So Much On My Mind That It's Criminal

In 2013 the Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year was selfie, the photo taken of one by oneself with a smartphone or webcam and usually shared via social media. That same year, a runner-up was binge-watching. I do not do the former, but I have done the latter, and I have done it often. Selfies always make me look terrible and I hate them. I look tired, old, and as if I have an enormous face. Binge-watching has never done me a bit of harm; that is, until today.

First, a bit of exposition. Some of you may recall that the Dept. gave up cable quite a while ago, and now we live on regular broadcast digital and a Roku, which brings us Jared's Netflix. I've found that I really don't miss anything, especially now that I've found a few new shows to watch. One of them has an actor whose character I like, and it has turned into a Mini-Obsession of sorts, especially now that Daniel Day-Lewis has retreated back into the Gaping Void Of His Creative Space And Marriage. Anyway, the show is Criminal Minds, the character is Dr. Spencer Reid, and the actor is Matthew Gray Gubler.

Here he is with sunglasses and the tously hair, and a little bit of a five o'clock shadow happening.

He's a fan of the messy-haired, but kind of  "Just got off the soccer field, but it won't take me long to get cleaned up before we go out" look.



He's got kind of a "Daniel Day-Lewis Meets Johnny Depp Meets Rob Lowe" thing going on, and I like it.

His character is very awkward and nerdy, however, and brilliant, of course, and he gets debilitating migraines.  (Aha! say all my Readers.) The big thing is, of course, his looks. He has quite a few of the Necessaries: 1. Pretty 2. Longer Hair 3. Slender 4. Great Mouth.

Sigh.

Good Heavens. If he had a British accent, I'd be in tears every time I watched that show.

But I digress.

I had no negative side effects, as I said before, from binge-watching Criminal Minds with MGG in the past, even though it is a terribly and horrifically violent and bloody show. (Honestly, I have no idea how I am able to watch it. It's truly sickening.) The past few days, however, I have watched it a lot. A LOT. There were some episodes that I hadn't even seen before, and last night I watched very late into the night.

But I still woke up early to take the Prius in to get some recall work and an oil change. The place had generously provided all kinds of coffees and teas and some doughnuts. I had a bottle of water. I was playing against my Maryland friend Leanne in Words with Friends on my phone to pass the time. Suddenly, the elderly lady to my left took an absolutely enormous bite out of her jelly doughnut. Huge red clots dropped down through her fingers and onto her pants. My stomach lurched just a little. She grabbed her napkins and began wiping, wiping, wiping, trying so hard to get rid of the evidence of what had happened. The whole napkin was stained with red now. My stomach felt a little queasy, so I looked away and tried to get Lady Macbeth's famous speech out of my head. I turned toward the television and took a sip of water.

On the screen were obscenely large slabs of raw, red meat. The chef (Bobby Flay) selected a long steel knife and carefully sliced away several cuts. The sound was muted, so all I heard was a service tech, who was explaining something to another woman sitting across from me. As the knife continued slicing, I heard, "We didn't find him in there, no, but we found evidence that he'd been there, all right. There was some hair, some shavings, and some other things all balled up. Those kinds of things can clog up the works pretty well. The harsh winter brings them out, and then they need to find a place to hide out and stay warm." Horrified, I was glad to hear the jingle that told me it was my turn to play a word. I played lye for a decent amount of points, then glanced back up at the television. Big chunks of raw meat were being ground up, and then, a quick cut to shots of sloppy burgers dripping with ketchup. My stomach clenched, and I frowned, suddenly suspicious.

I began to observe the staff as they bustled around, smiling at every single person they encountered. No one came near a door without one of Them opening it for the person to walk through. They were so obsequious and eager that it was creepy. Just what kind of place was this? Why were all the people in the waiting room women? Was I the only one who couldn't hear the TV? And why did it take so long for my iPhone to connect to their free WiFi?

But these were questions for another time.  My car was done, and I had to go.  They held the doors open for me, and waved me out, smiling all the time.

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Poor, Dear, Silly Spring, Preparing Her Annual Surprise!--Wallace Stevens

It is with great pleasure that I am able to say Spring Is Here In NEO. Rick takes full responsibility for the brief return to Winter a while back, caused by him putting all the snow shovels away despite my warnings. (It was that night that the snow fell, too!) Yesterday, Easter, was full of sunshine, warm breeze, birdsong, and lots of trash talk during the front-yard wiffle ball and kickball games at my sister Patti's house. All eleventy thousand of us were there, and St. Patsy was in her glory.

On Saturday Rick and I had spent part of that Springy day evaluating the yard. My chives are up, along with my French tarragon, spicy oregano, and sage. The thyme, which had sprawled out into half of the plot, had not fared as well. I pulled it all up but a softball-sized clump which looked sickly and sad. I guess we'll see what happens. Both pond fish, Frigidaire-Ziploc and Tina, had managed to survive the winter and were sluggishly moving about in the cold, brackish water. "I know just how you feel," I told them.

It makes me feel silly and a little ashamed to say that this was a tough winter for me. After all, what did I have to do but wake up, eventually get dressed, and putter around, occasionally running some errands? Did I have to go to work every single day, brave the cold, shovel the snow, wrangle little kids to daycare, worry about anything, really? No. Honestly, I didn't. I had the life of A Kept Woman, by and large, and I could stay at home in the warmth and drink warm things and keep things tidy and cuddle the cats and read and wait for Rick to come home. How tough is that?

But as soon as Spring began its slow approach, I felt restless. It was almost instinctive, inborn, a genetic urge that made me feel a slight irritation. A sort of undercurrent, a thrumming, started in my nerves. I felt trapped and cornered. I wanted to drive, get away, go away, see something, do something. I needed to travel, to jaunt away for a bit. You know how if you have an old plant that starts doing poorly for no reason, you give the bottom of the pot a good knock and it shakes it up a bit, and it snaps to? That's what a road trip can do for me. It gets me snapped out of my post-winter funk.

So, I'm headed out tomorrow to see a friend in Maryland. It has been a million years since we've spent time together, but I have a feeling that we'll be able to pick up right where we left off. That's the great thing about friendships. Like herbs in a garden, the strongest ones can lie fallow under the worst conditions, but be vibrant and alive when the sun shines warmly again.

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Be Not Proud

Two things occurred to me this week at entirely separate times, both involving some very sad news I received on Monday. A colleague of mine from teaching died on Monday. She was one of the truly good people I ever knew. She was kind, helpful, a devoted teacher, and an adoring mother to her two little children. She was only thirty-one years old. As soon as I heard of her death, I was overwhelmed with a deep sadness. And all I could manage to distill out of all of my emotions was the fact that It Just Wasn't Fair.

That's when I realized that, when it comes to Death, I am a child. I am fearful of losing those I love, and when confronted with Death, I want to turn around and go the other way, and quickly too, because I also feel like I want to throw up. I didn't really experience Death when I was growing up. My dad's parents were already gone by the time I was three, and no one close to me died when I was little. We didn't have pets, either, until I was much older, so I didn't even have a pet to experience Death with. Of course, there is absolutely a chance that there was a death that I simply don't recall. Much of my childhood seems and feels blurry to me, partly because I spent 85% of it reading library books, and partly because I operated on a "need to know" basis. As in "Mom or Dad will tell me what I need to know."

