In Which I Give March The Boot And Discuss Its Fallout

March is blustering off, and I say Good Riddance. You were a bit of a bitch, March, and I didn't appreciate it. At all. About the best thing I can say for you is You Were Not February. Now get moving and don't even think about giving April any advice.

Over the weekend, we had two inches of heavy, wet snow dumped on us very unceremoniously. It was not the Dept.'s fault; we had our snow shovels prominently displayed next to the door as custom demands in NEO until mid-April at least. We know how this works. No, Dear Readers, I blame these people:

Taken on March 24th

Do you see the dead, deflated Christmas Thing there flanked by blooming daffodils? On March 24th? That is, right there, the reason we got hit with shitful snow last weekend--Climatological Confusion caused by Seasonal Dissonance. These individuals have a lot to answer for. A. Lot.

Because of that lousy snow, I forced myself to take the whole day Saturday (after shovelling) and complete some projects. One of those was The Dreaded Cat Brushing. The cats have become so belligerent about it that I now shut myself and one of them at a time in the small hallway. All the doors to the rooms are also shut. I sit on the floor and rotate like a child on a Sit 'n' Spin, wielding a brush, taking swipes as a cat deigns to pass. During a break in the action, I paused to take a photo of my new shoes--bought at Target on clearance for only nine bucks:

Remember when vegan leather was just vinyl?

I sent it to Jared and Sam, bragging about my bargain.

 

Me:  These are my 9$ shoes!

Jared: What a bargain!

Sam:  Why are you on the floor?

Now that I look at the picture, my ankles look terrible and hairy. They are not, honest. Just in need of lotion.

Finally, one last photo. March has been cruel, and my dear BFF Leanne in Maryland knows it. She decided to send me my birthday present very early, and I am so glad she did. My tears were happy and grateful ones when I opened it. It's a day late for Tiny Needle Tuesday, but she made me this beautiful sampler. We share its sentiment so very, very deeply:

Sorry it's skewed. It's so hard to photograph glass in any light.

It's not March's fault that my friends live so far away, but it did nothing to help it, either. So, screw you, March. Hit the road. You were even devastating for my fantasy basketball team (SIX players on the Injured Reserved at once! Steph Curry out. Damontas Sabonis out for five games in a row. I can't even go on.) 

Join me in saying So Long to March. Let's have High Hopes for April. Certainly more Christmas decorations will be gone...won't they? (Tell me what I want to hear in Comments.)

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How I Celebrated International Women's Day And Other Sundries

 Oh, hello. Welcome back to the Fabulous Life that I somehow lead. How to Sort It All Out for you and where to begin? Let's just jump in Anywhere and go.

~*~On Tuesday the 8th, I showed up at 9AM (what was I thinking?!) for my mammogram. I put on the requisite pink mammo-shirt and walked into the chamber--freezing, of course. The technician greeted me warmly and said, "What a great day for a mammogram! Happy International Women's Day! It's the perfect way to celebrate!" Luckily, I am a Tactful Person, born of years and years of teaching teenagers, and I was able to respond with, "And to think I had no idea when I made this appointment. What a terrific coincidence!" She was kind, professional, and even gave me a nice pink pen.

~*~Piper and Marlowe, the Resident Cats, turned twelve earlier this month. Our relationship has become...strained. Shall I blame it on The Pandemic? The old adage "Familiarity breeds Contempt"? They've gotten mouthy and demanding. They start staring at me and snarking for their meals at least an hour before time. Marlowe never, ever shuts up unless she's asleep. I cannot sit down without having Piper commandeer my lap. AND THE HAIR. Is there such a thing as an industrial strength vacuum that one can install at one end of the house and it just sucks really hard and pulls out ALL THE CAT HAIR AT ONCE? I need that. Pronto.

~*~I cannot believe that I have to say this on March 10th, but here it is:  CHRISTMAS IS OVER. TAKE DOWN YOUR OUTDOOR DECORATIONS. At this point, they are abusive. If you would like to keep Christmas in your heart and in your home, for whatever reason, please do. Keeping them outside to lower property values and everyone's spirits is selfish and lazy. Today on my walk, I had the jarring experience of witnessing a deflated Santa flanked by a shamrock wreath and an Easter egg tree. If there were a bar on my route, I'd have stopped in and had a stiff drink.

~*~Things are, however, Looking Up. We're getting longer stretches of decent weather between winter storms. The silver maples are full of bright red buds. The magnolia trees have soft little catkins all over their branches. My daffodils have emerged from the landscape beds about an inch or so--brave things! Robins, having arrived back in early February, are now everywhere and singing. My sage, chives, oregano, and thyme are already coming along in the herb garden. With the weather giving me safer sidewalks, I can walk far more often, so my moods are less gloomy and grey. I'm starting to believe that Spring May Come.

