The Dept. Of Nance Is Fifteen!

...And they said it wouldn't last.

Actually, no one really said that. Maybe I did a few times, and a few times I almost did quit writing here. But here I am, Fifteen and hanging on.

By the way, I'd never go back to actually being Fifteen. It wasn't terrible, mind you: I was editor of the high school paper, had lots of friends, did well in school, and from what I remember, pretty much enjoyed my life that year. But Memory being what it is--soft and blurry and unreliable--tends to shield us from some Crummy Stuff. Fifteen is hard.

I taught sophomores for the bulk of my 30+ year career, and I know of what I speak. I loved teaching sophomores. They weren't as crazed as freshmen, not as caught up in romance or jobs as juniors, and not as lazy and stressed as seniors. (Yes, seniors are lazy and stressed at the same time. Trust me.)

In honor of my Fifteenth Anniversary here, I'm going to share some of the questions I get most often about my Teaching Career.

1. Do you miss Teaching?

The actual Teaching, yes. I really do. I especially miss sharing the wonderful American Literature poetry, novels, and plays I got to introduce and read along with my sophomores. I loved watching them grab onto the nuances inherent in them, the colour symbolism in The Great Gatsby, the importance of the motifs in The Catcher in the Rye, the huge humanity in the works of Walt Whitman, the subtleties in Arthur Miller's stage directions for The Crucible. I appreciated their dogged determination as they plodded through grammar and the real triumph on their faces when they suddenly grasped the formulas of complex and compound sentences and could identify them in real writing, like President Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. It was The Best.

2. Why don't you substitute teach or volunteer at a school?

First of all, subbing on the high school level in my district (and surrounding districts) is NOT teaching. It's the worst parts of being a Teacher: taking attendance, crowd control, discipline, boring worksheets or idiot lesson plans. It's like the first day over and over again. Volunteering at a school? Same thing. Not Teaching. I don't want to run copies for someone or make endless cutouts for someone or sit and grade papers. All of that is stuff I hated about my job--the Not Teaching Stuff.

3. Do you miss the kids?

Yes, I really do. I miss being around teenagers. My job kept me informed about What Was Cool, What The New Slang Was, and all the current important business in the world of The Youth. I also miss being around people who are just fun a great deal of the time. And who don't talk about problems, health, or politics. They were always refreshing and always interesting. True, they were often too focused on themselves, but once they got out of their own bubbles, they were fascinating to me. I taught in a huge high school with an enrollment of 2000 with a significant minority population and more than 60% of students qualified for free or reduced lunch. Many led lives I could not imagine. Many drove me batshit crazy. Many made me cry with empathy. The majority gave me great joy.

4. Why don't you...?

People are always tossing suggestions at me for other career moves. Why don't I teach at a (fill in the blank) program? Why don't I write a book about my career? Why don't I look into this or that? First of all, perhaps you did not get the Memo. I AM RETIRED. And I love how people act like writing a book is just a simple nothing. It's a lot of work, and in case you have not noticed, I have enough trouble showing up here on a semi-regular basis. I AM RETIRED. Besides, my career was not special in that it would make a wonderful book for anyone but me, and I have the Memories.

5. Do you remember your students?

Oh, yes. I remember a great deal of them. Some I remember by name. Some I remember by face. Some I remember only in a little scene or snippet. Some I remember in a combination of those. Several have become treasured and cherished friends. Still others are friends of my sons, so I see them or hear of them regularly. There are so many that I still think of from time to time. So very many. What is so wonderful is that they come into my life now and then. Most recently, we bought a car, and the saleswoman was my former student. She is still delightful and caring. That made it so much easier; I knew I could trust her. She showed me pictures of her family, and I was happy for her Happiness.

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I told many Teaching stories here at the Dept. of Nance while I was in The Thick Of It.  If you're interested, you can click the tags Classroom, Teaching, or School.

Thank you for reading here at the Dept. Thank you, especially, if you are a Commenter. Life for all of us is a question of Priorities and Demands. That you would take Precious Time to read--and comment!--means that you have prioritized me and my writing and thoughts. That means so very much to me.

I look forward to Sixteen.

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Don't Ever Let Anyone Tell You That Old Gas Stations Or Spelling Cannot Be Romantic

Scene opens on Rick and Nance driving home. It is blistering hot, and they are tired. Nance, perhaps unwisely, tries to lighten things up when they stop at a traffic light and, on the near corner, is the gas station you see above.

Nance:  (very serious) Rick. You must never, ever stop at that gas station.

Rick:  (tiredly) What? Oh god. That place. It's terrible. The pumps are all--

Nance:  I'm not talking about that.

Rick:  (looks at the gas station for several moments; the light changes; they drive on) Well, what then?

Nance: It's just not safe. There are (adds a meaningful pause, then says the rest in a stentorian voice) Icy Conditions. Even now, at the height of the Dog Days Of Summer, there could be sleety puddles or--

Rick:  (a little exasperated)  Geeze, Nance! And here I am, looking for misspelled words or an out-of-place apostrophe!

Nance:  I could not love you any more than I do right at this minute. You know me so well.

Rick:  (big sigh)  Yes, I do.

End Scene.

In Which I Reflect Upon Small Moments Of Pure Joy

Last week I was driving to pick up my mother (previously referred to here on the blog as St. Patsy) for one of her doctor's appointments. My mother has a team of doctors who serve as her Wellness Superheroes. At 90 she is in remarkable physical health, despite her inordinate fondness for ice cream.

On this particular day I was stopped at the traffic light and, being first in my lane at the intersection, noticed movement in the first car headed the opposite direction across the road. A great deal of movement, actually, and so I took a moment to get a better look.

The driver of the car was its sole occupant. He was giving himself completely to Car Dancing: his hands hit the wheel in rhythm; his body bounced up and down; his head nodded and shook back and forth. He was grinning as if he were the happiest guy in the world. I started smiling, too, just looking at him.

For a moment I reached for my phone. "I should video this," I thought, "and put it on the blog." Then I put my hand back on the steering wheel.

I wanted to let this simple moment of Pure Joy be just that, Simple. Not everything needs to be recorded, photographed, captured, or put on display for everyone else to see. Sometimes, just Living In That Moment is the very best thing you can do, like the Happy Car Dancing Man. I felt like I'd be ruining the moment for both of us.

I drove by and felt very lucky to have seen him. He really brightened my day.

