog--
Large Cat: Next.

Query 5: I keep reading articles about tipping everyone at Christmas. Is this really necessary?
Large Cat: I don't think so. It sounds like a New York Thing to me. If you get regular service from the same people all the time, like a regular groomer or a regular mail carrier or pet sitter, then I would give them a tip. But tipping everyone sounds worky. And expensive. And tiring.

Query 6: Are gift bags okay to use, or are they tacky?
Large Cat: I really prefer boxes. They are cozy, and I can curl right up in them as long as they don't have some off-putting tissue paper in there. Gift bags tip over and require jumping and depth perception and quick risk-assessment.

Query 7: Is your Christmas shopping done?
Large Cat: I am a Gift Giver all year-round, and there are lint-rollers in two rooms to prove it. Sometimes I re-gift my breakfast.

Query 8: What do you want for Christmas?
Large Cat: A cat in the White House. Tuna every day. No more dog visits, ever. More quiet.

Query 9: With such impressive photos coming back from NASA's New Horizons spacecraft, and its myriad discoveries, do you think Pluto will be reassigned its planetary status within our solar system?
Large Cat: I wish.

This has been Ask A Large Cat, with Piper, resident Large Cat. The Dept. of Nance is pleased to be back after a Hiatus Of Sorts...sigh.

Grumpy: Maybe This Is The First Of A Series

A few things are making me Grumpy lately. My hope is that venting them here will settle me down. Then, if any of you seem a little Grumpy lately, too, you can offload your Crabbies in Comments, and we'll all Feel Better.

1. The Phrase "No Worries". This is a small thing, I know, but it annoys the hell out of me. What does it even mean? Is it really too uncool or Old Timey to say the more comforting, "Don't worry", which actually means something because it has a subject and verb? To make a statement like "No Worries" is idiotic, really. It's imprecise. It's...more like a title. "Ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome Verna Wetnoodle, author of No Worries." It is also patently untrue. Of course there are Worries! We live in a world of nuclear weapons, ISIS, insufficient gun regulation, and Donald Trump as a presidential candidate. If none of those things is a worry, then someone is overmedicated. Here is what a Proper Exchange should sound like:

Guest: Oh no! I meant to bring the white wine, and instead I brought merlot.
Host: Please don't worry. We're having chocolate for dessert. It will be perfect.

Instead, here is what some Hipster Doofuses (Hipsters Doofi?) would have us hear:

Moocher: Oh, man. We're out of beer, yo.
Guy: No worries, brah. T-Spot will hook us up.

If you're wondering who to blame for this inanity, here's an interesting article about its source.

2. Fear Of Commenting. In the decade that I've had this blog, so many people have told me that either they or others do not comment on the site because They Are Afraid To. This makes me both Sad and Grumpy because it's so silly. I am welcoming, kind, and pleasant to all of my commenters because I am so thrilled to have them! It is only when a commenter is rude that I might be rude or snide in kind. I know that the reason so many commenters are apprehensive about commenting is due to my own...persnicketiness regarding The Language. But I set all of that aside when it comes to the dialog in the Comments section. Comments are quick, personal, and informal, like notes you post on the fridge to your family. So relax! Let's chat. And my Regular Commenters are so nice!

3. People Who Talk Down To The Elderly. My mother, St. Patsy, is pretty damn sharp yet at 85, and it frosts my cupcakes when people half my age call her Sweetie or Hon. I'm talking complete strangers, like the clerk at the drugstore and the nurse at the Cleveland Clinic. Now, I know the temptation is very real:  my mother is short, cuddly-looking, and should pretty much be in the Picture Dictionary next to the word GRANDMOTHER. But how about "Ma'am" or, if you are her nurse, "Mrs. LastName"? It may seem innocent and even sweet, but that is how elderly people begin to lose their identities in society. My mother is still a Very Real Person, and she deserves to be called by her name or by a title of respect. It is a very insidious thing. Think of how you would feel if you were addressed by "Hon" or "Sweetie" in public by a stranger.

Okay! Not sure all this grumping inspired New Commenters, but I do feel better. Now it's your turn. What's been bothering you lately?

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A Pot Of Yellow Marigolds: Chapter Five Of Watching And Thinking Of Blueberries

"Oh, come on!" I grumbled aloud, "I was outside for five minutes." It was, of course, during those five minutes without my phone, however, that Rick had chosen to call me from work. I came in from refilling the bird feeder and saw the missed call and voicemail alert on my cell.