Tell me if our Worlds collide or anything about Your World in Comments.

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Ray

The other day Rick was looking outside and remarked, "Wow.  Look at those clouds. What an ominous sky."

I immediately smiled and corrected him, "It's pronounced om-nee-us. It's an omnious sky."

He chuckled.  "Right. Omnious. How could I forget?"

"Well, you can, but I can't. Ray said I'd never forget him, and that kid was right. Every single time I hear the word Ominous, I think of him, smile, and silently pronounce it Omnious. I loved that kid."

Ray was a student in my Creative Writing class many years ago. He was skinny, almost wraithlike, with platinum blonde hair that he wore just below his ears. His skin was pale and his eyes were large and blue behind his glasses. He had a sort of bug-like look about him, but in an endearing sort of way. His smile was large and easy, and he was thrilled to be in a Creative Writing class. When he found out that all the writing was to be read aloud, he was a bit leery, but upon hearing assurances that each writer first got a round of applause, then positive comments before one constructive critique, his concerns were settled.

As it usually happens in CW, the students formed partners or small groups among themselves. Most often, these turn out to be writing critique/help associations, and not based upon friendships. I individualized instruction in the form of one-on-one conferences at my desk during class time, so students found the groups/partnerships to be extremely valuable.

Ray, who was into Wicca and Native American spiritualism, and had recently come out (very difficult back in the 90s--he helped found our school's Gay Student Union), chose as his critique partner Nathan. I sat back and waited for...I don't know what. But something, certainly.

Nathan was joining our huge, diverse urban high school after being homeschooled for his entire life.  He was a fundamentalist Christian who always had his Bible with him. He was very quiet and from a big family. Creative Writing was already quite a jolt, I was sure, and Ray had to be a living, breathing Culture Shock for him. 

Those two, however, got along famously. Ray was so kind and gentle, and he was so accepting and tolerant that he could get along with anyone. He once confided in me that his father had no idea what to make of him, and that he had little in common with his own family; he loved school where he could be himself and be around all the people he really liked. 

One day Nathan admitted that it was difficult for him to work in CW class because it was often a bit chatty and he couldn't concentrate. Ray asked if we could have one day a week where we worked in silence, except for my conferences. I immediately said yes, and that we would even call it Nathan Day. And so we did.

Ray ended up truly enjoying reading his work aloud. He got quite good at it, and often became very dramatic. In CW2, which was the poetry semester, the students had to write a sonnet. When Ray came up to read his aloud, he took a moment at the lectern to compose himself, then made a sweeping gesture with his hand as he intoned in a deep and un-Ray voice :  The omnious horizon loomed ahead--

And I almost lost it. Almost. Omnious. Honestly, I can't remember if I corrected him later, during critique, or if I just corrected him on the paper or what, but bless his heart, I will never forget that as long as I live.

At the end of the year, Ray gave me his photo. On the back he wrote a great many nice things about me and our time together. At the bottom he wrote, "You'll never forget me." I remember when I read it, I chuckled at its confident assurance. I also thought it was just like Ray--most people would say, "I'll never forget you," but not Ray. Even now, I'm smiling and shaking my head.

He was right, of course. I've never forgotten him. I've no idea where he is now or what he's doing (of course, I hope he's writing), but I bet he's remembered fondly by many, many more people than just his Creative Writing teacher. 

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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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S Is For Scissors

 

Right now in my home, were you to go on a Scavenger Hunt of sorts, you could find at least fifteen pairs of Scissors. It's not that I forget where I put them and so keep on buying them, pair after pair after pair. It's also not a case of being a sort of Scissor Snob or Scissor Specialist, buying highly specific Scissors for certain jobs, designating a certain pair solely for paper, another for fabric, another for my knitting needs, and another for flowers. It's not like that at all.

And I'm not into paper crafting, either, so I don't have those fancy schmancy Scissors that cut various designs onto paper edges for scrapbooking or card making. I don't even have a pair of pinking shears.

What I do have is the gleeful realization that I can have more than one pair of Scissors in my home!

Let me explain.

Growing up, we were a One Scissors Household. The six of us and all of our Scissor needs were met by a single pair of decent Scissors. Can you even imagine it? This condition persisted for as long as I lived at home. It was highly inefficient and, to me, extremely unsatisfactory. Oh, sure, once in a while a pair of our crappy blunt school scissors would surface, but I might as well try to cut with two butter knives taped together for as helpful as those things were. 