Today I drove St. Patsy to another doctor's appointment. I saw a hawk dive for its prey and a dog head sticking out of a passing pickup truck. My mother and I snarked back at my GPS, just for the hell of it. I thought again of the Car Dancing Guy, and how happy he was. It made me smile all over again.

Why My Neighbor Calls Me Wonder Woman

Many months ago, after the battle of the Blue Jays versus the Robins was waged and the Robins won the territory of my back yard, a mama Robin set up housekeeping in the elbow of the downspout just under my roof. The nest was a tidy affair for a Robin, and it was about eight feet from my back door which opens onto my patio. She also lives above my herb garden. Here it is:

My neighbor right next door, Gretchen, and I started watching immediately for babies. We talked over her fence and texted any observations. I made sure to quietly and soothingly speak to the Robin every time I went out the back door, congratulating her on her stalwart and persistent attendance to her duties as a Mother. I called her Mama. I complimented her on her babies. She clutched (so far), astonishingly, three times. 

All was well with the most recent round of babies until about two weeks ago or so when I went to take out the garbage. I looked up as I always do and was shocked to see a naked, potbellied baby bird hanging over the side of the nest. It moved weakly and seemed stuck somehow. Its mother was out gathering food. I watched a few more minutes, trying to see how it was stuck. It was facing me; it seemed to be literally hanging by its neck. I went inside to think about what to do. I decided that if in fifteen minutes, the mother had not somehow saved her baby, I would do it for her.

Of course, I didn't wait fifteen whole minutes. I checked outside sooner and found the poor thing still hanging there. I grabbed latex gloves and the 8-foot step ladder. As I climbed up, the mother appeared on the wire and began chirping in distress. I had to go to the step nearest the very top and lean over. The baby struggled as I touched it; its wings were very strong. I carefully held it and dislodged it from the stiff straw and sticks then flipped it gently back into the nest. 

My relationship with Mama was severely compromised. Her trust was shattered. To her, I had not saved her baby, but had tried to raid the nest and steal it. I felt terrible.

A few days later when I was out tending my herbs, not only did Mama scold me from the wire above, but her husband hopped around, flapping his wings and yelling, only six feet away from me. I was The Enemy for sure.

This past Sunday when we returned from our weekend at the lake, Gretchen called me. "Lots of drama with the Robins," she said. "We were barbecuing and all of a sudden we heard a lot of flapping and banging. One of the babies was hanging upside down from the nest. It couldn't fly away or something. It just kept hanging there. We went in, and later, I guess it finally made it back in the nest. It's there now and it looks fine."

The robin, big enough to fledge, was still there on Monday and Tuesday, just standing at the nest, looking around. We both wondered why it hadn't left the nest. Wednesday morning, before I made my coffee at 7:30, I looked out, and this was happening (video courtesy of Gretchen):

I saw Gretchen on her back porch. I opened my dining room window and she immediately told me that this was the same thing she saw on Friday. "I honestly think she's stuck on something. Wait there a minute." She went inside and got a high-powered camera lens. "Nance, she's definitely stuck. Her leg looks red and raw."

"Okay," I said. "I'll get the ladder and get right on it."

I grabbed another pair of gloves, slipped on my gardening shoes, and went out in my jammies (an old white v-neck tee of Rick's and a pair of boxers, both XL). I grabbed the ladder, positioned it in my herb garden so that it wouldn't hurt anything, and climbed on up. This time, I swear that every single Robin in the neighborhood was there. At least ten of them perched on wires and roofs and branches, all with admonitions and, possibly, advice.

As soon as I could get a better look, I saw the poor Robin's one leg was vastly swollen at the joint. It wasn't rubbed red or raw, though. As I looked more closely, my heart ached. The baby was held fast in place by fishing line that was used as nesting material. It had become embedded in its leg and its leg had merely grown around it. It would never be able to leave the nest--unless I helped it.

I told Gretchen I needed scissors and why. She came out of her house with four pair of varying sizes and shapes. (Bless her heart; I just love her.) I chose the pair I felt would be best for the job and carefully cut the line in two places. As soon as I did, the bird fluttered madly and landed--free--on my patio rug. I felt I had to decamp as quickly as possible before more relatives arrived; I was getting creeped out.

Gretchen and I rejoiced, but she had to rush in and return to work. I put the ladder away and went in to Officially start my day. In a minute or two, my phone dinged with a text message. It was from Gretchen, a GIF of Wonder Woman running. "This is you coming out to save that bird today! Make sure Rick recognizes and rewards you for your heroic acts!" 

Yesterday, I got my ladder and gloves out again to get all the fishing line out of that nest. Gretchen told me she's seen the baby Robin several times, and I have, too. It's flying just fine. If Mama Robin goes for a fourth clutch, they'll all be safe. But, if something should happen, Wonder Woman will be On It.

Trees

I had a touch of Sadness on my walk today. Yet another of my neighborhood's towering old trees is being taken down a few blocks away from my home. It was a lofty silver maple, many stories high, its trunk straight and true. There was no way to tell why it was coming down today after decades of life. It looked tragic and undignified standing there, stripped of all its lower boughs and branches, like an old man who was nearly naked in front of a crowd of onlookers who weren't going to help him, but merely look and move along.

I have a special affinity for trees. One of the things I like best about my neighborhood is that its streets are tree-lined, and the trees are old and big and gracious. They have an almost paternal feel, as if they are sheltering and protecting the homes and sidewalks they shade. While I walk my route, I often reach out and brush the leaves of trees or pat their trunks. I notice their changes--or their staid, static presences. In the spring the flowering trees bring me incredible joy. In the fall the colours of the trees never fail to awe me. In the summer their green abundance makes me feel content and serene. 

My deep affection for trees was fostered by my father, who truly did love Nature in all its forms. Our back yard was a Nature Preserve in which he fussed over his roses and his trees with equal adoration. My father was the only person I ever knew who watered his mature trees. We had a huge maple, a box elder, a cherry tree, an apple tree, a weeping willow, a locust tree, a plum tree, and a peach tree, and those were just in the back yard of our tiny bungalow home. He never had a sprinkler, either. He'd just turn the nozzle of the hose to a fine spray, prop it up on a brick, and let it run. I can see him in my mind's eye, patting the huge split maple on its grey trunk and saying, "It's been hot with no rain. This tree needs some water, too." 

