Women of a certain age probably remember playing with paper dolls when they were children, but I'm guessing that most of my (two or three) male readers never had that experience. For the men's benefit, I'll explain:
Paper dolls usually came (do they still?) in a booklet that included two or three human figures to be punched out of cardboard, plus several pages of paper clothing to be cut out with scissors and hung by folded tabs from the shoulders of the cardboard people. All the dolls in a particular booklet would have similarly painted features and be of approximately the same size. It was easy to believe they were friends or family members.
I loved paper dolls when I was a kid, and I owned several sets of them. The problem was that the sets weren't interchangeable. Even though I had lots of paper dolls, I could never pretend to host a large gathering, because the people from different sets didn't go together. For example, there might have been a set of little-girl dolls who were ten inches tall and proportionately wide, and the adult glamour girls in another set might have been only eight inches tall. There was no way to pretend the glamour girls were the mothers of the little-girl paper dolls. I had a good imagination, but not that good.
I've been thinking about this because sometimes I see real people with other real people who look like they belong to different sets. Do you know what I mean?
For example, if I see a very tall, skinny woman walking with a really short, round man, I think, ah, different sets. Or if I see a well-groomed, professionally manicured woman wearing a business suit, I'd never guess that the guy wearing overalls across the room is her husband. In my mind, her husband would be wearing a coat and tie. Hip-hop artists and country singers don't seem to me like they go together, and yet there they are, at the Grammy awards, all getting along.
The good news is that even as I notice the differences in people, even as my paper-doll-influenced mind sorts and categorizes them into sets, I've outgrown the idea that the sets shouldn't mingle. As an adult, I've learned that a gathering of people "from different sets" can be much more interesting than a group of people who are all just alike. It's diversity, it's a good thing, and I'm glad to see most of the world making progress in that direction.
Although, to be honest, I'd still have a hard time putting those eight-inch glamour girls with the ten-inch giant children.
.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Did you know?
In the past few days I learned two new things, and I wish I'd paid more attention so I could give credit to the sources of this newfound knowledge.
While surfing the Net this afternoon, I ran across a computer tip on someone's blog: If you hold down the ctrl key while you roll the little wheel on the mouse back and forth, you can make the text larger or smaller. Try it. Isn't that cool? (Some of you probably already knew this, but it was news to me.)
On some show on the Animal Planet channel, I learned that veterinarians now say that the old way of calculating a dog's age (one year in a dog's life equals seven in a human's) is inaccurate. The new way, they say, is to count the first two years of a dog's life as 25 human years, then add four years for each actual year after that. Under the old calculations, 10-year-old Butch would now be the equivalent of a 70-year-old human. But with the new math, he's only 57. That's much better.
Hmm. Now that I've checked the dog-age fact on the Internet, I'm finding that everyone seems to agree that the old method is obsolete, but opinions vary slightly on the numbers to use for the new method. At any rate, I've just this minute discovered a very handy chart in case I forget from day to day how old my dogs are.
Whatever. Class dismissed.
While surfing the Net this afternoon, I ran across a computer tip on someone's blog: If you hold down the ctrl key while you roll the little wheel on the mouse back and forth, you can make the text larger or smaller. Try it. Isn't that cool? (Some of you probably already knew this, but it was news to me.)
On some show on the Animal Planet channel, I learned that veterinarians now say that the old way of calculating a dog's age (one year in a dog's life equals seven in a human's) is inaccurate. The new way, they say, is to count the first two years of a dog's life as 25 human years, then add four years for each actual year after that. Under the old calculations, 10-year-old Butch would now be the equivalent of a 70-year-old human. But with the new math, he's only 57. That's much better.
Hmm. Now that I've checked the dog-age fact on the Internet, I'm finding that everyone seems to agree that the old method is obsolete, but opinions vary slightly on the numbers to use for the new method. At any rate, I've just this minute discovered a very handy chart in case I forget from day to day how old my dogs are.
Whatever. Class dismissed.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
At the supermarket
Picture a young man standing in front of the gourmet cheese counter. He's wearing baggy jeans with pant legs that pool at his ankles and lie in loose folds on top of his dirty white sneakers. He needs a shave. Spikes of oily brown hair peek out from under his worn red ballcap.