(Which reminds me--we also seemed never to have any Scotch tape, ever. Even at Christmastime, I cannot tell you how many times we wrapped presents with electrical tape, carpet tape, or, on one horrific Christmas, no tape at all, holding all wrapping paper together with ribbon and string. None of us will ever get over that one, not ever. But I digress.)

Trying to find the Scissors was also a chore. There was no end to the places they could be:  the drawer in the living room; the drawer in the kitchen; in the sewing kit; hanging up in the kitchen; upstairs or in their bedroom; check on top of the dresser! How it never occurred to anyone to get another pair of Scissors escapes me. My whole life, I merely assumed that you could not have more than one pair.

It wasn't long after I got married and had my own home that I realized you could buy Scissors at the store, as many as you want, and just HAVE THEM. Honestly, I got a thrill. And so I began buying Scissors.

I have two pairs of Kitchen Scissors, and I love them. I don't struggle with opening bags of anything; I grab my Scissors and cut them. I happily spatchcock chickens like a chef and snip away skin and fat that I don't want. 

I buy little Scissors at Back To School sales and put them in my knitting bags. They're perfect for cutting yarn when I finish a project or start a new colour or whatever. I have lots of those, and they have fun colours on the handles.

There are Scissors in my desk drawer, my bathroom drawer, my nightstand drawer, and Rick has barber Scissors in the bathroom cabinet. I have Scissors (and Scotch tape galore) in my Christmas giftwrap tubs in the attic. I have Scissors at my back door to cut herbs in the garden, and I have a pair of Scissors in the basement so I can cut open new cat litter bags. I have a sturdy pair of Scissors in my toolbox, and another pair in my tub of craft supplies. 

As far as I know, my brother and my sisters are not as Scissor-Happy as I am. Perhaps they have hoards of Scotch tape or something else they felt the lack of keenly. I don't know. But I wonder if I have the most Scissors. Do I?

Tell me all about your Scissors or something you stock up on now because you hated being without it before. I look forward to reading about it all in Comments.

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R Is For Red

When I think of Red, my favourite colour, I often think of my Aunt Berthie, my grandma's little sister. My grandma was named Ethel, and her two living sisters were named Grace and Bertha. They had a baby sister named Ruth, but she died tragically at a very young age. Berthie became the baby of the family.

I rarely saw Aunt Berthie, and I saw even less of her husband Babe. (I'm awfully sure Babe was a pet name, but I have zero interest in knowing his real name. Berthie and Babe is such a terrific name for an elderly couple, don't you think?) Babe was always spoken about with a downcast look and a woeful head shake. "Babe's just not doing so good," someone always said. Or, "Babe's going downhill." For my entire childhood, Babe was doing poorly or dying, it seemed, but he always hung on. To this day, I have no idea what Babe's problem was, or if he simply preferred to keep to himself and claiming poor health was the only way to do it.

Anyway, back to Aunt Berthie and the colour Red.

Aunt Berthie was petite and slim and quick in her movements. She had snowy hair, cut short, and she spoke very fast. She liked to wear more sporty clothes and bright colours. My grandmother was methodical, deliberate, and wore hearing aids. Grandma worried that some prints were Too Loud, or even worse, Kiddish (too youthful). She had terrible arthritis in her feet and had to wear orthopedic shoes that were specially fitted. 

I once accompanied Grandma and Aunt Berthie on a shopping trip, probably for fabric, and we went to pick Aunt Berthie up at her house. We went in, and Uncle Babe was not available for a visit, of course, due to his declining health. Aunt Berthie put on a pair of bright Red Keds to match her outfit, and I saw my grandmother wince. "Oh, Berthie. Why oh why are you going to wear those red canvas shoes? They're so kiddish!"

Aunt Berthie turned to look at Grandma and cocked her head quizzically. She said, "Why, Ethel--" and I honestly could not tell you what else she said, she spoke so fast. She spread her hands across her Red skirt and looked at my grandma.

Grandma said, "Those Red culottes are so loud, and with those shoes!" She put her hand on the side of her face like she was in pain. Then she reached for her purse and the discussion was over. Aunt Berthie said a few more things in a rapid stream on our way out to the car, and we were off.

I was hugely entertained by the entire scene because my grandmother was the closest thing to a perfect human being I ever knew. Her few impatient outbursts were always funny because they were so rare. And the contrast between her and her sister was enormous.

This summer I found myself thinking of my Aunt Berthie as I was driving to the grocery store. I passed by this house as its awnings were being painted, closely supervised by a snowy-haired, tiny lady.