But my father didn't only love his own trees. Often, when we went to visit my grandmother and grandfather--my mother's parents--Dad would get bored. Much of what they talked about concerned people he didn't care about or know, and it didn't do a lot for us kids, either. My father would say, "I'm going to take the kids on a Nature Walk." I loved these walks, which went all around the quiet tree-lined streets and alleyways of my grandparents' neighborhood. We would stop and smell flowers and tree blossoms. We would find and look at seed pods or other interesting things. And when we came to some strong, old trees, my father would stop. "Look at this old tree," he'd say. "Look at this bark and its good straight trunk. Can you imagine how old it is and what it's seen? Why don't you give it a good hug?" 

Other times, he'd talk about the shape of the crown of the tree or if the tree needed to be pruned and why that was important. If it was a really warm day, we'd often stop and sit in the shade of a tree, right on someone's lawn. My father didn't worry about such things. "Feel how much cooler it is under a tree?" he'd say. He loved leaning against tree trunks, resting his often sore back, feeling the strength of the tree. I loved these walks, these times with my father, and my love for trees grew, too. 

Today on my walk it was warm and humid. I chose the shady side of each street, welcoming the cool dim shadow of the trees as they gave me respite from the summer heat. I reached for the soft fringes of the magnificent pine on the corner, marveling at its new growth. I noticed small pods of buckeyes already formed on the tree a few paces away. I smiled at the crabapple tree full of chattering sparrows, barely visible in its leafy crown. 

It's been hot here lately. The trees need water. I hope it rains soon.

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If Only Masks Filtered Out The Stupid

I was subjected to this conversation in the waiting area of a medical center this week because I had to finally have my overdue appointment with my neurologist. Unfortunately, it is a shared waiting space with another practice in the same conglomerate, but physical distancing was possible. Audible distancing was not, however, so while I filled out some repetitive and useless forms, I could not help but overhear this discussion between a woman (probably in her sixties) and her elderly mother, who was the patient.

We join it as I did, already in progress.

Daughter: It's the destruction that I don't get. Why destroy everything?

Mother: Well, what'll they come for next? Disney World? Disneyland?

Daughter: It's better ways to get your point across is all I'm sayin'. (at this moment, I glanced up from my forms and she looked my way) That's my personal opinion.

Mother: Have you thought about supper?

Daughter: I want to get stuff cleaned out of that fridge. Pulled pork. The rest of that potato salad.

Mother: There's not nary enough of that potato salad for more'n two people.

Daughter: Well, we're gettin' rid of all of that stuff. I have a delivery comin' tomorrow. I sure will be glad when I can just go wherever I want to go whenever I want to go. It sure would be nice to travel. Get back down to South Carolina.

Mother: It's down in South Carolina, too. The virus is all over the country. It's everywhere.

Daughter: I know. (big sigh) At some point, you just gotta live your life, you know? You just gotta live your life. That's just how I feel about it.

(Both pause while they consider this philosophy)

Daughter: Dogs are lucky, though! They already have a vaccine for the Covid.

Mother: What?! Are you serious?

Daughter: Yep. Says so right on the package: protects against fleas, ticks, heartworm, and the Covid. Course it's not the same Covid as we humans get, but it's still the Covid.

Mother: Well, I'll be. Course isn't everyone worried now about the H1N1 coming now, too?

Daughter: And the Ebola! But those are in Africa right now. OF COURSE. That's where it all starts.

Mother: (shakes head) Like we don't have enough goin' on right here, right now.

It was at this point that I finished my paperwork, so I took it up to the window. When I came back, it was mere moments before I was called in to my appointment. As usual, it was delightful; Dr. B. and I dispensed with the business end of my visit quickly and efficiently and spent a good long while chatting about other more pleasant things. He continues to be a light in my life.

But my time in the waiting room impressed upon me that my vote just got more important. Smart people everywhere need to vote.

The Politics: Grab Your Helmet And Strap In

I have reached the End Of My Patience with anyone and everyone who is finding a reason to support the individual currently occupying the White House. There is simply not a single reason--not one--that will justify tolerating his presence there. I don't care what kind of defense is offered. I have heard them all, and the only one that flies with me is this: "I am batshit crazy and I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

Sadly, without using those exact words, that is The Number One Reason much of his base will cast their votes for him. We all know the Number Two and Number Three reasons. They are, in no particular order, "I am, to some degree or another, a racist, and I am afraid of losing my privilege and my place atop society", and "I am voting with my wallet, which is an extension of my penis."

It's not lost on me that these reasons may all be interconnected and blended into One Big Reason for many people. Fear is a great motivator. And fear-mongering has been a tactic of republican campaigns for decades. Or republicans in general. 45* and his campaign people are merely studying previous campaigns, both real and fictional (he got some of his pointers from the TV show The West Wing: "Let Bartlett be Bartlett"), hence his reliance on catchphrases like calling himself a Wartime President and harping on Law and Order, a la Nixon.

Another Reason, and one which I find so terribly frustrating, is for the Single Issue Voters, and that is abortion. A segment of the electorate will overlook a raft of egregious behaviour, a multitude of sins in a panoply of categories, if this individual purports to be against abortion.

Which leads me to this: is anyone truly, enthusiastically for abortion? That's not really what the issue is, now is it? I resent that the people who are Anti-Choice are called Pro-Life. What bullshit. I. Am. Pro-Life. I am all about Life. I am against the Death Penalty. I am, however, Pro-Choice.

But I digress.

I know of one 45* voter who said, "I wish he'd just shut up. And stop tweeting." Why? Why is this a dealbreaker for you? This is Who He Is. These are his words, and they are his thoughts. This is the man you voted for. If he embarrasses you, if his thoughts and words shame him and you, then what do you think of his actions? This same voter STILL HAS NOT MADE UP HIS MIND ABOUT WHO TO VOTE FOR IN THE GENERAL ELECTION IN NOVEMBER! He said, "I have to wait to hear from Biden."

!!

Really? Haven't you heard enough from 45*? Immigrant children forever separated from their mothers; staff now in jail; impeached; under active investigation by the state of New York for financial crimes; accused of sexual crimes and rape by more than a dozen women; mocking and disrespecting government leaders; a bungled and slow response to COVID-19 that cost more than 100,000 lives and he takes no responsibility; he threatens his own citizens with their military...the list is endless. What could you possibly hear that would be worse than this?

These people are Part Of The Problem, and I'm done being tactful and pleasant. All of them are getting Blunt Truth from here on out. I'm just Over It. And that includes diehard Bernie people who are whiny toddlers at this point. It's Blue No Matter Who and Go Joe. Don't you dare give us 2016 again just because you can't get your way. Step up and do the Right Thing this time.