Speaking into his cell phone, the young man says confidently, "I thought I'd cut it with butter, just a glaze, not a sauce."
As the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover.
Speaking into his cell phone, the young man says confidently, "I thought I'd cut it with butter, just a glaze, not a sauce."
As the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Butchy-Butchy-Bo-Butchy-Banana-Fana-Fo-Futchy
Yesterday was three months exactly since our veterinarians scuttled their attempt to remove Butch’s anal sacs. As we might have anticipated, those troublesome organs are still giving him problems.
Butch stayed on antibiotics for a few weeks after the aborted surgery, and for a few more weeks after that, I lived in a state of denial, trying to pretend I wouldn’t have to make a decision about what to do next. I obviously knew it isn’t healthy for Butch to have anal sac abscesses one after the other, and I knew he can’t stay on antibiotics indefinitely, but thinking about how close I came to losing him just scared the bejesus out of me. Finally, when he began spending way too much time with his nose stuck up under his tail, I knew I’d have to face my fears and take him back to the vet.
We did that two weeks ago yesterday. Butch does indeed have another abscess, and it needs to be cleared up before surgery is even an option. This time the vet did a bacterial culture, which identified three separate bacteria, and she prescribed a four-week course of antibiotics that are supposed to wipe out those specific bacteria. At the end of the four weeks, we’ll consider surgery again.
While I was at the vet’s office, I asked her to write down what anesthesia they were using when Butch stopped breathing. That’s information I want to keep handy in case Butch ever has to go to the emergency after-hours vet clinic. The vet gave me a written list and said she suspected either morphine or pentathol -- or the combination of both -- caused the problem. She also said it wasn’t that Butch had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia but rather that he went under too deeply. He’s had anesthesia on at least three previous occasions, so no one knows for sure why he had problems on that particular day.
The mention of morphine helped me to better understand Butch’s bizarre behavior in the hours after I brought him home following his near-death experience. During the hours he paced the floor and crashed into walls and furniture, he may well have been having morphine-induced hallucinations. I remember my mother’s description of something that happened when my over-90-year-old grandmother stayed with her for a while. Mammaw was taking morphine to reduce cancer pain. Mother woke up to noises in the middle of the night and discovered that my fragile Mammaw had pulled the mattress and all the bedding off her bed. She was also highly agitated about the "naked men" who were flying around the ceiling of her room. I don't know if Butch's hallucinations included naked men, but he was definitely agitated.
To wrap up this lengthy entry, let me tell you about one moment I treasured on Butch's most recent visit to the vet: I was sitting on the end of a cushioned bench in front of a window in the lobby, and Butch, on a leash, was standing at my feet. A woman across the room spotted Butch, did a double-take when she noticed he didn’t have eyes, and walked over to ask about him.
Butch accepted the woman's attention enthusiastically while I explained about the primary glaucoma, but he lost interest after she stopped petting him. After a few “oh, poor babies” and a couple of “bless his hearts,” the woman asked, “Does he have problems getting around the house?” Butch chose that exact moment to turn away from her, scrunch up his hindquarters and leap up onto the other end of the bench, where he sat facing the window, nosed the venetian blinds open wider, and basked in the sunshine on his face.
I was kind of surprised myself that he'd figured out the layout of the bench, the window, etc. That’s my good boy.
Butch stayed on antibiotics for a few weeks after the aborted surgery, and for a few more weeks after that, I lived in a state of denial, trying to pretend I wouldn’t have to make a decision about what to do next. I obviously knew it isn’t healthy for Butch to have anal sac abscesses one after the other, and I knew he can’t stay on antibiotics indefinitely, but thinking about how close I came to losing him just scared the bejesus out of me. Finally, when he began spending way too much time with his nose stuck up under his tail, I knew I’d have to face my fears and take him back to the vet.
We did that two weeks ago yesterday. Butch does indeed have another abscess, and it needs to be cleared up before surgery is even an option. This time the vet did a bacterial culture, which identified three separate bacteria, and she prescribed a four-week course of antibiotics that are supposed to wipe out those specific bacteria. At the end of the four weeks, we’ll consider surgery again.