"Hey. Give me a call when you get a minute....Um...something in the paper...I want to tell you about."

When Rick says "the paper", I know he's talking about our local newspaper, to which we no longer subscribe. We gave it up in favor of The Cleveland Plain Dealer, a publication I feel isn't so negative, political, and amateurish. And honestly, I got tired of the delivery person dragging her dog right across my lawn every day, ignoring my walk and my wishes to the contrary. The Paper is available for free online, so Rick catches up with the town news that way and passes on information I'll find interesting. Usually, he tells me which of my former students has been indicted or arrested.

I sat down on the couch and called him back. "Nance," he said, "Tish's obituary was in the paper today. She died several days ago. It just says 'surrounded by family and friends' and that arrangements are private. She was ninety-three, did you know that? I wanted to tell you, to make sure you knew about it."

Instinctively, I turned to look over at her house right across the street. It has a For Sale sign in its yard now: that was one of the things to appear over the summer after the parade of workmen finally left. I'd only seen a realtor show the house a few times, and there's never been an open house there.

"Nance? Are you there?" I suddenly realized that I hadn't responded to the news that Rick had told me. Still looking at Tish's house, I spoke. "Yes. I'm sorry. Thanks for telling me. Oh, Rick, it's just sad, isn't it?" There wasn't time for anything more, and I had to let him hang up.

I stood up and went to my front door, opened it, and looked out to Tish's lonely, dead-eyed house. In a final eradication of her, the real estate company had placed a ridiculous plastic panda head about the size of a softball on the top step, clearly a key safe. Tish would have kicked that thing off, with the toe of her designer pumps, in the utmost disdain.

With tears in my eyes, I read her online obituary. It was, thankfully, lovely and fitting. It said that she married her highschool sweetheart when she married Barrington, and that she was a wonderful teacher and played golf wherever and whenever she could. When I clicked over to leave my condolences, I was the first one, and that made me sad. Two weeks later, there are still only five, but I considered the fact that many people may have chosen to or have been able to send theirs directly to her family.

I briefly considered placing a pot of yellow mums on the steps of her house as a tribute and remembrance. Tish always had two pots of yellow mums and marigolds there. But I decided that it would make me feel worse to watch them die and decay as November became more cruel and inhospitable.

Tish and Barrington always used to leave for Florida as soon as the weather got too cold for golf. Sometimes it was late October and sometimes it was early or mid-November. We would suddenly become aware that they were simply not there anymore. It became so routine that we stopped noticing after a while.

I know someday this will be true about the house across the street. That one day, after it is sold and lived in for many years by someone else, the story of Tish will not feel so poignant. That, perhaps, I might only think of it for a moment when I see, somewhere, a pot of yellow marigolds.

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Surviving Childhood, Off The Top Of My Head

afrodivaz.blogspot.com

Rick and I were out driving one late afternoon, and I was taking some time to enjoy the last of the Fall Foliage. Ohio is having a gorgeous Autumn this year, the finale being a particularly vivid display from the red maples, orange sweet gums, and some rich chestnut and mahogany oaks. Even the rather pedestrian yellow leaves appear more golden than usual. And before this spate of summery November temperatures, October ended with some chilly days, but the colours made it tolerable, even for me.

Anyway, as we were detoured through the neighborhoods of a little town, I was shocked to see a couple of children out playing in fifty-degree weather wearing what I thought was inadequate outerwear. "Is that girl barefoot?" I asked, my voice rising higher on each word as I stared out the car window, incredulous and horrified. "And where is her jacket? Better still, where is her mother? And neither one of those girls has on a hat or a headscarf or anything."

Rick turned to look at the two girls--ages probably seven and ten--playing on the sidewalk. One was attempting to ride a skateboard; the other was sitting on a step near the sidewalk talking to her. Both, to me, looked cold. The skateboarder had on a teeshirt and appeared barefoot; the older girl on the step at least had on long sleeves, but her face looked pink to me, and her arms were held close to her, hands dug into pockets.

"No, she's not barefoot. She has on pink slip-on shoes. They're fine. No one is cold but you, Nance. Pretty much ever." He made the right-hand turn away from the girls and we continued on our way.

There was no use arguing. He was right. Even during menopause, looking forward to Hot Flashes for their warmth (which never came), I was always cold when everyone else was warm. Even though I've put on some weight and am no longer brittle and teeny-tiny, I'm almost always cold. And trust me, no one is more annoyed by it than I am.