I often wish that our culture had a healthier view of Death. In many Eastern cultures, for example, Death is viewed as a higher plane of existence--not an ending, but a beginning, an even more perfect form of consciousness. I have a lot of ambiguity regarding Death. The idea of a Heaven of some sort is comforting, but I don't really think it exists. It bothers me, the Not Knowing. And I hate the whole social aspect of a Death. When my father died, I was outraged that we--the bereaved family--had to do anything. Why on earth would anyone expect us to receive visitors when our father and, for my mother, her husband had just died? How could we stand there and talk to people, many of whom I did not even know? And my mother started worrying about feeding them, and where we could do that, and yada yada yada. I could barely function. I could still see my father lying there in the emergency room, the sheets tightly tucked around him, nothing showing but his head. (It was only weeks later when it dawned on me that his chest was cracked open in their efforts to revive him. We wouldn't have wanted to see that.) Funerals are brutal things. They're like bridal and baby showers: they're full of good intention on both sides, but they are terrible things for both sides. I can't bring myself to go to funerals, "showings" (there's a horrifying term, right?), any of that. I feel like, one less person means the family can get the hell out of there a few minutes earlier and grieve in private. At the very least, they can rest. I went to the funeral of a former student once, a friend of Jared's too. It was so terribly sad. But Jared was a mess. He got to the casket and broke down, then started choking and retching. He hadn't wanted to go to the casket, but the mom insisted.

The second thing I realized came as a result of sitting in the oral surgeon's waiting room while St. Patsy had her tooth pulled. Quite a few mothers were there with their children, and the kids ranged in age from about five up to seventeen. I leafed through a few magazines as I waited, but some of the mothers merely sat there and nagged their kids. One gorgeous little boy named Andre got a nonstop diatribe from his mother that sounded so nasty and hateful that I almost burst into tears. She reprimanded him about his shoes, the volume of his electronic game, the fact that he sounded "too grown", how dirty he got, the way he talked about his grandmother, and all manner of things. Each time she spat something nasty his way, he looked up at her, puzzled and a little sad. So every time I caught his eye, I smiled or winked. Another mother was there with her two kids, a boy and girl, who looked to be eleven and twelve. She clearly wanted an audience, so she said audacious things to and about her kids, their schools, their behaviour, their father, and whatever she could to get a laugh. She soon started picking at every single thing they said, pouncing on mispronounced words, grammar mistakes, anything they said incorrectly. But instead of merely correcting them, she repeated their error and added 'huh?' at the end of it. For example, "So you already seen the movie, huh?" When her daughter would blush in embarrassment, she would say, "Why ya turnin' red?" It was awful.

I thought about these poor kids, trapped in a life with these parents. What were they learning? What would they grow up to be? I thought about all the people who want to be thought of as pro-lifers, who want every single baby to be born into the world, no matter what. I wondered if they ever saw parenting like this and realized that they were wishing it on an innocent child. And I still think that every single anti-choice hardliner should have to spend a week with a child welfare social worker and a police officer who investigates child abuse claims. They should have to see what life some babies are born into.

I was sitting there, in that office, and I thought about my former colleague and how she so much deserved to be alive. She was a wonderful, loving, devoted parent. Those women are here, and she is not. And it all makes me sick.

And Here I Thought My Spring Cleaning Was All Done

A few minor changes have been or will be made to the Dept. site, and I wanted to let you know what was happening. Some of it is basic Housecleaning, some is accommodating my Sloth, and some is merely practicality.

A. Commenting: A few of you miss the Comments section being called "Brainstorms." Well, me too! One morning, I devoted hours to my template, trying to troubleshoot it, googling like crazy and trying to learn some HTML coding on the fly to fix it. Ever since Google bought Blogger, they aren't too interested in servicing the platform at all, so we are left to our own devices. Anyway, after noodling about forever, I happened upon a notice that this is what GoogleBlogger calls "An Outstanding Issue." In other words, it's still broken, they don't know why, and they aren't fixing it thus far.

Next, I had changed my Comments policy to accept Anonymous commenters. A few people had contacted me to let me know that they wanted to ring in, but for some reason, they had been unable and did not want to bother setting up a shadow GoogleBlogger account. I am so sorry to say that I Will No Longer Be Allowing Anonymous Commenters. Every day since the exact moment I switched (and, no, I am not kidding), my blog has been flooded with junk comments which are simply commerce bots hawking their crap. The built-in spam filter has been doing a great job, but all the comments come to my private email inbox, and it's a pain. So, since the larger concern is outweighing the few people who claimed they wanted to join in, I've scotched Anonymous comments.

B. Sidebar Elements: I usually change my sidebar elements every time I do a new post. It's very time-consuming, and I wonder if anyone really pays attention. Could you let me know if you do, and if you actively engage with any of the elements? Then I'd know which to keep and which I can let go or keep static.

C. Email Subscriptions: Google also now owns Feedburner, my subscription service facilitator. It's--in a word--erratic. As with Blogger, Google isn't really interested in maintaining or servicing Feedburner, and it shows. I will be switching email service providers soon. Those of you who experienced the glitches in March with my daily postings know how badly the email service screwed up. It's all very frustrating, and it takes a lot of time and effort. I have time, but I detest mucking around with this sort of thing because I fear that everything I do could have fatal repercussions, to what I've already done, to my blog, to my subscribers/readers, to my computer, to the world. Each keystroke is fraught with peril. So. Fraught.

D. Feedback: In Comments, please offer any suggestions you have for anything regarding the Dept., whether it be color scheme, content, or layout. Sometimes, I can't get a fresh view on it because I'm consumed by the work of it. What do you like, dislike, want more of, want less of? I can't promise I'll act upon it because, after all, I have to love it, whatever it is that I put here.

As always, Dearest Readers, thank you.

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What's In A Name? Dollar Store Scents Coin A Few Choice Ones

Lucky for you, Dearest Readers, that my travels lately have once again taken me to a Dollar Store. I am in search of an odd-sized bottle to replace an under-the-sink soap dispenser in the kitchen that somehow got broken. The manufacturer only has the newer model in stock now, so we are left to scrounge around and find something that will work. So far, no luck, but my latest foray into cheapo stores has at least provided me with blog fodder.

Did you know that you don't have to spend a fortune on perfume? Your local Dollar Emporium has many fine scents available at the low, low price of One Dollar. Let me present them to you.

Perhaps you want to remember your Youth. Those days when Mother loomed large in your life. When her advice and admonitions helped you remember what it took to grow up to be The Kind Of Woman Who Would Make Her Proud. For you, may I suggest:

Some women want to project a pleasant, nonthreatening demeanor. They don't want to be a sexy siren; they merely want to convey a kind femininity. Yes, they want to say, I'm a woman, and I'm easy to get along with and somebody's mom. I have extra Kleenex in my purse, and I volunteer at the school twice a week. If you need me to stop and pick up an extra bag of ice on my way to your party, just ask! No worries! This, then, is the perfume gift for her:

She's unabashedly a redhaired, freckle-faced lass who comes from a long line of Catholics. Her brothers and uncles are all policemen, except for Uncle Casey, who's a priest, and three of the women in her family are nuns. She can out-cuss and out-drink all the other women on the block, but they don't care because she has a heart of gold. And now there's a perfume just for her:

Let's say that your mother sent you to Fat Camp where you lost fifty-three pounds and found your breasts and a waist. Now that you're tanned and slimmer, and all those days of swimming have bleached out your hair into a shimmery blond, the boys back at Verizon Co. High School, Inc. are taking notice. You are getting the big rush, and how! Before the twerking starts, you might want to dab a little of this on your neck and wrists:

Gentlemen, consider your needs met as well at your local Dollar Superstore. Allow me, if you will, to showcase just a few.

Men, what is it that you want--and I mean REALLY WANT--from your deodorant body spray? Do you want an odor-killing formulation? Do you want a lady-killing scent? Well then, do I have something just for you:

Dude! Are you, like, totally over all the phony smelling GMO colognes out there? Like, do the American sensibilities offend you with their constant homage to chemicals and forgetting the earth and our environment? If you could, would you totally smell like...oh, I don't know, the earth, and herbs, and nature? Right on. Dude! I feel you, and so does this cologne, which is French for like black tarragon, which is like decomposing herbs. I know, right?