While I was at the vet’s office, I asked her to write down what anesthesia they were using when Butch stopped breathing. That’s information I want to keep handy in case Butch ever has to go to the emergency after-hours vet clinic. The vet gave me a written list and said she suspected either morphine or pentathol -- or the combination of both -- caused the problem. She also said it wasn’t that Butch had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia but rather that he went under too deeply. He’s had anesthesia on at least three previous occasions, so no one knows for sure why he had problems on that particular day.
The mention of morphine helped me to better understand Butch’s bizarre behavior in the hours after I brought him home following his near-death experience. During the hours he paced the floor and crashed into walls and furniture, he may well have been having morphine-induced hallucinations. I remember my mother’s description of something that happened when my over-90-year-old grandmother stayed with her for a while. Mammaw was taking morphine to reduce cancer pain. Mother woke up to noises in the middle of the night and discovered that my fragile Mammaw had pulled the mattress and all the bedding off her bed. She was also highly agitated about the "naked men" who were flying around the ceiling of her room. I don't know if Butch's hallucinations included naked men, but he was definitely agitated.
To wrap up this lengthy entry, let me tell you about one moment I treasured on Butch's most recent visit to the vet: I was sitting on the end of a cushioned bench in front of a window in the lobby, and Butch, on a leash, was standing at my feet. A woman across the room spotted Butch, did a double-take when she noticed he didn’t have eyes, and walked over to ask about him.
Butch accepted the woman's attention enthusiastically while I explained about the primary glaucoma, but he lost interest after she stopped petting him. After a few “oh, poor babies” and a couple of “bless his hearts,” the woman asked, “Does he have problems getting around the house?” Butch chose that exact moment to turn away from her, scrunch up his hindquarters and leap up onto the other end of the bench, where he sat facing the window, nosed the venetian blinds open wider, and basked in the sunshine on his face.
I was kind of surprised myself that he'd figured out the layout of the bench, the window, etc. That’s my good boy.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Dang, that man gets on my nerves
Just when I thought there was nothing George W. Bush could do to make me like him less, he did it today, right here in my own backyard. Technically, it wasn't his fault, but it annoyed me anyway.
I took off work early this afternoon to drive to the vet in Baton rouge. I had to take Kadi to get her thyroid levels checked, and I had to pick up another round of antibiotics for Butch. This trip was timed carefully to avoid rush hour traffic.
About halfway to the vet's office, just before it was time to turn off the two-lane back road and get on the interstate, traffic came to a dead stop. After standing still for a while, all the vehicles in front of me started making three-point u-turns -- nevermind that there was steady oncoming traffic -- so I did the same. It was quite a visual spectacle and more than a little bit hazardous.
I had to backtrack a couple of miles to find an alternate route, and as I was driving, the radio announcer started naming roads that were closed because of a presidential motorcade. I knew George Bush was in New Orleans yesterday, but I had no idea he was still around. Apparently, he was planning to attend a fundraiser at a private residence, and there were protesters lined up on the interstate side of the nearby water park. I was on the back side of that same water park when everyone started making u-turns.
Kadi and I still got to where we were going, but it took an extra half hour to get there. I kind of wish I could have seen the protesters.
I took off work early this afternoon to drive to the vet in Baton rouge. I had to take Kadi to get her thyroid levels checked, and I had to pick up another round of antibiotics for Butch. This trip was timed carefully to avoid rush hour traffic.
About halfway to the vet's office, just before it was time to turn off the two-lane back road and get on the interstate, traffic came to a dead stop. After standing still for a while, all the vehicles in front of me started making three-point u-turns -- nevermind that there was steady oncoming traffic -- so I did the same. It was quite a visual spectacle and more than a little bit hazardous.
I had to backtrack a couple of miles to find an alternate route, and as I was driving, the radio announcer started naming roads that were closed because of a presidential motorcade. I knew George Bush was in New Orleans yesterday, but I had no idea he was still around. Apparently, he was planning to attend a fundraiser at a private residence, and there were protesters lined up on the interstate side of the nearby water park. I was on the back side of that same water park when everyone started making u-turns.
Kadi and I still got to where we were going, but it took an extra half hour to get there. I kind of wish I could have seen the protesters.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
With gratitude...
...to Carmon of Life at Star's Rest, I humbly accept this pretty and colorful award:
I'll share it with:
Helen, of A Little of This-n-That, who has impressed me tremendously with her courage and good humor in the face of a serious illness.