Beyond that, though, is the now Archaic idea of bundling up your children to go outside, or at the very least, covering their heads and ears. Let me tell you, this is one child who Never, Ever went outside in temperatures under seventy degrees Fahrenheit without a sweatshirt, jacket, or sweater, and The Headscarf. Oh My God. Patsy June was a firm believer in The Headscarf, especially when it came to me, though for the life of me, I cannot tell you why. In spite of The Headscarf (also known as The Babushka), which I was forced to wear, I had, in my childhood, approximately eleventy thousand ear infections. And this number could definitely be on the low side. And was I allowed to wear The Headscarf in The Cute Way, i.e. tied behind my head? Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh. NO! It had to be tied firmly and chokingly in the front, right in front of my throat.

"I bet you looked cute," approximately No One is saying right now. And they would be correct. Imagine a short, chubby dark-haired girl in braids with fat cheeks, thick bangs, and...wait for it!...as of fourth grade, cat-eye glasses, sporting a headscarf to boot. Here is a rough illustration for you of what I looked like for most of my childhood while playing outdoors:

And here is a Photographic Approximation of how I felt I looked as a child, playing outdoors:

(I know it's the queen, but keep the royal thing out of it.)

How on earth did I ever, ever make it to Adulthood?

I did, dear Readers; I did. And it has been an Adulthood singularly absent of headscarves.


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Meanwhile, In America...

Barry Blitt via The New Yorker

...The Politics are harshing my Zen.

Normally, I would not post any irreverent image of President Lincoln, but in this case, I can make the exception with a clear conscience.  If he had already been restive in his tomb due to the likes of Bush 43, Nixon, and less famous republicans who have disgraced varying degrees of Public Office, he is surely retching and spewing at the likes of the gop's frontrunners now.  Actually, knowing President Lincoln's sensibilities and esteem for his countrymen, he is probably more likely weeping with sorrow at what has happened to the nation he worked so hard to save.

How did The Party Of Lincoln end up with a Sideshow Barker as its Candidate? It was inevitable, I guess, when they allowed a loudmouthed bigot as their spokesman early on and not only legitimized the threadbare credentials of the Alaskan Airhead, but continue to countenance her.  The republicans also like to invoke conservatism and Reagan as if they are both Sacred Talismans, conveniently forgetting things like the skyrocketing unemployment in 1981, and the fact that St. Ronald slept through not only Cabinet meetings, but even an audience with the Pope, and that conservatism is, at best, an Ideal. It can't be an absolute prescription for a diverse, multicultural nation like the United States of America.

Of course, some polls have a different frontrunner, the equally alarming anti-science, history-rewriting doctor whose flip comment regarding the recent Oregon school shooting flummoxed even his Fox News hosts.  In typical somnolent, sotto voce style,  the good doctor vowed that he would never have been so meek as to have been slaughtered by a gunman without a fight.  He would have rallied everyone by intoning, "Hey guys.  Everybody attack him.  He may shoot me, but he can't get us all."  And then...he laughed. (abt. 5:02)  But you know those republicans; they hate political correctness.

Jeb! has begun to sound like the exasperated Student Council president who is upset because of student apathy about Sixties Theme Dress-Up Day.  As he reminded us not so long ago, he has "a lot of really cool things that [he] can do other than sit around and be miserable listening to people demonize [him]", leaving everyone wondering, of course, why he doesn't simply Go Off And Do Them. One can only imagine how many phone calls Barbara Bush has endured since June that have started off with "Mo-om! It's just not Fair!"

Don't worry; I won't go on.  I can't.  It's exhausting, isn't it?  And I have to keep telling myself that Last Time, Herman Cain was enjoying his Moment In The Sun.

(I know, who?  Oh, yeah...that one guy.)

It's all so very disappointing, though.  Sigh.

Let's say you're a registered republican; who do you vote for?  Play along in Comments.



(Readers: please remember that I do not, on principle, capitalize the republican party or any of its synonyms. It's My Thing.)

The Prodigal Blogger Returns: Wine, A Wedding (?), Words, And Some Wee Wonderfuls

It would seem that I had been taking a sort of Inadvertent Sabbatical. I want to write, yet I feel sludgy and stumped--the worst sort of Uninspired. Perhaps my Indiscipline--bred of four years or so now of Retirement--has finally caught up with my brain and I'm a Dullard: not thinking too deeply, not reading much of substance or often, and not Energized. Jealously guarding my Zen, making the effort to Not Be So Tightly Wound, I wonder if I perhaps Went Too Far (if that's even possible).