Hey, guys. R u tired of hearing everyone get on you about ur speling? If everyone noes what you mean, then whats the big deal? If ur not gunna be a english teacher then who cares? They'res more important things too worry about then this. Besides which their's even a colone that proves its no big deal. Hear it is:

You know, Dearest Readers, I do these things so that you don't have to.

And So It Continues

Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! Yesterday I chortled in my Joy as the temperature reached a perfectly Springlike 55 and, one by one, I opened wide one window in each room for a good Airing Out. Once the sun reached its noon acme in a Crayola cornflower sky, I was already feeling its warmth radiating underneath my skin and effervescing in my veins. Soon, the Urge came upon me, primitive and tribal, an instinct so deeply inborn that it could not be shaken off or ignored. I was dressed, I was made up and tressed, I was energized by the glorious weather. Like all the women in my family, I was driven now to do One Thing, and One Thing Only.

I was going to clean my house.

How ridiculous, I know. But we simply Cannot Help It. All of us are doomed to behave in this way, and I have no idea why. I can absolutely guarantee you that, had I called either of my sisters yesterday and, if they had the day off work, they were cleaning their houses. It's a sickness. (We also wait until the hottest and most humid day of the summer occurs and then we get down on our hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor. We call each other, too. I call Patti, and I say, "Hi, what are you doing?" "Oh, I'm down here scrubbing this awful floor," she says. "ME TOO!" I yell into the phone. "What's wrong with us?" Patti asks. "Call Susan and ask her," I say.)

My particular routine is to start in the kitchen and work from there. The stove always slows me down because, unlike many people who own a black and stainless (HA!) steel stove, I actually use mine. I had been ignoring it since Christmas, just giving it a cursory swipe now and again. There it stood, a hulking mess of meal-making memories and olive oil freckles. If only stoves were as affordable as microwaves, I'd get rid of this...this thing and buy a new one. I hate it like I hate my uncooperative can opener. It's still usable and useful, but I want desperately to get rid of it and get a new one. Junking this one is wasteful and dumb, however, so I have to soldier on, silently resenting it all the while.

My spirits remained lifted, however, by continuing to open windows as I moved along. Small challenges were no match for me and my dustrag and Pledge. My leather furniture gleamed, my tables glowed with a soft sheen like moonlight in the forest. The velvety cabernet sauvignon we had last weekend will never be forgotten, thanks to me saving the lovely bottle and adding it to our display. Pictures look brighter and sharper now. Our Vermeer reproduction is relieved of its mantle of dust. I smile a little as I clean up the fireplace area, hoping against hope that we have seen our last fire for the season.

The Season, by the way, meaning Winter, has lasted six months here in NEO. We had our first snowstorm in mid-October, and we had one a few days ago on March 29th. This had better be It. (Or what? What am I prepared to Do About It? Sigh. I don't know, but it won't be Pleasant.)

Here's a Thing, though. A Thing I thought would get way better once the boys moved out, but it hasn't gotten better, really, not by much. Cleaning the bathroom is still a shitfully thankless job, there I said it, and it had to be said. First of all, my bathroom is about as big as a closet. Cleaning the toilet, therefore, is a very intimate experience, and it is not made any better by the fact that A Male Person uses it. Why is it that men cannot--at some point in their Business--grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe the rim of the toilet? Because holy crap! You know? Or is it just me/us?

And boy, did I get sucked in to using this product. The ScrubbyBubble brush thingy. I like the idea that I don't have some icky toilet brush hanging around, but these paperwad brushy doodads are getting ridiculous. They don't really scrub, they fall apart when you wrench them off the big row they come in, and now, they have a new "heavy duty" one that, when you try to wrestle one away from its compatriots, it's almost impossible, thanks to the plasticky scrubby insert that makes it heavy duty. I almost sprained my wrist! Then I bought one of those industrial looking solid cakes that hangs in the toilet to constantly clean the bowl. I put that baby right in the flow of the water so that each time there is a flush, the clean can swirl all over the place. But Marlowe wanders in and likes to chew on it and moves it around.

Marlowe is what my students would have called "a hater."

Speaking of the cats, my mother doesn't read this blog unless she is visiting my aunt in Gettysburg, and she isn't right now, so let me just say this: C A T   H A I R. It is ruining my life. My mother would say, "Well, Nance, you signed up for it when you got those cats." So. What. Did I sign up for burping and farting contests when I had two kids? Anyway.

The cat hair would not be Such An Issue if they were not so patently stupid about being brushed. Let me ask you this: if you lay down and someone came over, spoke softly and lovingly to you, and then proceeded to rub your back and brush your hair for half an hour, would you act like IT WAS A HUGE IMPOSITION AND GET UP AND WALK ALL OVER THE PLACE AND HIDE UNDER CHAIRS AND TABLES AND MAKE THAT SOMEONE FOLLOW YOU ALL BENT OVER UNTIL IT BECAME SOMETHING LIKE A SCENE IN A MOVIE ABOUT INSANE PEOPLE? Just asking. Because I have to vacuum my bed. Did you read that incredulously?   I HAVE TO VACUUM.    MY BED.

It took me all day to clean my house. I did not sit down. Rick came home, took off his work boots, came into the living room, sat down and said--this is a direct quote--"Wow. The kitchen looks nice. You cleaned it today."

Today's forecast is for 64 degrees and partly cloudy. I think I will take a little drive and enjoy my day. After all, my house is clean.

Sorry, Walgreens--More Like The Corner Of Confused And Crabby

Sometimes, when a bunch of people gather, I can't help but listen for Blog Fodder. It's not that I'm looking for something to criticize or poke fun at so much as I am--in a Seinfeldian manner--observing things that I can comment upon from a "did you ever notice" perspective. It's like looking at an ordinary drop of rainwater under a highpowered microscope. So much more there than the first look affords.

I belong to two retiree lunch bunches because I taught at two schools in my district. Even though I taught at a junior high only one year, they are gracious enough to include me in their monthly group, and I like their company. Of course, I also attend my high school's monthly lunches. At both, I generally order a bloody mary and settle in for some chatting. In addition to gossip about colleagues or district business, the conversation always comes down to two familiar topics: travel and what everyone is doing to promote health and longevity. If there was such a thing as a Dr. Oz Cruise, these groups would book immediately. I know who is taking flaxseed and chia seed every day, who is using only gluten free products, who is swearing by glucosamine, and who orders everything online from Puritan's Pride. I know that Dr. Bragg's Raw Apple Cider Vinegar With The Mother is the only apple cider vinegar with true health benefits. Oh, and do you want to take a river cruise? Well, forget it. They book so far out now, that it's impossible to plan one any earlier than 2015, and you had better forget the "Downton Abbey" one. That one is sold out for the foreseeable future. Carnival Cruises are just so noisy--too many kids and young people--but you can book a quieter one on Princess or Holland America. But--sigh--it's just sad how some lines treat their employees, who are all foreign nationals. Try to tip them well, if you can. There are horror stories out there that are just awful.

Listening to travel stories is one of my joys. If I can't go, then I want to hear about when you went, and if you have some pictures, even better. My colleagues are generous with their travel stories, and they give good recommendations regarding cruise lines, travel agents, places to see, and places that aren't really worth a stop. They will even give you their guides, books, or anything else that they have that might be of help. The problem is, they never sound very impressed or happy about where they went. I always get the idea that they went in order to have gone, to simply cross it off their list or something.