Alison, of Inspired Work of Self-Indulgence. Hers was the first blog I ever read. I'm grateful to her for the inspiration and for a consistently good reading experience.
Val, of Golden to Silver Val. I've only discovered Val recently, but I already appreciate her wit and her writing skills.
Ladies, pass it on if you wish.
I'll share it with:
Helen, of A Little of This-n-That, who has impressed me tremendously with her courage and good humor in the face of a serious illness.
Alison, of Inspired Work of Self-Indulgence. Hers was the first blog I ever read. I'm grateful to her for the inspiration and for a consistently good reading experience.
Val, of Golden to Silver Val. I've only discovered Val recently, but I already appreciate her wit and her writing skills.
Ladies, pass it on if you wish.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Make the world go away
The first time I heard someone say, “He lives inside his head,” I related instantly. That sentence clarified for me a condition I’ve known since childhood, a personality trait that I now know is labeled ”introversion.” If you were to search this blog for the keyword “introvert,” you’d find that I’ve written about this subject a number of times.
I’m quite contented with the head in which I live, except for the fact that I have to stick it out into the real world all too frequently, and the real world isn’t always a safe place for us introverts. It’s noisy, it’s hectic, and there is entirely too much talking going on. It’s people, people everywhere and not a place to think.
Lately, the noise and confusion of my days, not to mention the televised evening news, have made me spend my evenings turning inward, regrouping and searching inside my head for the coping skills I’ll need when the mornings roll around. Having had years of experience in dealing with copious amounts of crap, my coping skills are highly developed. Chief among them is the ability to raise an umbrella of silence and serenity over my head.
When I’m under that umbrella, it feels right to talk as little as possible. When my mind is cluttered with a thousand random thoughts, the silence helps me to think more clearly, to evaluate which thoughts and ideas have value and which ones are dragging me down. Once I have them neatly categorized, I can “accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative,” and regain the sense of balance necessary to navigate my life.
Unfortunately, I’m realizing that when I don’t feel like talking, I don’t feel like writing, either. For a blogger, that isn’t a good thing. A “genuine” writer, I suppose, would feel compelled to write down the troubling thoughts, to dissect them in an attempt to discover their origin and their meaning. It might even be therapeutic. But I certainly wouldn’t want to write that stuff here, and, frankly, I’m not inclined to expend that kind of energy.
Energy is another thing that's been in short supply lately. I’ve done what I’ve needed to do at work, and at home I’ve accomplished the bare minimum necessary to take care of myself and my dogs. How little I’ve actually done at home was brought to my attention a couple of days ago when I found myself (of necessity) eating microwaved enchiladas with an iced tea spoon.
The dishwasher has since been turned on, and the laundry will get done today. Before the weekend is over, I’ll dust the furniture (although I’m tempted to plant flower seeds on one end table, just as an experiment). I’ve paid my bills, I’ve...um...what else have I done? Oh, I’ve written this.
It’s a start.
I’m quite contented with the head in which I live, except for the fact that I have to stick it out into the real world all too frequently, and the real world isn’t always a safe place for us introverts. It’s noisy, it’s hectic, and there is entirely too much talking going on. It’s people, people everywhere and not a place to think.
Lately, the noise and confusion of my days, not to mention the televised evening news, have made me spend my evenings turning inward, regrouping and searching inside my head for the coping skills I’ll need when the mornings roll around. Having had years of experience in dealing with copious amounts of crap, my coping skills are highly developed. Chief among them is the ability to raise an umbrella of silence and serenity over my head.
When I’m under that umbrella, it feels right to talk as little as possible. When my mind is cluttered with a thousand random thoughts, the silence helps me to think more clearly, to evaluate which thoughts and ideas have value and which ones are dragging me down. Once I have them neatly categorized, I can “accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative,” and regain the sense of balance necessary to navigate my life.
Unfortunately, I’m realizing that when I don’t feel like talking, I don’t feel like writing, either. For a blogger, that isn’t a good thing. A “genuine” writer, I suppose, would feel compelled to write down the troubling thoughts, to dissect them in an attempt to discover their origin and their meaning. It might even be therapeutic. But I certainly wouldn’t want to write that stuff here, and, frankly, I’m not inclined to expend that kind of energy.