Can I still blame everything on The Menopause? Or is it too late?

Sigh.

Let me rattle my head and see what's in there.

Rick and I had a jaunt up to Niagara-on-the-Lake, and were rewarded with yet another new winery. Luckily, we tasted with the winemaker himself, and after a slug of one of his gorgeous reds, I was moved to propose marriage to him, right in front of my (current) husband. Andrezj (now my secret fiance) raised his eyebrows and smiled, looked at Rick, and informed us that his son was a sommelier and head of operations at the winery (a mere technicality), and that he has been married for I forget, something like twenty-five years. Rick mentioned our thirty-four year marriage, which I waved off with my wineglass. Which Dear Andrezj then immediately poured the next wine into, which I also loved. New Philosophy: Marry first for money, second for wine, third for love. No explanation needed.

Hmm. If I left Rick and ran away with a winemaker, I would definitely miss conversations like this one, had briefly during a commercial break over the weekend.

Rick: (upon viewing a candy commercial for chocolate, possibly Lindt) I don't like that word, chocolatier.
Nance: (looking up briefly from a torrid series of games of Words With Friends) Really? What about it could you possibly object to?
Rick: It sounds like Musketeer and Mouseketeer and I just don't like it.
Nance: (rapidly finishing up her moves; hugely interested) Okay. Say you rank them in order, those three words, according to how much you like them, most to least.
Rick: (immediately) Chocolatier, Musketeer, Mouseketeer.
Nance: (despite knowing his disdain of all things Disney) Okay, now why?
Rick: Because I like chocolate, and the Musketeer can at least slice up the Mouseketeer.
Nance: Wow. And here I was thinking, 'same order, but because Three Musketeers is also a chocolate bar.'
Rick: That works too.

And, finally, a random list of

Small Things I Appreciate

1. M&M’S
2. Ice and Water in the refrigerator door
3. Recycling everything in one bin
4. Butternut Squash
5. Fleece blankets

Thank you for waiting.  I think I'm back.

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It's Called "Eclectic" If Anyone Asks

Perhaps you're looking to spruce things up a bit At Home. Or, now that Autumn is here, you are feeling that Nesting Instinct--the desire to prepare your cold-weather cocoon. Lucky for you, I can assist you with that.

And it doesn't even matter if you're redoing say, your bathroom, and it might look like this one:

or if you're finally remodeling your entire kitchen, and your taste is more along the lines of, say, this:

Let's imagine, even, that you are redecorating your bedroom (or guest room) and have opted for a style more in keeping with this:

Did you pack off the last tyke to college or into a home of his/her own? Are you finally getting the living room of your dreams, one For Guests Only?

I have just the little accessory for any of those scenarios. It will slide right in seamlessly and add not only functionality, but the stylish finishing touch you will appreciate. It says so right on the package. Here, let me show you:

  

Hey.  You're welcome.

(All images via apartmenttherapy.com, except living room from decoholic.com; bass switchplate via Amazon, mine.)

A Driving Story In Which We Discuss Irony, Connotation, And Simile (And Any Other English Class Vocabulary You'd Like)

It was one of those rare times when I was zipping along on Rt. 58, driving admittedly well above the speed limit and with no one ahead of me for miles. Foolishly, I dared hope--no--believe that I was going to, as St. Patsy likes to say, Make Good Time for once on this damned road that is usually full of dawdlers, slowpokes, and Sunday Drivers.

Then I crested a hill and there it was, a boxy red car going Nowhere. I had to apply my brakes. On the highway. The speed limit is 55 on that particular stretch, and this car was travelling at a leisurely 42 mph. As is always the case with my fortunes, the double yellow line had appeared on the road as it became more hilly and winding, and I was stuck.

Irritated, I poked at the buttons of the radio and looked for some music or some interesting talk. Traffic coming the other way had begun to pick up a little, and I sighed loudly. It figured. Even when it was legal to pass this guy, opposing traffic might make it impossible.

I also found it annoying that the car was called a Nitro, according to the chrome plate on it. There was absolutely nothing about this vehicle that remotely suggested "Nitro" to me, which evokes in my mind explosions or speed or power or that one American Gladiator--remember him? Certainly not a square, stodgy car like this poky thing.