They get far more exercised when talking about their use of wellness products. I understand. Ten years ago, I didn't think twice about any of that. Now, however, my hair keeps getting greyer. My hands and knees truly hurt with arthritis. My vision prescription changed for the worse, and I have a hard time driving at night. It all seems very unfair to me. That stuff is for Old People. I'm not Old. Then I think about the Simple Arithmetic of it. I have far more years behind me than I am likely to have ahead of me. It's natural to want to tip the scales more in the other direction.

The whole thing makes me feel confused and guilty. Should I be taking supplements, chia, flax, wheat germ, green tea, fiber powder, and shots of vinegar (With The Mother)? How do I know? Every time I watch a little of Dr. Oz, he tells me to eat something else to lose weight. If I ate all of that stuff, I'd weigh 200 pounds. Should I get a Neti pot, or will I collapse and die from a brain-eating fungus? Rick and I eat very little meat now compared with how much we used to eat, and at least three days a week, we eat vegetarian. I start my day with Greek yogurt or a spinach and strawberry smoothie. I use olive oil only. Should I start oil pulling?

Let me say this: I liked it so much better when I was young and talked about makeup and boys. Or when I was a mom and talked about sleep habits and spit-up. Or even when I was in my thirties and talked about work, teenage attitude, and my shoes. And let me also say this: I am deep-bone tired of this winter. It has made me old. Older. Elderly. Aged. Aged and in need of Spring.

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If You Want Your Stuff To Be Like Family

Last night, while Rick and I were sort of watching television and sort of strategizing with our fantasy basketball teams, a commercial came on for a storage facility with a slogan that, for me, was problematic. Do business with us, they said, because "we'll treat your stuff like it's our stuff." I immediately turned to Rick.


Me:  Well, I don't see how that's such a great thing.
Rick:  What?
Me:  Telling people that you'll treat their stuff like it's your stuff. For example, if someone stored their collection of tchochkes here, I'd give them all away. I'm in Streamlining Mode. If that was my stuff, I'd be giving it away or tossing it. So...
Rick:  Or what if you don't take care of your stuff, like hoarders? You just cram it all in and let it rot? How is that good?
Me:  Exactly.  Some people simply don't give a damn about their stuff. So, what if they let other people go through the stuff, or they leave the door open and the stuff gets stolen? I know lots of people who are very casual about stuff, like Sam and Jared with their clothes. Half their wardrobe is in someone else's closet, usually each other's.
(there is a pause)
Rick:  We're never giving them our stuff.
Me:  Ha! You got that right.

All of this reminds me of another business, a restaurant, whose slogan was "We treat you like family" and the similarly themed "When you're here, you're family." Again, how is that good? I don't go out to dinner to feel like I'm at home eating with my kids, or my sisters and brother. And the very last thing I want is to sit in a restaurant and have the atmosphere of sitting in someone's kitchen or dining room while Mom complains that no one appreciates the time it took to prepare and cook the meal, Dad rides herd on some sullen, plugged-in tween who won't eat that because there's some fat on it, and a little preschooler who wants to talk about what a Disney character did and how she's a princess/he's (are there any male Disney characters who are heroes and carry the movie? Well, put his name here).  I have crossed restaurants off my List because of a high proportion of families in their patronage.  I'm by no means against families.  Heavens no.  I've just already had mine and been through all that and don't care to bear witness to it again.

Even Family Dinners at my house, which were not actually like the previous scenario, are still quite calisthenic and can wear me out sometimes. Plus, when I'm at home, no one comes out and serves me my dinner and takes the used utensils or extra plates away. I am not automatically brought nice, icy refills of water at home, either.  There is certainly not the luxury of being asked, "May I take your order?" or the more delightful "And what can I bring you for dinner this evening?"  Oh, how gorgeous.

Perhaps I am overthinking and overanalyzing these slogans. After all, it is only advertising and marketing, not great literature. But when there are so very, awfully many commercials that interrupt programming--especially as we watch the news--it's inevitable that I pay attention to a few here and there. They're asking for it.

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And The Greatest Of These Is Love...Of Learning

One of the objectives that was a Big Deal when I was still formally In Education was helping our students to become Lifelong Learners. At first glance, that looks sort of at odds with a more tangible goal, which is always to get them to graduate in four years. Becoming a Lifelong Learner, however, means to instill into each thriving mind that Love Of Learning--so much so that said mind wants to go on learning new things forever and forever.

I am a Lifelong Learner, but my education didn't make me that way. It's not that I didn't have excellent teachers all along the way; I did. Part of my quest for learning has to do with reading, and the other part has to do with an all-consuming Need To Know that completely commandeers my conscious mind and compels me to find out every single detail, fact, and available piece of information about whatever it is that currently interests me.

My lifelong learning has led me to, at various stages of my life, read deeply in, research the hell out of, and generally beat up the following topics, in no especial order:



1.  Jack the Ripper
2.  Cows
3.  R.M.S. Titanic
4.  Birds of North America
5.  Redwoods
6.  Oscar Wilde
7.  The Battle of Gettysburg
8.  Mary Lincoln
9.  Abraham Lincoln (1840-1865)
10. Human anatomy
11. John Keats
12. Emily Dickinson
13. The Black Donnellys
14. Daniel Day-Lewis

There are others, but I don't want to start freaking people out unnecessarily. I'm not counting the stuff I started to research because I had to teach it, either, like Walt Whitman. I was already deep into Miss Emily before she became part of my regular curriculum.

The Interwebs make this so very, very easy. If I hear about something on NPR, I can research it immediately on the Interwebs. I can then go on Amazon.com (my boyfriend!) and select books which my boyfriend will then send directly to my front porch in a few days or so. I can even get on Netflix and search for any documentaries on the topic. The amount of information available to me at my fingertips is almost overwhelming. There is so much that I can wallow in information: facts, details, witness accounts, photographs, recordings, testimony, you name it. For information addicts like me, it is heaven.

The problem with making Lifelong Learning an educational goal or objective is that it's impossible to achieve if you have a student with absolutely no natural curiosity. Or a student who doesn't/won't read. Or someone who doesn't care about anything but himself and his (insert trivial object here: cellphone, motorcycle, designer something).

I just this minute learned that someone from Maryland discovered what he thinks might be pictures of President Lincoln's funeral procession passing by on a New York City street. The photo, published on a Flickr site, is from the National Archives. Here's a link.  I'll be looking closely at it as soon as I hit "Publish" on this post.  Then, I'll probably click another link, then another, then another.  And pretty soon, I'll be looking at all kinds of other things and learning about them, too.

Being a Lifelong Learner is a gift.  Did you receive it?  What wonderful, interesting things have you learned about?

Red Or White, Fiction Or Poetry, I Can Help You With That

Since I am still trying to escape the clutches of this Evil Ailment, I'm having another Radical Self-Care Day. That is NurtureBlogSpeak for "lying around in my jammies and resting." I've picked up a little bit of freelance work, so I have some stuff to do, but while zipping about The Interwebs, I came across the most wonderful article title: Uncorking the City: Wine and Books. What a most wonderful combination! I read with great interest the accompanying blurb on my newsfeed: It's a brave man who chooses a life in the wine business. Or the book business, for that matter. Carlo DeVito is clearly more courageous than many, as he has actually chosen to pursue both. I eagerly clicked over to the article in its entirety on the online version of the Wall Street Journal.

And I was immediately disappointed. It was not, as I had hoped, an article about a man who ran a combination bookstore and winery/wine shop. Instead, it was about a man who used to be in the publishing business, wrote several books on wine, and now runs a winery. This was not what I wanted to read about at all. As I finished up the article, largely skimming the last paragraph or so, I started thinking about what a terrific idea a Wine and Books Shop would be. I want to own and run that shop.