Energy is another thing that's been in short supply lately. I’ve done what I’ve needed to do at work, and at home I’ve accomplished the bare minimum necessary to take care of myself and my dogs. How little I’ve actually done at home was brought to my attention a couple of days ago when I found myself (of necessity) eating microwaved enchiladas with an iced tea spoon.
The dishwasher has since been turned on, and the laundry will get done today. Before the weekend is over, I’ll dust the furniture (although I’m tempted to plant flower seeds on one end table, just as an experiment). I’ve paid my bills, I’ve...um...what else have I done? Oh, I’ve written this.
It’s a start.
Me, today.
Me, soon I hope.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Blame it on Janet
If you’ve been here in the last few days and haven’t found anything new to read, blame it on Janet. It’s all her fault.
Janet recently posted five of her favorite links, and one of them led me to JigZone, the jigsaw puzzle site where I’ve been held captive for many days now.
Each evening I’ve told myself I’d work only one puzzle, certainly no more than two, and then I’d write something on my blog and leave comments on yours. And each evening I’ve told myself a big fat lie, because I’ve ended up working one puzzle after another until well past my bedtime.
As an expert rationalizer, I convinced myself a long time ago that jigsaw puzzles are valuable. The process of fitting tiny puzzle pieces together actually makes me more observant, more finely attuned to my surroundings. For example, if I go outside after completing a puzzle, I look at a stand of trees and notice the differences in the shapes and colors of the leaves. I pay attention to one tree that leans in a particular direction, to a patch of blue sky behind the branches, to areas of sunlight and shadow. All in all, it’s a nicer way to see the world.
I haven't noticed getting the same benefit from these tiny puzzles that can be worked in about five minutes. But I do adore the instant gratification. The puzzles are so pretty. And they're so much fun! And they’re so spectacularly addictive!
Hmm. Now I'm thinking maybe you haven’t been here at all recently. Maybe you found the JigZone link, too, and maybe you’ve become obsessed and have spent all your time there.
Maybe I don’t have any readers left at all. If that’s true, I blame Janet.
(Janet, if you read this, can you recommend any more good sites? Please?)
Janet recently posted five of her favorite links, and one of them led me to JigZone, the jigsaw puzzle site where I’ve been held captive for many days now.
Each evening I’ve told myself I’d work only one puzzle, certainly no more than two, and then I’d write something on my blog and leave comments on yours. And each evening I’ve told myself a big fat lie, because I’ve ended up working one puzzle after another until well past my bedtime.
As an expert rationalizer, I convinced myself a long time ago that jigsaw puzzles are valuable. The process of fitting tiny puzzle pieces together actually makes me more observant, more finely attuned to my surroundings. For example, if I go outside after completing a puzzle, I look at a stand of trees and notice the differences in the shapes and colors of the leaves. I pay attention to one tree that leans in a particular direction, to a patch of blue sky behind the branches, to areas of sunlight and shadow. All in all, it’s a nicer way to see the world.
I haven't noticed getting the same benefit from these tiny puzzles that can be worked in about five minutes. But I do adore the instant gratification. The puzzles are so pretty. And they're so much fun! And they’re so spectacularly addictive!
Hmm. Now I'm thinking maybe you haven’t been here at all recently. Maybe you found the JigZone link, too, and maybe you’ve become obsessed and have spent all your time there.
Maybe I don’t have any readers left at all. If that’s true, I blame Janet.
(Janet, if you read this, can you recommend any more good sites? Please?)
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Bloomin' peacock
Val asked me to try to get a picture of Mr. Pea "in bloom," and I didn't have to wait too long to do it. He stopped by last night and put on quite a show:
If you notice that the photos aren't as sharp as they should be, blame it on the subject: he wouldn't stop dancing. His performance seemed to be entirely for the benefit of my neighbors' pickup truck.
Earlier, I heard Mr. Pea's loud calls and went outside to find him up on the roof. He immediately jumped down to check out the contents of the goody bag in my hand, and we had a quiet little visit in the driveway. All that changed when the neighbors with whom I share a carport started up their truck.
The truck wasn't visible from where we were standing, but as soon as the engine started, the bird went into his full-out courting dance. He fanned his gorgeous tailfeathers, fluffed up his downy white butt-feathers, and pranced and preened, turning around and around directly in the path of the truck. I yelled to get him to move, but he was a man on a mission. The neighbors, forced to stop their truck, got out of it and took photos with their cell phones while they waited for Mr. Pea to finish his act.