My anger and frustration are minuscule and do not even begin to compare to what the black community is feeling and expressing since the murder of George Floyd. How can anyone view the recorded evidence of these episodes and not be shocked and outraged? I cannot begin to imagine the heartbreak of having to raise my own sons with a talk about how to behave when approached by law enforcement, knowing it could be a life or death situation. There is a cultural shift at work now that is long overdue. I'm heartened that the people are taking the initiative with commitment and resolve, knowing that there is no support from the White House for this important work.

Which leads me to this:  I became aware of a website and Twitter feed, Republican Voters Against trump. On the site, former republicans share brief video stories of why they will never vote for 45* again, and, in some case, never vote republican again. It reaffirmed my faith in human beings, especially after some of the stories I have read and seen in the news. Here is one former republican, Paul, whose story really resonated:



Please share this website with anyone who needs to be aware of it. Sometimes I listen to a video just to reassure myself that there are still some Good People out there who just made one mistake.

Stay engaged, stay safe, stay kind, but Stand Firm. Don't let the Bad Guys win.


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In Which I Am Irritated And Disapproving Of English

At the start of this, let me say two things:

1. I am an unabashed admirer and user of The English Language. I also defend it passionately.

2. Having been the constant companion of a carpenter/home builder/project manager for almost forty years, my knowledge of construction and its associated tools and hardware is incredibly extensive. I don't watch HGTV; I have lived it most of my life (much of it against my will).

Now then, let's Get On.

One evening Rick and I were having some wine, sitting looking out over the lake, remarking on how many people had their boats in, who had new boats, whose properties were spiffed up--just neighborhood chat in general. In order to do this, however, we had to resort to our nicknames for these neighbors since we have no idea who everyone is.

"I wonder if the Green Fence House will even have a boat this year," I said. "I can't remember the last time I saw one at their dock."

"The Ninja's boat cover doesn't match his patio umbrellas now, but they look better," Rick said. "They match his house."

"I'm just glad the Portcullis House has a boat in," I said, with a sigh of satisfaction.

Rick looked at me warily. Then he shook his head slowly with a sad and disapproving look. "Nance," he said. "I know who you mean, but I keep telling you: that thing you keep calling a Portcullis is not a Portcullis. It's just not."

"Oh, hell. Then what is it?"

"It's an arbor. That's all it is."

"Then what the hell is a Portcullis? And how did I come up with it? I'm going to google it."

It was at that point that I lost all faith in The English Language, because here, Dear Readers, is a Portcullis:

By Kevin King from Pensacola, FL, US of A - Ireland 2009, Cahir Castle Portcullis

I'm sorry, English Language, but you cannot be serious. The word Portcullis sounds far too gentle and sweet and...gardeny to be that. I mean, can't you just hear Scarlett O'Hara flirting with her many suitors and saying, "Fiddle dee dee! Now why don't you all bring your mint juleps and join me down by the portcullis where it's nice and cool?"

Right? I call for a Do Over, English Language.

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TGIF: Yes, That *Is* What Day It Is

Welcome to Friday, everyone! Here in NEO it's gloomy and rainy again, so a few outdoor projects are on hold. Some of these are the same projects I put on hold because of the ridiculous heat and humidity we had earlier this week. I am getting way better at this Patience thing. I'm also getting a little better at writing here more regularly, but let's face it: it's not stellar or profound stuff. Today will be no different, just a little TGIF.

T: Trying. I'm Trying to get back into knitting again this weekend. I haven't knit a stitch since my horrendous fall and subsequent injuries back in November. All of you knitter bloggers have gotten to me. Knitting has always felt very therapeutic and relaxing to me, too, so I've decided to grab up some yarn and needles and see how I feel. After all, I gave Reading another chance, and I've been so happy with that result.

G: Garden. We have such a teensy tiny backyard that long ago, we simply tore out the grass and had the whole thing landscaped into a garden area with ornamental shrubs, plants, rocks, and a small, natural-looking pond. Rick built a swing on a trestle, which is in a corner. Last fall I planted a whole bunch of daffodils and tulips, and they all came up. They were beautiful...until the chipmunks began to--one by one--chomp the tulips off at the base of the flower and leave them lying on the ground. What will this mean for next year? Will I get any more tulips? Will this be a hundred years' war? If only I had known, I'd have planted daffodils exclusively.

I: Impossible. I almost feel as if I'm in shock when I watch the news. How is it possible that this is my country, my government, my citizenry? There is so much open bigotry, ignorance, and hatred. I've heard it said that it was always there; it's just that it feels safe now to come out of the shadows. I get that, but there are no curbs or checks on this indecency. And it started well before this impostor took the reins. It began when Bush 43 crowed about his own mediocrity and sanctioned torture. And the architect of that administration is now working to get this one another four years.

F: Food. I'm so disinterested in food these days. Rick is, too. On the weekends we eat boards of cheese, braunschweiger, grapes, crackers, summer sausage, apple, crackers, and mini naans with our wine. Or we make huge salads and slice in chicken breast, a grilled steak, or some ham. And wine. As of this moment, I have zero idea about dinner tonight. Sigh.


I look forward to hearing from you. Enjoy your weekend and take care of yourself.

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Me Today

Today was an unexpectedly beautiful Springtime Day in NEO. Sunshine broke through the cloud cover, no rain threatened, only a light breeze stirred the vibrant green leaves newly burgeoning after so much rain. After I ran my two errands--fully masked, my hand sanitizer at the ready in my car--I came home to a Joyful Task. I was finally going to get everything out on the front porch. My patio out back was already done (and had gotten snowed on twice!), but it isn't really The Season until my bright red, vintage metal chairs are out. Once I was done putting out all my furniture and doodads, I sat out there and read and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon.

I did move to the back patio at one point to enjoy the birds, get a little sun, and escape the sound of lawnmowers and leafblowers. What a gorgeous day!

Today, I am:

Wearing--My Uniform. Black leggings, black Skechers slip-ons, and a long-sleeved top, this one a swingy V-necked white tee with narrow black horizontal stripes. Yes, I do remember way, way back when I said I'd never, ever wear leggings in public. What can I say? I've learned to never say Never, I can tell you that.

Reading--Educated by Tara Westover. I am enjoying it very much, but I seem to be on a run of books about women who grew up in eccentric homes with mentally ill fathers. I'm just so thrilled to be reading again!

Working On--As always, Maintaining My Zen.

Hearing--More lawnmowers. A dog barking. Birds. The dog barking is making me think of Zydrunas, who now resides three doors down. I may have to walk down and see if he can come out in the yard so that I can have some Z time.