I want you to know that there is a lightpost painted bright Red, an address plate also painted bright Red, and her car in the garage is a fire engine Red compact SUV. All of the awnings on the side of the house are Red, and I'm sure if there are any on the back, they are Red as well.

If she were alive, this would be my Aunt Berthie's dream house, and my grandma would have cringed and sighed every time her Oldsmobile rolled up its driveway. 

I bet the lady who lives here loves her Loud Red, Red house.

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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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P Is For Pizza

 Before I begin with the scheduled post, allow me to update you on Rick's condition and what's been happening with regard to his accident a whole month ago (which seems incredible). Briefly:  after a follow-up with his doctor, a bone scan and chest xray with contrast were ordered; those tests revealed that more injuries were sustained in the accident, including a stress fracture of his foot, three compression fractures in his spine, a broken sternum, a skull fracture, and a mild collapse of the lower lobe of his lung. He's feeling the most pain from his broken sternum, but overall, he's working and doing okay. We hired an attorney, which has made both of us feel much better. The stress was affecting the health of us both terribly. It's a huge relief to have a professional take over. We can breathe and live again.

On to regularly scheduled programming.

When I was growing up, my mother cooked dinner every single night. We had her tossed salad with homemade vinaigrette, meat, a veg, and potatoes or some other starch. Once in a while there was spaghetti, chili, or sloppy joes, all of which tasted vaguely the same to me. There was no carryout, no KFC, no fast food, and certainly no Pizza. I never even thought about it; that's just The Way Things Were.

Suddenly, my father's job changed and he was put on shifts. After working steady days for decades, he had to start working nights and our personal favourite, three to eleven. We'd get home from school and know that all of us could kind of loosen up, especially Mom. And dinner was more casual. That's when Pizza started coming into our lives more regularly. And what Pizza it was!

Giovanni's Pizza was South Lorain's go-to Pizza place. It was situated mere blocks from US Steel and was in a dilapidated one-story, flat-roofed storefront. When you walked in to grab your Pizza, you could see the women in the back behind the counter working on the pies, all business with ladles of sauce, handfuls of cheese and sausage, their motions purposeful and quick. It was steamy and smelled fantastic. Giovanni's was always busy because their Pizza was the best.

When Dad worked three to eleven, we'd bug Mom to get Pizza for dinner. My mother was never too hard to convince; she was a pushover about most things. She always insisted upon still making a salad, though, and sometimes even a separate vegetable to accompany it, much to our dismay. Pizza, salad, and corn was often a Three To Eleven Meal in our house.

Giovanni's Pizza was hearty with a ton of cheese and a thick sauce, as you can see in the photo above. The crust was sturdy but not tough, and the toppings often went almost to its edges. To this day, my brother and sister still get Giovanni's Pizza, but I haven't had any in ages. Giovanni's has renovated their place and now offers salads and, oddly, chili dogs. 

I'm not a huge fan of Pizza now. When Rick and I do order Pizza, we order from a local bistro. We get thin crust, and I don't eat a whole lot of it. Honestly, I get a little bored. It's ironic, but I often wish I had a salad or something along with it. 

I prefer to make Pizza at home, and we use flatbreads from a Cleveland baking company as the crust. Rick puts them on the grill. My favourite one is using my homemade pesto, tomatoes marinated in some balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and fresh mozzarella. We also make pepperoni flatbreads, and use this Pizza sauce, and if I have mushrooms or peppers, I'll saute those and add  kalamata olives. We've used naan as crust, too, and it's delicious. (Also delicious are Dessert Pizzas. I've spread Marshmallow Fluff and topped it with squares from a Hershey bar and grilled that. We've also had thinly sliced apple drizzled with caramel topping. And who is going to say no to Nutella with thinly sliced bananas?) 

Oh, and I'm a big yes to Hawaiian Pizza as long as there's no bacon on it. Just pineapple and a little bit of ham, please. I don't have Pizza Rules, per se. I feel like Pizza should be casual and fun. If you want a Taco Pizza, then have it. Do you want Keto Pizza with cauliflower crust or Vegan Pizza with tofu cheese? I don't care. Do you eat the 99-cent frozen Pizzas from the grocery store after you dress them up? Go ahead. Personally, I buy the Chef Boyardee Pizza kit during the dead of winter and make their crusts, then add all my own stuff to make Pizzas. (Although, since I found such great sauce, I'm going to have to investigate a better crust mix idea. I am not messing with yeast.) 

Anyway, my point--and I do have one--is that Pizza is Not A Big Deal. It's all about what You like. So, tell me--what are your Pizza Memories and what Pizza do you like?

actual Giovanni's pizza!