Think of it. It's midafternoon, and you want a nice hour or so. You stop in and say hello. "What's good on pour today?" you might ask me. "Oh, that depends," I answer. "Do you want a red or a white? Do you want a little sparkle or still?" Let's say you want red. "I want you to try this," I say. "It's a Meritage, and it's drinking so well right now. Lots of fruit in the front, only slight tannins on the back of your cheeks, and it finishes with a beautiful dark chocolate smoke." I pour you an ounce to taste and you love it. Then, as I pour you a glass (in a crystal balloon, so that you can enjoy the aroma and so that it continues to breathe) I say, "What are you reading lately? Anything good? If not, take that gorgeous red wine and go read absolutely anything by James Wright. If you're not in the mood for poetry, grab something smart in fiction." Then we settle up and you go grab a book and a chair and spend a marvelous hour or so. If you really love the wine, you can take home a bottle. Same with the book. Maybe I'll have nibblies so that no one gets too...tipsy.

On the weekends I can do mimosas and Bellinis, but not spritzers. (I hate adding water to wine. It's criminal.) In the summers I can do sangrias. Doesn't it all sound lovely? There can be book chats, and I can set up a space just for book clubs to meet. Someone needs to set me up in this business.It's perfect for me. Pull out those checkbooks, Dearest Readers. Your future vintages and volumes are on me.

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For The Good Of The World, Get Your Jollies Today

Today, Dear Readers, is The International Day of Happiness.  I forgive you for not remembering; after all, this Day is only two years old, officially declared back in 2012 by then UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon. "Social, economic and environmental well-being are indivisible. Together they define gross global happiness," said the Secretary General. The UN then called on everyone, including organizations and governments, groups and individuals alike, to "observe the International Day of Happiness in an appropriate manner, including through education and public awareness-raising activities."

Um...none of that will increase this individual's gross global happiness, to be honest.  That all sounds like worky inservice stuff, which I retired from about three years ago.  The happiest thing about all of That back then was that I didn't have to grade it.

And I'm unable to get too Happy at present.  This beastly cold has morphed into Something Worse, and I am Down For The Count.  I had to break my Sacred Vow to you, and I missed two days of writing here because I was so unwell.  At the risk of TMI, just let me say that, if the Energy Conundrum could be eased by snot, I could bring the price of fuel down all by myself.  Considerably.

But this is the International Day of Happiness! I have several readers in Other Countries! We can increase Gross Global Happiness right here. This article I read in LiveScience measured some happiness by looking at social media, which is the Most Scientific Data There Is. And the happiest US state is...Hawaii. Duh. I don't need an analysis of Twitter to tell me that. Giggling at the heels of Hawaii are Maine, Nevada, Utah, and Vermont. (California, where are you? And obviously, this study was well before the legalization of marijuana in Washington and Colorado.)Not so happy are Louisiana, Mississippi, Maryland, Delaware, and Georgia. (Ohio and Michigan, where are you? Leading the league in cheap vodka sales, that's where.)

Over on Instagram, Brazil is downright hysterical with happiness at number one, while Japan and Vatican City tied for the lowest. Take heart, VC! This data was collected early in The Francis Effect. The USA scored eighth, beating out Canada and the Bahamas. Canada, what is the matter? Why the long face? Is it Rob Ford? Is it the taxes? It certainly cannot be curling and its wonderfully outrageous uniforms. (Although I must make a correction here, pointed out by my Alert And Faithful Reader John S. of Pennsylvania, who reminds me that curling is Scottish in origin.) In any case, buck up, Canada. You know how I adore you.

In any case, I feel compelled to somehow celebrate this International Day of Happiness, especially since I missed World Nutella Day (Feb. 4). So, today I will be Happy. Happy that I can stay home because I am retired, and I don't have to go to work or prepare a bunch of monkey plans for a sub. I will be happy that I can still feel connected to the world via my computer, and I can be entertained by it, too. I will be happy that, if I feel at all better, I can get in my car and go someplace. I'm happy that I can finally see the grass in my front yard!

Maybe I'll make a dessert today, and that will make Rick happy, too. That's one of the things I like about Happiness. It grows when you spread it around.

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Yo! Check It Out

Even as I was on my Bed Of Misery, my children decided yesterday to come on over for the afternoon and dinner (in order to Jolly Along my recovery, I'm sure.) Thank goodness I had the ingredients for the world's simplest and most delicious Asian-style pork recipe done entirely in the crockpot. Thanks to Dear Reader Shirley, I had the crowd-pleasingest salad* in the universe, and dinner was a simple matter of tossing things into receptacles, stirring, and serving. The only thing I had to actually pay attention to was some rice. (*I add chunked-up apples; it's a wonderful addition.)

Sam and Jared brought their lovely and intelligent girlfriends, Tina and Kait respectively, and it was a great strain on me not to hug and kiss everyone. We are and always have been a demonstrative family, a trait that has been echoed throughout the generations. (As a matter of fact, when Jared first "sent me a fax", as my mother calls text messaging, that he and Kait were coming, I told him that it was fine, but that I had a terrible cold. "Don't touch me. Don't even look at me. That's how awful it is," I tapped out to him."Kait says she is going to lick your face," was the response.)

Our tiny livingroom was full to the brim with people. Tina was bundled up under a comforter (see, it's not just me), Sam and Jared and Rick folded their tall frames into furniture, and Kait leaned over the arm of the couch to tell me all about her recent birthday trip. I was in my chair, finishing up Jared's knee warmer. Having taken his measurements the last time he was here, I custom-knit him a knee warmer to keep his knee warm at work in order to lessen his arthritis pain. Soon, however, this heartwarming scene of domestic tranquility would degenerate into something far more typical for us:

Jared: Are you gonna hook up your Playstation or sit there like a bitch?
Sam: (affably) You mean like you? (to me now) Do you guys mind if we hook up the Playstation and play a little bit before dinner?
Me: No, go ahead. But play nice. Jared, you know how you get.
Jared: Remember when we had the Sega, Sam, and Mom used to yell at you all the time because I told her that you had cheat codes that you used to beat me?
Sam: Yes! You got me in trouble all the time with that. I never had any cheat codes.
Jared: Mom used to holler upstairs and say, "Sam! Stop using cheat codes! Play the right way or I'll--"
Sam: (interrupts and uses horrible nasally voice that sounds nothing like his mother)--I'll come up there and take the power cord and NO ONE will play. I mean it. That's not fair." And I didn't even have cheat codes.
Me: Oh my god. I never sounded like that in my entire life. Maybe now, with this horrid cold, but never like that.
Jared: Mom was all about the cheat codes.
Me: Sam, Cheat Code can be your rap name.
Jared: That's pretty good. Cheat Code. If I'm ever a rapper, my name is gonna be Hate Crime. That's so gangsta. Because who likes a hate crime? No one. But I'll spell it K-R-H-Y-M-E, like rhyme. Then I'll rap about everything I hate.
Tina: (looks up from her phone) I want a rap name, too.
Kait: I do, too. What's my rap name?
Me: (surveying the empty box of candy in Kait's lap) Kait, your rap name can be Gummy Worm.
Kait: Okay!


Somehow, Rick got the rap name Head Wound, and I don't remember how. Tina and I still don't have a rap name, so we're open to suggestions. And, luckily for you, I left out the profanity that tends to zing around the room when Jared and Sam get together. They both work in male-dominated workplaces, and there, it's ubiquitous.

Starting April 1, Sam and Jared will be roommates again. They will be sharing a house, back together again for the first time in ages. I feel a sense of a circle connecting, a knot tying, yet a loosening of...I'm not sure what; but it's like I can breathe more deeply. They're best friends, and they look out for each other. They have good women in their lives. I feel good about Hate Krhyme and Cheat Code right now. I really, really do.