Making For Dinner--It's already late in the day, and dinner is made. I made tuna pasta and peas. It's chilling now as I type. Rick drove some stuff down to the lake in preparation for the long weekend, so we will be eating late. I'm thinking of sticking a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the freezer so it will be cold in time.

Thinking About--Making better use of my mornings. I've fallen back into some bad habits.

Planning--I've really come to hate planning. It stresses me something fierce. I prefer not to plan, which I know is ridiculous in The Real Adult World. Still--not a fan and would Rather Not.

And there you are! That's Me, just for Today. Do have a lovely weekend.

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Holy Crap, We Are Old Now

Scene opens on the living room. Rick is in his chair, researching something with his laptop. Nance sits on the couch with her laptop open, reading the newspaper online. Behind her are perched the two cats, mildly interested in what lies outside the window. Maybe.

Rick: So if we have Amazon Prime, we have Amazon Music, right?

Nance: Yes. Which reminds me, earlier this week, when I was coming home from the store, I had the radio on, and--

Rick: (whole face brightens; looks doubly interested) I can't believe I just heard that.

Nance: I know, right? *I* was listening to the radio. Did you know you can change stations right on the steering wheel? I just discovered that. There's a little button right on board, and--

Rick: Haven't you been reading the book? I thought you said you would read the book.

Nance: I have been, but it's terrible. It's all over the place.

Rick: And it's vague.

Nance: Yes. It's vague. Anyway, I had the radio on, and Lose Yourself by Eminem came on, so I cranked it up.

Rick: (grinning and wholly amused) I cannot believe what I'm hearing right now. Go on.

Nance: What? That I like that song or that I cranked it up?

Rick: All of it. Go ahead.

Nance: By the way, you can crank it up using the same button that changes the stations. So, I'm blasting Eminem and doing some car dancing and it's really alleviating my stress from shopping, and then it's over. The next song is some boring song by Diplo and somebody.

Rick: Who? Who is that? I never heard of him.

Nance: Not important. Anyway, I don't feel like listening to that, so I switch stations and try to find something else. I find something briefly, then I decide to go back to the original station, figuring Diplo is about done. Next thing I know, here comes Eminem with Lose Yourself again!

Rick: What the heck?

Nance: I know! So I crank it back up and car dance like crazy. All I can think is that a lot of these stations are automated now. They don't even have DJs anymore, just preprogrammed lists and ads and it's all autopilot. It's probably a glitch in the program. So as I'm sitting at the light acting like some hyped-up senior from 2002 on the last day of school--in my Prius--I'm laughing and wondering if the next song is going to be Diplo again.

Rick: And?

Nance: I was already pulling into the driveway, but I actually sat in the garage and waited to see if Diplo was next. It wasn't. They must have fixed that glitch. But now that I'm thinking of it, I want that song on my phone. The Eminem one. I'm going to download it now. (looks at Rick, who is shaking his head and laughing) What?

Rick: Just...everything. All of it.

Nance:  I know. It's a lot.

End scene.

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Three On Thursday: The Road Trip Edition And An Early Happy Mother's Day

It didn't seem like more than a week ago since my last post, but the calendar does not lie. Here's a quick Three On Thursday to remedy my laziness.

1. We spent the weekend at the lakehouse, where Rick is replacing the deck. Sunday was an unexpectedly gorgeous day, and we spent a large amount of it sitting on the dock in the sunshine. Since it was my birthday, we did a little Day Drinking and waved at the people who floated by in their boats. We were more than a little envious that they already had their boats in the water, but since warm days are so few and far between right now, we know we still have time. Right now, the deck is Priority One.

2. On our way home, we talked about what the heck to have for dinner. We were very tempted to stop at the ice cream stand on our way home (you know the one), especially when we saw this:

They were doing a decent business, and there was a moderate amount of social distancing. No specialty pizza was offered because this news was Too Big to share the sign. It was on both sides.

3. Sam was recently behind this truck and snapped a photo. He sent it to me immediately. I know you'll be positively astonished by its awfulness.

You don't no weather two laugh or cry, due you? Sigh.

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I hope you have a lovely weekend. For those of you who are Mothers, have a lovely Mother's Day. For those of you who, like my brother, are not technically a Mother but have been one for all intents and purposes, it is Your Day as well. It will likely not be like other Mother's Days past, but it does not change the fact that you are a Mother, no matter what.

And chocolate is back!

In Which We Suffer Yet Another Wildlife Invasion (And By "We", I Mean "Me")

About a month or so ago, I said to Rick--even though I knew I might as well tell Piper or Marlowe, the two implacable cats in residence--"Hey, I smell something really awful in the garage. It smells like dead animal or something in there."

Rick, who was either reading Flipboard on his phone, catching up on the family group text, or perusing the mail, gave no sign that he even knew I had spoken. This is standard, unfortunately, and I have to perform a sort of Evaluation Ballet. Did he hear me? Is he Thinking About It? If I repeat myself, will he get testy? Dammit, why can't I ever remember which one is His Good Ear?

Finally, he turned to me. "Hm."

I let a few seconds go by, and then I said, "Well, did you hear what I said? I mean, it really smells bad in there. Something's dead in there. I'm serious."

"Yes I heard you. I don't smell anything. Besides, there's no way anything could get in there anyway. It's just damp."

Oh, Dearest Readers! I know you all remember the last time he assured me there was Nothing In The Garage. Who was right that time? And I didn't even tell you about the summer before last when I suggested using a hose to rid the garage of a raccoon up in the rafters and was pooh-poohed for that idea. Guess how we finally got it down? Let's just say it was one wet and unhappy raccoon when it left.

But I digress.

I continued to smell The Smell, and Rick continued not to. He even cleaned out the garage one warm and sunshiny day and found nothing. Luckily, I was not in the garage too often, thanks to having nowhere to go. But a day came when I wanted to repot my kitchen window geranium, a 4" plant I brought in to winter over. It has become mammoth, rewarding me with nonstop blooms all winter (and now spring) long. I headed out to the garage for a larger pot and some potting soil.

And there it was, That Smell. It was still horrible. But I grabbed a pot and saucer and dragged over the bag of soil. I dug in with the saucer, but I couldn't dislodge any soil. It had gotten really clumped and hard. I reached in with my hand and felt...hair. Because this:

I absolutely felt my stomach right there in between my tonsils. Gagging and retching, I sped to the house to wash and rewash my hands. I could not stop feeling sick. Finally, it passed, and long enough for me to go and grab the bag and drag it out and into the driveway.