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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L Is For Lists

 

Oh, hello. Hasn't the weather been just shitful? Here in NEO, we're feeling like steamed dumplings. Not like we want to eat them, but as if we are them. 

I've been less than motivated to do anything, whether it be indoor or outdoor, but I don't want to neglect this space or you. So I press on, and with the Letter L.

A long time ago I used to have a blog with my eldest son Jared called Stuff On Our List. We'd pick a topic and make a list of stuff under that topic and then chat about it. Some of the topics included Top 5 Sandwiches, 5 Worst Songs Of All Time, Top 5 Childhood Toys, and Pets I Grew Up With. It was a fun blog and a fun project to do with Jared.

I still like Lists (especially those that aren't To Do Lists), so here are a few random Lists for fun.

Songs I Recently Downloaded

1. Starboy by The Weeknd

2. Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode

3. Royals by Lorde

4. Year of the Cat (album) by Al Stewart

5. Delicate by Taylor Swift

6. Drivers License by Olivia Rodrigo

7. Larger Than Life by Backstreet Boys

8.  Quit Playing Games With My Heart by Backstreet Boys

9.  I Hope by Gabby Barrett

10. Blinding Lights by The Weeknd

Obviously, I get nostalgic for something and then I need to hear it, which is the case with the older songs on here. It's irritating to me that I have so many CDs that are rendered useless by my car, which does not have a CD player. The backstory to the Backstreet Boys music gives me very fond memories:  I used to blast their music when I picked up my son and his buddies from summer school gym (they took it to free up room in their high school schedules). We had so much fun.

Shows We've Streamed And Loved (In No Particular Order)

1. Kim's Convenience

2. Schitt's Creek

3. The Queen's Gambit

4. ER

5. The Kominsky Method

6.  Broadchurch

7.  Big Little Lies*

8.  Grace And Frankie*

9.  Hoarders

10.  Baskets

*The asterisk means that this is a show only I watched. Rick and I are currently watching ER, the 1994-2009 TV series, and we are thoroughly enjoying it all over again. I highly recommend it. We've watched so many shows across so many streaming services (Sam and Jared are very generous) that at times we forget where to find things. The options are mind-numbing.

Summertime Dinners On Repeat

1. Flatbread Pizzas on the grill

2. Cold Tuna Pasta with Peas

3. Raw Veg and Dip

4. Snack Board/Charcuterie Board

5. Spinach Dip with Crackers and Raw Veg

6. Huge Salad with Pork Tenderloin

7. Sheet Pan Chicken with Roasted Veg

Rick and I are both so bored with food, and I am so sick of planning dinner. I feel like when the boys were young, I made the Meat, Veg, Starch dinners like a champ for twenty years. I AM OVER IT. Now, almost anything counts as dinner. Sometimes, even ice cream. I am a grownup and I can do that.

Small Joys In My Everyday Life

1. The Redheaded Woodpecker Frequenting My Feeder

2. My Lemony Body Spray And Lotion

3. The Dogs Next Door

4. Sam Coming For Lunch

5. The Quiet Of My Home

6. Snuggling Under My Comforter On The Couch In The Evening

7. Time

I wish every single one of my friends could be retired. It is truly the gift I hoped it would be. I have so much more Time at home and so much more Peace. It makes me able to observe and enjoy all the other Happinesses in my life. Those of you who know me--even by reading here--know that I am no Pollyanna or Gratitude Proselytizer. Once in a while, however, I think it's helpful to take a look at some of the Good Stuff in your life. 

Summer Stuff I Don't Get Excited About

1. Baseball

2. The Beach 

3.  Eating Outdoors

4. Swimming

5. Pick Your Own Fruit/Veg

Lots of people are big baseball fans, and I am not one of them. I used to go to my brother's baseball games and my students' baseball games all the time. That was fun because I was personally invested. Now, as one of my son's friends said, with pro sports being the way they are, you're basically rooting for laundry; players come and go with regularity, and the names on jerseys don't stick around. I'm not a beach person because there's no good shade and so much sand (and that stuff comes home with you forever), and I do not know how to swim. I become panicky in water near my chin. I am not a farmhand, so I prefer to buy my produce, and because we have Evolved and Become Highly Civilized, I do not have to fight with the elements or insects for my food. I can eat inside a shelter with four walls and a roof and climate control. This is the twenty-first century, so I will act like it. Thank you.

Do not even think of asking my opinion of Camping. Ridiculous.

I'd like to see an entry or two of yours for these Lists. Please share--or just chat away about my Lists--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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