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Week 2 Of My Crisis Begins: Situation Update

It's bad enough to get a crappy cold. Having a cold is miserable: the sneezing, the coughing, the sore throat--together or separately--make each day an endurance test. I've had this horrid cold for a week, and each day I hope that the next day I'll feel better. So far, I'm daily disappointed. This lousy thing has made lots of things awful, and now I'm going to complain about them.

The Many Ways This Cold Has Ruined My Life

1.I can't breathe, yet my nose keeps running.
2.My nose is full of crusty ick.
3.My face is cracked and chapped from wiping my nose.
4.I can't taste or smell anything.
5.My cough makes me sound like I've been smoking for sixty years.
6. I feel like I shouldn't get colds now that I'm retired.
7.All I do is cough, sneeze, blow my nose, suck on Ricolas, and wash my hands.

This evil disease doesn't deserve much more digital ink, so I'll keep my discussion brief. There has been something wrong with me since I was born in that I get every illness worse than the person who gave it to me. Ask anyone who knows me. I can't even be overtired without spiking a fever, so when I get a cold, no matter what I do, it will last two weeks and be The Worst Cold I Ever Had.

And why do I even have it? I am RETIRED. I'm not around eleventy thousand teenagers anymore in a closed environment. I wash my hands like it is my job. And, come on. RETIRED. Can't I have a pass? Can't I be retired from colds and contagious, annoying viruses and illnesses too?

Believe me when I tell you that I am living #7 as my daily routine. It is making me crazy. I have zero appetite because the various OTC Cold Remedies I am swallowing all have some kind of decongestant that works as an appetite suppressant. Add to that the fact that I can't taste or smell food anyway, and it seems a waste to even eat.

Is anyone funding research for this? Anyone? If so, why no progress? If not, why not? I'm ready for The Cure.

Leaning In On A Word

Perhaps I'm a little slow to pick up on this particular topic, but have you heard of this? Sheryl Sandberg, of Lean In fame, first a book, now a nationwide if not worldwide, philosophy for women, has started a new campaign.

Lean In, a "nonprofit organization founded...to empower all women to achieve their ambitions" now offers "support through online communities, free expert lectures, and Lean In circles" which are peer groups who meet regularly. Sandberg wants women to recognize that the corporate structure, traditionally male, has to be navigated differently by women. There is extra scrutiny of women, and there is sexism. While it's not surprising that much of this is levelled by men, a great deal is unfortunately from women, too, both at work and at home.

Women need to help one another, obviously, but her new campaign focuses on vocabulary. This campaign, called Ban Bossy, maintains that "bossy" is a term used almost exclusively for girls. When a little girl speaks up, takes charge, and leads, she is termed "bossy." When a little boy does that, he is called a leader. "Words like bossy send a message:" the website says, "don't raise your hand or speak up. By middle school, girls are less interested in leading than boys. A trend that continues into adulthood."

That's the pitch. It then asks if you will help girls become leaders by Banning Bossy.

Partnered mainly with Girl Scouts of America, as well as lots of other respected organizations/businesses, (and celebrities), Ban Bossy has a good pedigree. Lots of organizations and sites have taken up the cause.  And why not?  Who could possibly be against helping young girls find their voice and take on a leadership role?

Sigh.  No one.  But, as we all know, banning--or pretending to ban--a pejorative term isn't going to get it done.  I get what Lean In is doing.  It's the whole Raising Awareness/Heightening Sensitivity thing. And I don't fault them one bit.  Take it from me, a girl who was called Bossy most of her life.  Until it morphed into the more adult Bitchy.

Because that's all Bossy is.  It's the Elementary School form of Bitchy.  I spent my entire life wearing that term--both of them, really--because I was a leader and because I spoke out and because I did not sit in the back and shut my mouth.  I don't think the answer lies in banning the word; I think it lies in teaching girls how to ignore the word.  It lies in empowerment.  If you ban a word, you have given the word the power, not the girl.  What are you saying then?

When I taught Creative Writing II, students often complained about the poetry assignments that had specific meter, especially sonnets.  There was so much crabbing and moaning about finding the right word.  Finally, I stood at the front of the room with a dictionary and said, "Who is the master here, you or the words?  Who is in charge?  Your job, always, is to make words your bitch.  They work for you.  They do what you say, not the other way around.  Now stop being such a pushover and whip them into shape."

I grew up knowing that I was smart, capable, and valuable.  My voice counted, so I used it.  If someone ignored me, I spoke again.  If I was still ignored, I shoved my way toward the front and spoke again.  If I still didn't get recognized, I spoke more loudly and more forcefully, using all the biggest words I knew.  I don't need to get my way, but if it is important to me, I want to be heard.

In my thirty years of teaching, I made sure to tell my female students all of this.  That they should never give up their power, ever.  That a label like Bitch means nothing if they don't believe it themselves.  That being a woman means fighting harder, but if you have integrity, other women will help you.

I think banning words is silly.  I wonder if this campaign isn't misguided although I appreciate its message.  I do know that women, in general, need to be more helpful to other women and less judgmental in general.  And I, for one, will be more mindful when I use the term Bossy, if I haven't been already.

It's Like What Robert Frost Said

Have you ever asked a little kid what he wants to be when he grows up? The answers I love the most are when the kid says something like, "A killer whale" or "A kittycat." Once the kid gets older and becomes completely ruined by television/cable/DVDs/Netflix, the answers do too. Then he's likely to say, "I wanna be Batman" or "I wanna be fill in the blank with a Disney hero."

When I was a kid, I was awfully boring. St. Patsy confirms this. Actually, her response was, "Boring? No, you were just good and didn't give me any trouble when you were little." So, boring. I did all kinds of creative stuff with art supplies, but I was really a straight-up-and-down sort of child. And when anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said the same thing, always.

So now, let me ask you, sort of, in a question supplied by a Dear Reader:

If you had to start over again, what career path would you choose?

My stock response back then would be my response now: a teacher. I've never regretted my career choice. There were plenty of things about it that I disliked, but the teaching was never one of them. If I could simply teach--just teach--right now, I'd do it. Not grade papers, not discipline, not fill out stupid forms, not supervise standardized testing, not babysit study halls or lunch, not all that UNteaching--just teach the books and grammar and writing that I know and love and can pass along and help others to understand and appreciate and learn. I would do it. Seriously.

Now, for those of you who say, "That's not fair. The question seems to imply that you must choose a new career path," I would say, 'I'm at a loss then.' I had dreams of being a veterinarian, as I discussed here before, but couldn't manage the high-level chemistry/math. Perhaps I'd be a Life Coach, specializing in teenagers and women. I really don't know.

But it's your turn. Let's hear what direction you might have taken, had your life made a different turn.

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In Which We Bring Our Monsters Out From Under Our Beds

Now that the original meme questions are dispensed with, Discussion Questions are needed for the next seventeen days. Thankfully, I received a thoughtful Reader's question via email, so we are set for the present. For those of you who have been enjoying this series of Daily Postings, please do likewise. Simply click the email link in my Sidebar or post your queries in Comments.

Thank you.

In about 1970 when my sister Susan was six years old, a big story was in our local newspaper about a guy who almost died from a bite from a brown recluse spider. Her best friend Curt told her all about it in a very matter-of-fact but gory and detailed accounting. Susan, already unhappy about sharing the planet with spiders anyway, became terrified that every single spider was a brown recluse. Unfortunately, she became terrified that every single dust bunny, tangle of hair, piece of dryer lint, and piece of potting soil was a brown recluse as well. It was awful. Because Helpful Curt had given her an exhaustive lecture on the habits of the brown recluse, she knew it liked to be...well, reclusive. She would not even put her feet on the floor in the morning until we told her we had looked for a brown recluse under the bed. This continued for each shoe and sock, each piece of clothing, and every single thing with which she came into contact. It was bad enough for the family; I can't imagine what it must have been like for her. I can still remember the look on her face in the morning, her legs pulled up tightly, crying and shaking her head, refusing to get down. She was genuinely afraid.