Later, Rick came home from work. He walked in and said, "Is there something you want me to do? I see the bag of dirt in the driveway."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, there is." I went out with him to the driveway and explained what I was going to do with the potting soil. I invited him then to look inside the bag.

"Hm," he said. "I even moved that bag when I cleaned out the garage. Never even thought to look inside it."

"But didn't you smell it?" I said. "How can you not smell it?"

"I smell it now that I'm right up against it."

He then walked into the garage and came out with a shovel. He headed over to the bag of soil. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked him.

"I'm assuming you want to keep some of this potting soil that's still good," he said.

"After all the bodily fluids have been seeping into it? No, I do not. What I want you to do is to chuck the whole thing into the trash for me, please."

Later, I recounted for him my whole awful, sickening, frightful encounter. I told him how I had actually touched that horrid dead thing. I told him how it took me a while to stop feeling like I had to throw up. I explained that it was so gross and horrible and my stomach was actually sore from clenching.

"Hm," he said. "I never even thought to look in that bag."

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Saturday Sillies: A Photo Collection Of Shopping In The Good Old Days (Like Three Months Ago)

Way back in the Pre-Corona Days, when we used to be able to run out Willy Nilly for Doo Dads and Whatnots whenever we needed them, I snapped a few photos of things in the stores that caught my eye. "Someday, I can use that for the blog," I wisely said to myself.

That Someday has arrived, Dearest Readers. I need some Mental Chex Mix--you know, just a bit of light snacky stuff right now. Here we go.

1.  Back in January I was looking at my grocery store's Closeouts section for some cheapo memo cube paper. I wanted to use it for my Good Things Jar. In my search I came across this wonderfully perplexing item:

Are Seniors these colors, or are these colors only for Seniors? Am I yello?

2.  It was a December trip to my grocery store that produced this find. I was dawdling through the Closeouts department (imagine!), unmasked and ungloved, browsing leisurely, probably looking for stocking stuffers, when I saw this ridiculous item. It's ironic and irritating, yet fabulously vexing in its way.

Because nothing says Civilized and Elegant like black vinyl and a misspelling!

3.  I like to keep a running list of items I need from the grocery store, adding to it as I think of them. As a result I've become a big fan of the long narrow pads of lined paper with magnets on the back. I get them at dollar stores, and that's where I got this next snapshot, also in December. These signs were hanging literally everywhere I looked in that store, but I waited until I was driving away to take the photo. I didn't want to offend the person who made them, should he be the same individual ringing me up or stocking shelves as I shopped not a few feet away. (Ah, the Good Old Days!)

NO CASH BACK IN ANY DEVIT CARD. But your debit card--a different story? 

Happy Saturday, everyone.

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Words For 2020: #5 Accept

Accept is probably the most difficult word I deal with every single day. Just now, I rewrote that first sentence four times. I might even rewrite it a few more before I hit Publish. Such is the life of a Serial Control Freak and Perfectionist.

It's not easy Being Me.

When I was younger--a little kid--the idea that I had any control over anything never once occurred to me. I Accepted without question that my parents were in charge and our lives were the way they were supposed to be. If other kids did things or went places or had things that we did not, well, that was because those things were not The Kind Of Things For Us. I never really gave them much thought. I was compliant and no trouble.

That didn't mean things were easy. I was a serious fat kid who preferred reading to anything athletic. Oddly enough, the only person who ever teased or bullied me about my weight was my older brother. And he did so brutally and unrelentingly. My mother's only response was to tell me to ignore him, which everyone knows is not effective or helpful. My father either never heard him or didn't think it merited his intervention. Nothing I said to my brother in retaliation ever bothered him; he was unassailable. It went on for years and years, and I learned to Accept that it was an unfortunate part of my life. But I never got over it, this having to Accept and having no control.

My father raised us to feel self-confident and empowered, ironically, and to feel pride in who we were. "Don't follow the common herd" was one of his favourite sayings. I was proud that I was smart. He had very high expectations, but he was an idealist. He was an idealist and a philosopher who worked at the steel mill. He wanted much better for all four of us, and sometimes his passion for our future could be frightening. His disciplinary lectures were so intense that we often felt faint. Our parents never once hit us, but standing and listening to a lecture was enough.

I set about planning the rest of my life with as much control as I possibly could. And I followed my plan, almost ruthlessly. I planned out my college--done! I planned my wedding--done! I even planned my two children so that I could be pregnant during the colder months and have them in Spring, thus ensuring I had all Summer with my babies. Jared was born at the end of March and Sam at the end of April. I had enough sick time with both births to end the year.

Parenting and Teaching are the two most Control-laden jobs in the world. After a childhood of no control, I was Control Central. I thrived in both environments--organization is one of my strong suits. I can motivate, command a room, come up with ideas quickly, and delegate tasks easily. And I can make all those things seem like fun for everyone.

These days, however, I'm learning that all that Control has cost me. As I wrote in an earlier post, I always seem to be in a hurry. And I feel as if I should be doing something all the time. Often, I get irritated at something and feel as if I should mention it to the person who said/did it. Sometimes, a small thing that Rick does will fray my nerves, and I want to explode. Or I'm driving and I get behind yet one more red pickup truck driven by an old man in a hat and it's poking along and I cannot pass it. The Fate Of The World does not rest on any of these things, or my actions concerning them. I need to Accept and move on.

I've learned the difference between the Acceptance of my childhood and the Acceptance of my adulthood. It is Choice. And it is often a Choice born of Necessity. I will be 61 in May. I don't want or need control of so many, many things anymore. I want Peace. I want Serenity. I want Simplicity.

Naturally, right now, there's very little anyone can control. We all have to Accept. This is Life right now, and we make the best of it. I'm heartened and uplifted by what I have read in your posts and comments about how you are all getting through These Times. I feel fortunate to have a circle of Virtual Friends because, for us, nothing has changed in our relationships. How very comforting that is.

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Words For 2020: #4 Read

Back in 2016 I shared with you my profound distress that I had been unable to Read a book for well over a year. After a lifetime of Reading, it was not only a shock, but a terrible loss. I truly grieved; books were my life as a child and adolescent. Every spare moment was taken up by Reading. Whenever I was punished--sent to my room or confined to a chair--it was always with the caveat that I could not take a book with me.

I would Read in trees, in bed, on a blanket outdoors, and by the thin light of a closet door ajar illicitly late at night. I was forever grateful to Miss Mamie, the town librarian, who eased the book limit for me and let me haul out huge stacks from our little storefront library each week. She recommended the best books always, and I'll never forget her. I Read constantly throughout high school and college, thrilled that Reading was basically my curriculum as an English major. I always Read every novel I assigned right along with my students, every time, even though I'd Read them a hundred times already.