I knew he liked that pickup truck, but I didn't realize how much. He spent much of last summer perched on the sides of the truck or resting in the bed of it. I'd pull my car into the carport next to the truck, and up would pop that bright blue head of his. That must have been amusing for the neighbors, although I suspect they may not have been too thrilled about the frequent poop clean-ups he necessitated.
A Louisiana peacock is apparently just like the average Louisiana man: He loves him a pickup truck. It must be something in the water.
If you notice that the photos aren't as sharp as they should be, blame it on the subject: he wouldn't stop dancing. His performance seemed to be entirely for the benefit of my neighbors' pickup truck.
Earlier, I heard Mr. Pea's loud calls and went outside to find him up on the roof. He immediately jumped down to check out the contents of the goody bag in my hand, and we had a quiet little visit in the driveway. All that changed when the neighbors with whom I share a carport started up their truck.
The truck wasn't visible from where we were standing, but as soon as the engine started, the bird went into his full-out courting dance. He fanned his gorgeous tailfeathers, fluffed up his downy white butt-feathers, and pranced and preened, turning around and around directly in the path of the truck. I yelled to get him to move, but he was a man on a mission. The neighbors, forced to stop their truck, got out of it and took photos with their cell phones while they waited for Mr. Pea to finish his act.
I knew he liked that pickup truck, but I didn't realize how much. He spent much of last summer perched on the sides of the truck or resting in the bed of it. I'd pull my car into the carport next to the truck, and up would pop that bright blue head of his. That must have been amusing for the neighbors, although I suspect they may not have been too thrilled about the frequent poop clean-ups he necessitated.
A Louisiana peacock is apparently just like the average Louisiana man: He loves him a pickup truck. It must be something in the water.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Mooch
I have a neighbor who seems to think it's perfectly acceptable behavior to show up at my door unannounced and hang around for as long as it takes until I give in and offer him a meal. I haven't heard from him for months, but he showed up for supper tonight with no advance notice and no apologies.
I know he's just using me, but I was glad to see him anyway. It isn't as if I've forgotten how persistent he was the last time he stayed around for a while. He was demanding and messy, and the timing of his visits was often inconvenient. He was even something of a stalker. I felt trapped in my own home when I looked out to see him pacing in my carport, stretching tall to try to peer through my windows. Despite all that, I can't seem to find it in my heart to turn him down.
I'd heard he was back in the neighborhood. When Butch and Kadi started barking incessantly this evening, it crossed my mind that he might be the reason for their excitement. I cautiously raised one slat in the blinds and peeked out, and there he was. He'd spotted the movement and was looking right back at me.
So here we go again. It'll be just like it was last year and the year before that. He'll pop in when he feels like it, and I'll feed him. He'll take what he wants from me, for as long as he wants it, and in the end he'll do what he always does: he'll go home to the mother of his children. And I know that's as it should be.
He's lucky he's so good looking or I wouldn't put up with this at all.
I know he's just using me, but I was glad to see him anyway. It isn't as if I've forgotten how persistent he was the last time he stayed around for a while. He was demanding and messy, and the timing of his visits was often inconvenient. He was even something of a stalker. I felt trapped in my own home when I looked out to see him pacing in my carport, stretching tall to try to peer through my windows. Despite all that, I can't seem to find it in my heart to turn him down.
I'd heard he was back in the neighborhood. When Butch and Kadi started barking incessantly this evening, it crossed my mind that he might be the reason for their excitement. I cautiously raised one slat in the blinds and peeked out, and there he was. He'd spotted the movement and was looking right back at me.
So here we go again. It'll be just like it was last year and the year before that. He'll pop in when he feels like it, and I'll feed him. He'll take what he wants from me, for as long as he wants it, and in the end he'll do what he always does: he'll go home to the mother of his children. And I know that's as it should be.
He's lucky he's so good looking or I wouldn't put up with this at all.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Westward ho, city girls!
Packy, my grandfather whose home we shared, worked at Martin's Furniture Store in Springfield, Missouri. He did a little light carpentry, assembly mostly, and he delivered furniture to customers. Sometimes my grandmother picked Packy up at lunchtime, but some days he drove home in an empty delivery truck.