I don't remember now how it all became resolved, but I do remember wanting to beat the hell out of Curt. And I was only eleven. It never occurred to me to be afraid of the spider. I wonder why. Maybe because I had my own heebie jeebies to think about, which leads me to today's question:

Do you have any irrational fears?

Ah, the killer there is the word "irrational." That makes this a little more thinky. Would Susan's fear of the brown recluse count? Not sure. What do you think? Her reactions might be irrational, but her fear? Hmm.

I would say I have two irrational fears. The first is my fear of snakes. On its face, it appears rational. Some snakes are quite dangerous. How would you know if the snake were poisonous or not? Best to leave them all alone. But my fear is so instantaneous, so much a phobia, that I can't stand to look even at a picture of a snake without an immediate reaction of my stomach lurching, my eyes tearing up, and my muscles jerking. I won't touch a photograph of a snake. I had a real-life encounter with a snake twice. The first time, I was within six inches of it. I saw it, dropped everything, screamed, ran, stopped, then screamed again. I stood there, about thirty yards from it, and every once in a while, I would shudder and scream again. I could not scream it out of my memory. The second time, a colleague brought in his albino python to show science classes. He was walking in the halls with it. As he neared me, I got the clenched stomach, teary eyes, but instead of running away, I was rooted to the spot. I must have been pale, too, because he saw me, apologized profusely, and turned around. Have I ever had, in my childhood or early life, a pivotal encounter with a snake? Nope.

The second may not even truly be a fear. Honestly, I'm not so sure what it is, but nearly every time I'm at the top of a set of stairs, I get a flash, a millisecond of an image of myself lying at the bottom. It happens every time I'm going to go down a new, different set of stairs, say at someone's home or at a museum or winery. It happens only once in a while at my home. Certainly I don't want to fall downstairs anyplace. I'm especially afraid of falling and knocking my teeth out or messing up my leg with the titanium screw already in it. Isn't that the strangest, goofiest thing?

I cannot wait to hear your Irrational Fears in comments. Be Brave and Tell All! Remember, Emerson said, "Fear defeats more people than any other one thing in the world."

Nance And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Trip

No preamble to today's post, Dearest Readers, except to say that today's Question is the last one in the meme. March still has almost three weeks remaining, so if there are other questions you would like to have answered, discussed, or generally kicked around by me and The Esteemed Commenters, please mention them in the comment section or email them to me using the clickable link in the Sidebar.

Continuing a bit with yesterday's theme, today's question asks:

What was the most awful vacation/trip you have ever taken, and why was it so terrible, the location or the circumstances?

(It also adds, Would you ever go back under different circumstances?)

The year was 1976, and I was seventeen years old. All during the late spring and early summer, I had battled rogue and random infections and could not seem to get well. By the time school finished up, I was flat on my back with mononucleosis, and if the tests were to be believed, it was the third time I had had it. I could not remember feeling worse or more tired.

Until, of course, I got a virulent case of strep that strafed what was left of my immune system and gave me such high fevers that I became delirious and heard things like lawnmowers and breaking glass in the middle of the night. My throat was a horror film. My tonsils were enormous and covered with grey and white matter that peeled off and choked me whenever I tried to swallow. I couldn't stop crying.

When it was finally over, and I could walk and sit up and function, my parents announced that my little sister Susan and I would be accompanying them for the month of August on a big trip out West. The announcement went over like, as my dad would later tell it, a lead balloon.

Susan's winning city softball team would have to do without her for the whole month. My boyfriend would have to do without me. We packed up the '69 Buick LaSabre (vinyl seats, no airconditioning) and set off west. My doctor had cleared me to go, but had nixed the idea of camping all the way. My presence meant motels. It also meant, he told me, "No swimming, no riding, no hiking, no physical exertion. You have to rest. Enjoy the ride and the vacation." I also had huge iron pills and vitamins to take which Susan used to use as leverage against me."I have your life in this bottle," she'd say, taking them hostage. "Now move over and give me more room."

The year 1976 was the Bicentennial, but by the time August rolled around, all the cool stuff was long gone. Our trip was exactly what my parents had planned--for themselves--driving for hours and looking at Scenery. And the American West has a ton of Scenery. Sometimes, when you are driving Out West, the only thing there IS is Scenery. You, your car, and Scenery. As a teenager myself, and Susan a preteen, we didn't give a shit about Scenery, or as my mother always wrote in her travel journal, "vast panoramas of majestic mountains with white puffy clouds in the foreground." We sat in the back seat with Queen on our cassette player and read comic books. Once, when my father pulled over to behold a particularly breathtaking view and Susan and I didn't look up from our comics, he hollered, "Right now! Turn off that rock music and put down those comic books and look out that window. You're not bigger than God, you know!" I was duly chastened, but when I looked at Susan, she was trying with little success to stifle both a smile and a giggle. She was braver than all of us, always.

Once we neared Montana, traffic thinned out alarmingly. Big Sky Country is right. Also, Big Empty. We drove for miles and miles and miles with no company on the road. It was blisteringly hot, and I was miserable. My open window didn't do anything but bring in warm air and dust. All of a sudden, a dark mass appeared on the horizon. I thought it was just a heat shadow, that wavering optical illusion you get from a hot road. But as we sped forward (my dad really like to make time, and he went at least ninety on stretches like this), the mass got larger and more solid. Pretty soon, we got right up on it, and to my delight, it was an enormous herd of cattle. It was as if a lake of cows stretched as far as the eye could see. We had to stop. My father looked at my mother with an expression of incredulity and expectation. As usual, when he was driving, he blamed anything untoward that happened on my mother, The Navigator."Well, now what?" he said, exasperatedly. "I'm on the road you said we should be on!" As my mother started to try and soothe him, I looked with interest and excitement at all the cows milling around. I wondered if I should ask if I could get out of the car.

"...and if we just wait for a little bit, they'll move on," my mother was saying. My dad was regarding her with the same kind of look that one gives an insane person. Nope. I would be staying in the car. "Doll," my dad said to her, "do you honestly think that I'm going to sit here and wait until Christ-knows-when for these cows to move? You cannot be serious!" My mother matched his frustration. "Well, Honey, what else can we do!?" she said, raising her voice the merest bit, mainly by inflection on a few key syllables.

And so we waited and waited while the cows strolled around. More than a few stood still, looking right at us. I think it was the arrogance of those few that finally got to my father. In a burst of exasperation, he hit the horn. My mother turned to him, horrified, and I saw the look in her eyes. She looked completely terrified. "Bob, NO!" she yelled."They could stampede!"

Every single cow we could see turned its head toward us and started to move in our direction. Some trotted, but most just walked. Suddenly, a gigantic cow head burst through my open window and into my side of the car. It smelled awful. And when it left a huge pool of slobber in my lap, it smelled even worse. I was so stunned, so amazed, and so darn surprised that all I could think of to do was to say, "Mom!" But she had her hands full with Dad.

So that was Montana, and the very best part of it. Let's just say that by the time we got to Washington (where we couldn't even see Mt. Rainier, my mother's Mecca, so shrouded it was, by clouds), my parents called Patti, my big sister back at home, and put her on high alert; she might be driving out to Cleveland Hopkins Airport soon to come get Susan and me. My parents weren't sure they could stand it all the way back home.

But a funny thing happened when we turned Eastward. Susan and I knew it was almost over. At least we were headed home. Wyoming was pretty, even though we had to escape a tornado there. I was very happy to go to Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota, and I was quietly reverent and impressed. And, overall, I was feeling much better. The whole way West, I was beset by terrible leg cramps and awful fatigue. Both lessened considerably on the way home.