So it was particularly hurtful when my inability to Read surfaced and lingered for years. I would try and try to Read, but it was a chore, not a pleasure. I wasn't having the same experience as before; there was no Joy in it. I wasn't getting Lost In The Book. I may as well have been Reading a textbook, just chewing up information that I wasn't particularly interested in or attached to.

Then I had a breakthrough when I was refocusing on other parts of my life and getting a handle on my stress. I suddenly was able to Read again, really Read and enjoy it. I started tearing through books again like before, and it was so rewarding. The best time of the day was when I was done with everything else and could nestle in with my book among the couch pillows and the quiet (or the cat's snoring). I would look at my book stack on the table and smile every day. Books once again appeared on my Christmas List, and my sons happily indulged me.

But once again, I'm stuck. Experience would tell me that Something Is Broken, that I need to look at my Stressors or How I'm Coping with Everything Out There. I know by Reading over at your sites that many of you are having the same problem. We can't concentrate. I know in my case, I worry for my husband and sons, still out there, working in "essential businesses." I try not to, but I fear for them every day. And I miss my sons and their girlfriends and families. Like everyone, I find the physical isolation difficult. I feel disconnected.

Now more than ever, I want to Read, and Read More, and Read More Often. Reading isn't just an escape for me; it's a way to connect with part of myself. Reading is a Solace. I would lose whole chunks of time when I opened a book. Who couldn't use a Fast Forward Button these days?

I would love you to share your childhood Reading Stories. And if you have any tips on Restarting Our Reading, share those, too.

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Words For 2020: #3 Write

When I was in college about a hundred years ago (actually, I graduated from undergrad in 1981), my professor in Classroom Methods was like so many back then--hopelessly out of touch. The guy hadn't been in a highschool classroom in decades. He didn't teach us much of anything at all that was of Value. It was a lot of Sixties stuff, like Rap Sessions and Creative Listening and junk that bordered on Being A Mime. He drove us all nuts because we knew it was crazy, this hippie crap, and that if we even attempted it, those teenagers would tear us apart.

Little did I know that school systems everywhere were already wrenching their English programs into the far less demanding-sounding course called Language Arts, and embracing things called Whole Language, Sight Reading, and for the upper grades, Journal Writing. By the time I was in an English classroom teaching five classes of sophomores, Journal Writing was a Thing, and we had to make them do it at least once a week. We had to come up with a topic, give them classroom time, and give them credit. At our department meeting we all griped about the prospect of grading these journals. Merely lugging them around was bad enough, but do the math: the sheer volume of grading was staggering and downright punitive. All of us lamented our college majors; why hadn't we chosen phys ed or art? Or music?

Several veteran teachers shrugged and admitted they didn't read them at all. They marked them with a check and gave a grade for completion. Others said they read only a select few and graded those. Others said they told the students to choose their best three for grading and if they didn't complete all the entries, oh well, they simply had fewer to choose from. A few rebels admitted to me that they refused to give journal work to their kids; they thought it was stupid and a time-waster for everyone involved.

I have to admit--I eventually became one of those rebels. And it didn't take too long, either.

Let me explain why.

I value Writing. I value it highly. Good Writing or Writing with purpose means a great deal to me. No one should disrespect someone's Writing. If a student is going to be asked to Write, then that Writing should be read. At the very least, it should be read and reacted to. The idea of someone sitting there, flipping pages of student Writing, making checkmarks on it, bothered me. That Writing represented that student's thoughts. It's like ignoring that student and saying his time or her thoughts were inconsequential.

(It also bothers me when kids are punished by Writing sentences. All that does is teach kids to hate Writing. Please don't make learning or self-expression a vehicle for punishment.)

Writing is my preferred method of communication almost always. Even though I was a verbal communicator/teacher (and a good one) for thirty years, I still prefer Writing. It gives me time to think, to unwind my thoughts, to pick the best words, to organize my ideas, and to refine everything I want to say.

I don't hate Journals, either. I keep one semi-daily. I Write in it at about the same time, a time set aside specifically for Writing. (And I use a certain kind of pen because I need a gliding pen, not one that blots or scratches.) I pick it up, Write the date, and just start in. It is private, very personal, and in it I can sort out all kinds of thoughts and ideas I want to untangle. I can celebrate in it; I can bitch in it; I can mourn in it. In short, I can be myself in it, unedited. I keep the previous pages of the Journal under a rubber band so that I don't go back and read them, and I never go back to previous Journals, either. Why go back to the Past? If I'm near a dollar store, I grab a few cheap little Journals in there, and that's what I use. Nothing fancy. And, believe it or not, I don't worry about my punctuation as I'm Writing in my Journal. It looks a lot like Emily Dickinson in there with all the dashes. It's very liberating.

Back in January I decided to try harder to Write here more often. That is still my intention. So, for 2020 and beyond, Write is one of my Words.

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Words For 2020: #2 Meditate/Reflect

It's my habit to park in a space distant from the entrance at the grocery store. It gives me a little more exercise, and I don't have to worry about finding a place to park or some distracted driver backing out and hitting me. Today, however, I had no choice; those were the only spots left. As I pulled in, the woman in front of me, whose hatch was facing me, was unloading a cart full of Kleenex boxes. I'd guess she had at least fifteen single boxes, and she was tossing them into the back of her car with a grim face.

In no way was I prepared for what I walked into. People were steering carts that were overflowing. The line at the deli was across the length of counter and three customers deep. I checked my list and tried to pick up a little speed. I was starting to feel tense and uncomfortable.

"Attention shoppers. We apologize, but we've just received the following instructions from our corporate office and must place limits on the following items. Isopropyl alcohol 70% to 90%, one bottle per customer. Bleach, one bottle per customer. Sanitizing wipes containing antibacterial or bleach..." and I stopped listening. I started to feel like I was in a Stephen King novel--like The Stand. Stores had been out of hand sanitizer for days and days now. (Even though every single healthcare professional has said that washing your hands was far more effective, there has not been a run on soap.)

I finished my shopping--and encountered several hastily made signs listing the limited products once I got to the cleaning supplies aisle--and realized that I was starting to feel panicky and almost sick. Another announcement was added, this one apologizing for the long checkout lines.