If he was driving the big van, he'd have to park it on the street. My sister and I would climb up inside it and jump around a little bit, but we grew bored pretty quickly in the van, and it was hot in there, too. The other truck was way better.
The second truck was larger than a pickup but smaller than the furniture van, so my grandfather could drive it right up into the driveway and park it under the shade of a nearby tree. There were wooden-rail "fences" along each side of the truck bed, and before Packy could get in the house and sit down to his lunch ("dinner" we called it then), my sister and I would climb the rails and straddle them. They were our horses: beautiful stallions with flowing manes and tails.
We rode miles on those horses during summer lunch hours. We crossed prairies and deserts, watering our horses at streams along the way. We encountered stagecoaches, goldminers, train robbers, and sheriffs wearing big tin stars. Shots were fired sometimes, but we were the good guys, and we usually survived our injuries. Luckily, our trail always turned homeward just in time for Packy to go back to work.
When I think about those days, I can still smell the summer dust and the little-girl sweat, and I can almost hear the strains of the radio music that filtered through the screen door and provided a fitting soundtrack for our adventures. Click on the video link and ride with us for a while.
MUSIC VIDEO: Ghost Riders in the Sky - Vaughn Monroe (1949)
LYRICS: Ghost Riders in the Sky
If he was driving the big van, he'd have to park it on the street. My sister and I would climb up inside it and jump around a little bit, but we grew bored pretty quickly in the van, and it was hot in there, too. The other truck was way better.
The second truck was larger than a pickup but smaller than the furniture van, so my grandfather could drive it right up into the driveway and park it under the shade of a nearby tree. There were wooden-rail "fences" along each side of the truck bed, and before Packy could get in the house and sit down to his lunch ("dinner" we called it then), my sister and I would climb the rails and straddle them. They were our horses: beautiful stallions with flowing manes and tails.
We rode miles on those horses during summer lunch hours. We crossed prairies and deserts, watering our horses at streams along the way. We encountered stagecoaches, goldminers, train robbers, and sheriffs wearing big tin stars. Shots were fired sometimes, but we were the good guys, and we usually survived our injuries. Luckily, our trail always turned homeward just in time for Packy to go back to work.
When I think about those days, I can still smell the summer dust and the little-girl sweat, and I can almost hear the strains of the radio music that filtered through the screen door and provided a fitting soundtrack for our adventures. Click on the video link and ride with us for a while.
MUSIC VIDEO: Ghost Riders in the Sky - Vaughn Monroe (1949)
LYRICS: Ghost Riders in the Sky
Saturday, March 29, 2008
See any similarities?
My sister forwarded an email to me that included a group of photos of her youngest granddaughter. The pictures cracked me up. They were taken by the toddler's mom (my niece), who had captioned them "THE EGG DYE TABLETS ARE NOT CANDY." Here's a sample:
It's obvious that the "attitude" gene is alive and well in our family. I'm not a bit surprised. The boy babies may not have been as severely afflicted, but I can't think of a single girl child in this family who wouldn't have been able to cock her head and roll her eyes in the hospital nursery if things hadn't gone to suit her.
One photo in particular gave me immense pleasure and sparked a little photo-editing project. First, I took the picture of my sister's grandbaby and turned it from color to black and white. Then I went digging through my files and found a snapshot of my sister, one that was taken about 1949. I blew it up, cropped it, "sprayed" a little "digital egg dye" around the mouth, and placed it side-by-side with the photo of her grandchild.
Voila!
My sister's the one on the right. The apple didn't fall far from the tree in this case, did it?
It's obvious that the "attitude" gene is alive and well in our family. I'm not a bit surprised. The boy babies may not have been as severely afflicted, but I can't think of a single girl child in this family who wouldn't have been able to cock her head and roll her eyes in the hospital nursery if things hadn't gone to suit her.
One photo in particular gave me immense pleasure and sparked a little photo-editing project. First, I took the picture of my sister's grandbaby and turned it from color to black and white. Then I went digging through my files and found a snapshot of my sister, one that was taken about 1949. I blew it up, cropped it, "sprayed" a little "digital egg dye" around the mouth, and placed it side-by-side with the photo of her grandchild.
Voila!