That trip was terrible in so many ways. St. Patsy admits it was ill-conceived from the get-go, taking two teens on a largely Old Folks Scenic Drive, especially when one of them was still convalescing. I admit that Susan and I were snots on purpose some of the time in that Teenage Brat sort of way. I am grateful that I got to see so much of the USA; I'm often surprised by the number of people my age who haven't. They've been all over Europe and other countries, but they haven't seen very much of this one. I'd like to see all fifty states before I get too old. And thanks to St. Patsy and Dad, I've seen quite a few.

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Wanderlust

My grandmother and grandfather (St. Patsy's parents) were born travellers. They both had the blood of nomads in their veins, and nothing made them happier than to be part of a caravan headed out across the country. There were epic treks to Canada for fishing camp, yearly pilgrimages to Florida, and vacations with as many of the extended clan as possible to see whatever sights there were wherever we hadn't been. I dimly recall a trip to Michigan, I think it was, and stopping to be photographed with an enormous statue of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe. I also have a snippet of memory in which I see myself running in sand and driftwood along a beach with my cousin Laurie, who is my age. We were chasing little chipmunks. Everyone got food poisoning on that trip, by the way, and my mother loves to tell the story of my cousin Ruthann lying on the side of the road, crying weakly, and saying, "Just leave me here. Leave me here to die."
Grandma and Grandpa even went to the Alaska Territory--it wasn't a state yet--although I don't exactly know what they did there. Grandpa liked to gather rocks and driftwood and other pieces of flotsam and jetsam from beaches and significant areas and paint on them the place and the date. Those were his mementos of his trip. Those and about ten thousand slides.

Grandma and Grandpa had seven children, and all but perhaps one inherited their Traveller Gene. My aunts and uncles have travelled the world, sometimes in campers or trailers, other times by air. They have taken ocean cruises and river cruises. I doubt that, at this point in their lives, there is any place they wanted to go that they haven't been.

St. Patsy and my dad used to love travelling by car, taking a week or two at a time to go up to New England or take the Skyline Drive and decide en route where they might end up. Dad got seasick and disliked air travel after his time in the service, so the car was their major conveyance. They camped in Quebec, hung out in Key West, and hobnobbed with the hoity-toity at the Greenbrier(with my mother saying every moment, "I don't think we belong here.")

I have a somewhat mutated version of the traveller's gene. I love travelling, but I don't pursue it. It's hard to explain. Travelling was a...a sort of drive inside my grandparents. It's that way with some of my aunts and uncles. There is a restlessness there, a need to leave their home environs and see something else, whereas for me, I enjoy travel, but I don't ever feel like I'm between trips. For some of them, travel is a way of life. For me, it's a big deal and a somewhat unusual occurrence, although I have been travelling more now than before. So! Let's get to today's question (and I'm running out of them, by the way):

Where is one place you haven't yet visited but would absolutely love to go someday?

I know the question says, "One place", but I'm going to try and cheat a bit with my answer. Because all of my earlier literature study in high school and college was concentrated in British Lit., I would love to go to England, Ireland, and Scotland. And, what the hell, let's go ahead and toss Wales in there, too. How can any English Literature major not want to go there? Of course, England is the land of Shakespeare (even if you are an anti-Stratfordian, someone who wrote all of the Works lived here!), but also Keats, Byron, Marlowe, and that's just for starters. Ireland gave us Oscar Wilde; Scotland, Robert Burns; Wales, Dylan Thomas. And the history! As some Britisher once said to an American, "Dearie, we have loos older than your entire country!"

In time, Rick and I will go to all of these places, but we have to be patient. It's important to us to go when we'll have time to enjoy seeing them without rushing to cram them into a small time frame. I hate waiting for pretty much anything, but I've learned how. And I think they'll all be there when my turn comes.

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I Have Issues. Let's Talk About Them.

One of the many things I have grown to love about my retirement is the quiet.  After thirty years of generally talking all day, listening to other people talking, or being subjected to hallway noise of yammering and shouting, the relative silence is a true pleasure.  It's rare that, in the course of a usual day, I hear a single voice that is not my own.

Think of it! For days and days, from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, aside from me chatting with my cats, there is not another human voice to be heard.  Unless my mother calls, unless Rick calls, unless a sister calls (all of which could happen, but seldom do), no voice interrupts my day.  I don't turn on the television or a radio.  I wallow in The Quiet.

Another part of the reason I enjoy the quiet might be that it's apparently difficult to have a sane discussion with people anymore, about anything.  It's terribly tedious when grownups link every little thing to The Politics and blame everything on their pet issue du jour.  I do it about the republicans for humorous effect here at the Dept., but Out There, it's reached a level of sheer idiocy.  I'm going to try my best not to add to the circus as I answer today's question, which is:

What is one political or social issue that drives you crazy when people talk about it?

(This question also adds the gentle and civilized note:  You don't have to give your opinion; just tell what the issue is.  Honestly, in this format, I don't know if that's possible.  Readers here know most of my opinions anyway, though, so it's not an issue.)

All of the Issues drive me crazy anymore, especially when David "Gregorius Interruptus" Gregory tackles them on Meet the Press.  Do not get me started.  That show should start with Rachel Maddow giving him a good, smart smack in the mouth every single week.

But I digress.

Firstly, the Affordable Care Act.  I hate like a root canal that Everyone calls it "Obamacare."  Yes, I realize that President Obama himself claims to embrace the term, but that was a political move to take the sting out of the term, I think.  Certain people speak about the ACA as if it were a product of The Great Satan--as if it says that, at some point, all the elderly among us will have to go to the woods and live off the land with only a backpack of dried fruit and a Swiss Army knife.  The most rabid detractors have no idea what the ACA even says.  Or does.  Or will do.  They just want Sarah Palin to run for president and drill for oil in snowy game preserves.  And shoot things.  From her snowmobile.  Named Prak.

Next, guns.  Chiefly, gun control.  This is an issue fraught with so much conflict.  The US has a very distinct gun culture, and within it are separate gun cultures.  Some of them are historical and go all the way back to our earliest regional heritages.  Some are simply violent and macho gangster posturing.  I'm not pretending to understand any gun culture; it's all alien to me.  But I will never believe that what we need are more guns, as in NRA president Wayne LaPierre's quote about the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with one.  And I worry a great deal that all the rhetoric about beefing up mental health initiatives instead of legislating commonsense gun control will only serve to further isolate, stigmatize, and harm those struggling with mental health problems.

Finally--I'm going to confine myself to three or I'll get too fired up--public education in general and teachers specifically.  The amount of teacher-bashing and outright disrespect and belittling of the profession and individual teachers is both astonishing and breathtaking.  Wait--add "heartbreaking" to that list.  There are actually people, and a great deal of them, who think that a teacher is someone who gets paid way too much to work only nine months a year, then retires to a cushy salary for doing nothing.  These are the same people who, when they find out you are a teacher, say, "Oh, I could never do that job!" or "You couldn't pay me enough! Kids today...!"  These are the same people who want inexperienced kids from government programs to teach cheaply in public schools, but then raise hell when all teachers aren't perfect in the classroom.  "These are our children you're talking about!  That teacher is in a position of Trust! We expect the best for our kids." Basically, what they want is ... I have no idea.  Honestly, I don't know what in the hell they want.  They have free schools.  Teachers get paid little, comparatively speaking. It's painfully obvious that education is not a national priority, and nothing gets cut more on the national, state, and local level more often and more deeply than education budgets.  My entire career, I did more with less, year after year.  There was never a year that we didn't hear the phrase "Because of budget cuts...".  Teachers are Heroes.

Dammit.  Now I'm fired up.  Your turn in Comments.

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