Anyway.

As I fumed and fussed, I noticed the offending car rocking just a little. It was then that I became aware of a huge dark mass moving around inside it. It was large enough to obscure the rear window a bit, and completely block the rearview mirror at times. "Holy crap," I said aloud. "What the hell is in there?"

Route 58 goes directly through a hamlet which is almost entirely a school zone, and trust me, this almost kills me. It also has two train crossings and a ton of construction. As I followed Red Nitro and approached this mess, I watched with growing curiosity the shape-shifter inside the car. Once we cleared the first train tracks and orange barrels, things became suddenly clearer.

The driver must have put all the windows down from a central control because as soon as we started moseying through town, an enormous dog head appeared through the rear passenger window and began barking. Loudly and a lot. At everything. Then the dog turned around, and its head appeared in another window to do the same on the other side. This went on--from all four windows in random succession--all the way through the small town, and it may well have gone on for the rest of his ride, however long it took. I will never know.

Because coming out of that village, I took advantage of the broken white line and passed Red Nitro. But before I did, I had ample time to notice a decal I had missed until we meandered through that maddening, tiny burgh. It was this one:

The story doesn't end there. A few days later, Rick and I dropped in on my brother at his lakehouse, and he was recounting an adventure he had just had while mowing his three lots with his riding mower. "It was terrible," he was telling St. Patsy. "I stopped the mower and sat there with my legs drawn up. That thing charged me with its teeth bared, barking like hell. It was the biggest German Shepherd I ever saw. And all the guy did was stand way over in his yard and keep calling to it. That dog didn't even hear him, or act like it did. I finally yelled, 'Can you just come over and get it?' And the guy comes over with the leash, gets the dog, and doesn't say a word to me. Not one."

Guess what was parked two doors down?

I think that his decal is maybe overselling it.


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Death, Be Not Proud, But At Least Be As Dignified As Possible

No matter where you live, I know you've all seen them. Even if you haven't seen one in actuality, you've at least seen them on television during reports of tragic deaths either by gun violence, traffic accidents, or even acts of terrorism. They're often spontaneous, many times poignant, and always well-meaning.

I'm talking about the makeshift memorials that appear at the site of a terrible and sad death. They are very common in Cleveland, for example, these displays of stuffed animals, candles, balloons, and flowers intermingled with hand-lettered posters and cards and notes and photos, even some paintings and sketches of the deceased or murdered. Along two of the highways I drive frequently are faded wreaths, their significance unknown to me. I have no idea who they mourn, and now they look dirty and bedraggled. I find myself feeling worse about the condition of the memorial than what could have happened there.

Then I feel guilty for being shallow. Then I feel resentful about the way our culture deals with death. Then I berate myself for being so complex in my own feelings about death. Then I push a bunch of buttons on the radio and try to think about something else.

Today, however, I saw an entirely different sort of Memorial. I was absolutely amazed, and you know that word is not one that I use lightly. Here it is; tell me what you think:

It suddenly appeared before me in traffic, and thank heaven I had enough time to snap a photo.  The back window is painted, for those of you who cannot make it out clearly, with the words "Rest In Heaven Angy Anne' 11-25-98  8-29-15."  

Never before in my life have I seen this sort of Mobile Memorial.  I have seen cars painted to announce softball championships, high school senior jubilation, graduation joy, wedding elation, birthday announcement, driver's license success, the fact that a certain team is bound for state competition, and to inform me that "Lordy, Lordy, Someone Is Forty", but never that someone is dead and that the driver wishes her to be at peace in the afterlife.

Let me add this to the List Of Things No One Should Do When He Or She Hears That I Am Dead.  Driving around with a back-window announcement of my passing is, to me, actually worse than posting it on PinTwitFace.  It is actually more undignified, if that is possible.  It is worse than passing it in a note during study hall or class or, if you go, church.  I would absolutely rather it be announced during, oh, almost any event except perhaps a Toby Keith or Miley Cyrus concert.  I would rather have it be a singing telegram sent to someone and performed in a gorilla suit--no!--a gorilla in a tutu--than have anyone drive around with the news of my passing shoe-polished on the back window of his Chevrolet.  Or Honda.  Or even her Nissan Leaf, as environmentally friendly as that car is.

Please, in Comments, tell me I am Not Alone.


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