They weren't kidding. Part of the reason was that many people had two carts. I looked down at my cart and wondered again if I was being foolish for not stocking up. I keep a pretty good pantry and freezer as it is, but who knows? The governor has shut down schools for three weeks beginning on Monday. All shows, sporting events, and large expositions (Sam's Piston Powered Show this weekend!) are cancelled. I could feel this struggle begin welling up in me, this fight against the surreal.

I couldn't wait to get home. I needed a walk and some time to decompress and breathe. And then I needed to Meditate and Reflect.

Walking helps a great deal. The physical activity, the reconnection with Nature, the breathing of fresh air--all of that recenters me and grounds me again. But I also need some time for Meditation/Reflection. I use that quiet time to check in with myself and relax my tension. I'm not a Traditional Meditator in that I don't sit cross-legged or use a mantra or any accoutrements. I don't get all jazzed about Clearing All Thoughts From My Mind or all that. For me, that's nearly impossible. I'm a Chain Thinker. One thought leads to another to another to another and pretty soon I'm thinking about the time many years ago that I forgot a bag of frozen peas in the car for like two weeks.

No, usually, I listen carefully to any sounds in my environment and/or my breathing. If a thought comes in, I go ahead and think it. If a thought endangers my Zen, I just give it the Scarlett O'Hara--"I'll think about that tomorrow." Today, my stomach growled a lot while I was Meditating and Reflecting. It made me laugh, which I really needed. I Reflect a great deal on how grateful I am; how so many things in my life are Good; how many things I have to look forward to. And I make sure I take an inventory of how I've been doing that day: how do I feel? what did I accomplish? am I tensed up anyplace?

Some days I can take my time; other days I do a shorter version. Some busy days, this is actually done in bed! For me, Meditation/Reflection is some important Me Work. And I feel like I'm worth the effort.

So in 2020 and beyond, Meditate/Reflect are two of my Words.

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Words For 2020: #1 Walk

While on my Walk today, I met Sophie, a little Italian Greyhound. She was sniffing quite meaningfully around a tree lawn, and I slowed my pace considerably so that I wouldn't disturb her. Unfortunately, just as she was settling in for some Quality Time, she caught sight of me and sprang up, skittish and barking. I stopped altogether, abashed.

"She's fine; come on ahead!" yelled Sophie's pet parent, waving a mittened hand. "Sophie! Stop! Enough!"

"I'm sorry," I said as I neared them. "I didn't want to...disturb her."

"Well, I'm sorry she's being such a loudmouth. Sophie, stop being such a loudmouth!"

We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I went on my way. I love that part of my Walk--meeting a new person in the neighborhood. That I also got to meet a new dog was a bonus. That she was a cute loudmouth, even better.

My Walk makes me deeply satisfied. I purposely don't vary my route much at all. I enjoy watching the small changes daily, weekly, monthly, and seasonally. I like to see the evolution of my neighborhood and notice little things as I pace off my miles.

Today--aside from meeting Sophie and her pet parent--I was happy to see a wide sunny carpet of winter aconite brightening up someone's front lawn. On the street where nine impossibly large outdoor cats lounge on varying porches and front walks, only two were to be seen, yawning and grooming. Daffodil and narcissus fronds were poking several inches above the soil already! Behind a tent-like structure made of plastic sheeting, work was finally, actually being done on the dilapidated front porch of a run-down house. (Rick and I make fun of this project all the time; it has been ongoing for a year, done entirely by one guy who shows up about once a month. At one point, he inexplicably hung kitchen pots on the porch roof. We theorized that they were to hold nails or small tools. The whole thing is ridiculous.)

I was miffed to note how many homes still have Christmas decorations up, but it was a small thorn in my side. I listened to some raucous birds and looked up to find them. It was two red-bellied woodpeckers flashing wings and pursuing each other. A little further down the block were several robins bobbing in a big corner yard, with a pair of bluejays watching above, screeching. Cardinals were also in the yard, a male and female, and I started allowing myself--just a little--to think about Spring.

On my way back home, my visit with Sophie cost me. Just as I turned down my street, it began to rain. I had it timed perfectly according to my weather app, but hadn't planned on loitering. I didn't care too much. As my husband's grandfather used to say, "It only soaks through to the skin." And I wasn't too far from home.

It feels good to Walk, to breathe fresh air, to feel my legs stretch out, to feel my feet push against the pavement, moving it away. It's relaxing and invigorating at the same time for me. It's therapeutic.

As a child I was overweight and often sick. I didn't play sports and I was not athletic. I might have tried, but I didn't want to risk humiliation. There were a few things I could do, and one of those was to take Walks. My father used to take us on long, long Walks he called Nature Walks (more about those in another post). I also had a paper route for a few years that I walked every single day (which helped end my weight problem). I walked to school in elementary school and high school, and, in good weather, home from junior high. When I think back, Walks have generally been a positive part of my life.

And yes, I do have some residual fear from having fallen twice. (Probably more than even Rick, Jared, or Sam has!) My first Walk by myself after my second fall was scary. I know I'm careful and that has to be enough.

So, in 2020 and beyond, Walk is one of my Words.

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Finally Risen From My Sickbed

Let me just say this, and you can certainly write it down and quote me if you wish: Life Is Not Fair.

I'll give you a minute because I know that's a stunner.

...

Okay.


I just want to go On Record with the following:

1. I wash my hands constantly.
2. I keep hand sanitizer in my car.
3. And I use it as soon as I get in after I've been anywhere.
4. I use the antibacterial wipes on all shopping carts.
5. If Rick sneezes or coughs--for any reason--I will not let him kiss me on the mouth.
6. And then I interrogate him sternly, "Are you sick? Are people sick at your work?"
7. I don't eat or drink after anyone. Ever.
8. If someone near me is sniffling, sneezing, or coughing, I hold my breath until I am well out of their space.

In spite of all of this, AND A VACCINE GOTTEN IN A TIMELY MANNER (Mid-September), I got the flu. A lot of the flu. A bigass bunch of ass-kicking, no-prisoner-taking, bitch-making flu. Was I sick? Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh. My already lousy immune system rolled over and played dead immediately, taking all my dignity with it.

It was only in the last few days that I have finally felt truly well and entirely myself. And been able to go on my entire walk. The whole thing was/is completely ridiculous and I could not be more annoyed. I couldn't do a damn thing!

But let's not say another word about it. Because that would be letting the terrorist win. (One positive--I lost about 10 pounds.)

Before The Episode I had plans for this blog and things I wanted to write about. That is still my mission. And I have Things To Talk About beyond that. I'm glad to be back.

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