My sister's the one on the right. The apple didn't fall far from the tree in this case, did it?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Longing for the way we were
It’s been six days since I’ve posted, and five of the six were bad days. There have been times in the past when I couldn’t think of much to write about, but lately the problem has been that I had too much to say. I was afraid that if I began to write what I was thinking, the words would pour out of me so fast I wouldn’t be able to hold any of them back, even the ones I wouldn’t normally say in polite company.
Fortunately, I spent a wonderful Easter with my family, and that was enough to mellow me out a little bit. It was a resurrection of my spirit, in a way.
What had me so riled up was politics. I’m so invested in this presidential race that you’d think one of my children was running for office. I’ve spent hours and hours watching TV, trying to broaden my understanding of all the candidates’ points of view, and then more hours online, researching the truth behind all the “he said/she said” stuff. When I’ve seen inflammatory snippets of speeches, I’ve gone in search of text and videos to view those snippets in context, and I’ve been appalled that so many so-called “journalists” have been willing to pull a contentious word or phrase out of an otherwise sensible speech and leave it to stand out there on it’s own, a sound bite to stir controversy.
I understand about ratings. Even though it angers me to listen to certain reporters’ more unconscionable (read “twisted”) interpretations of a candidate’s actions or remarks, even though I think some of them take perverse pleasure in disseminating misinformation, I get it. In this day and age, newscasters are motivated more by the ratings than they are by the truth. Where’s Walter Cronkite when we need him?
That complaint notwithstanding, it wasn’t even biased news reporting that upset me so much last week. What really shook me was reading some of the online comments left on political websites by “average American” supporters of all three major candidates. I can’t recall the last time I’ve been exposed to so much vile, vitriolic language, so much hate speech, so much meanness, nastiness and, yes, ignorance.
Where do all these people come from? Do they live under rocks? I don’t want to know people who would write such hateful things, and it scares me to think people like that walk freely among us. It seems to me that if someone is bright enough to use a computer to spew hatred onto the Internet (much of it badly spelled, by the way), they ought to have sense enough to search out the whole story before they contaminate cyberspace with their animosity.
I’ll tell you what: I’m really glad to be an American. There’s never been anywhere else on earth I’ve wanted to live. But proud? Well, yeah, of course I’m proud – just not as proud as I used to be.
Somewhere along the way, our message has changed, a change that's even reflected in our music. In the early ‘80s, we listened to the radio and heard words like, “I’m proud to be an American where at least I know I’m free.” More recently, the attitude we’ve projected to the world has been, “We’ll put a boot in your a$$, it’s the American way.” When did that change happen, exactly?
I know there’s nothing “average” about my regular readers, but I need to hear from you. Please reassure me that the kind of hostility I've described is not representative of the “average” Americans you know.
Fortunately, I spent a wonderful Easter with my family, and that was enough to mellow me out a little bit. It was a resurrection of my spirit, in a way.
What had me so riled up was politics. I’m so invested in this presidential race that you’d think one of my children was running for office. I’ve spent hours and hours watching TV, trying to broaden my understanding of all the candidates’ points of view, and then more hours online, researching the truth behind all the “he said/she said” stuff. When I’ve seen inflammatory snippets of speeches, I’ve gone in search of text and videos to view those snippets in context, and I’ve been appalled that so many so-called “journalists” have been willing to pull a contentious word or phrase out of an otherwise sensible speech and leave it to stand out there on it’s own, a sound bite to stir controversy.
I understand about ratings. Even though it angers me to listen to certain reporters’ more unconscionable (read “twisted”) interpretations of a candidate’s actions or remarks, even though I think some of them take perverse pleasure in disseminating misinformation, I get it. In this day and age, newscasters are motivated more by the ratings than they are by the truth. Where’s Walter Cronkite when we need him?
That complaint notwithstanding, it wasn’t even biased news reporting that upset me so much last week. What really shook me was reading some of the online comments left on political websites by “average American” supporters of all three major candidates. I can’t recall the last time I’ve been exposed to so much vile, vitriolic language, so much hate speech, so much meanness, nastiness and, yes, ignorance.
Where do all these people come from? Do they live under rocks? I don’t want to know people who would write such hateful things, and it scares me to think people like that walk freely among us. It seems to me that if someone is bright enough to use a computer to spew hatred onto the Internet (much of it badly spelled, by the way), they ought to have sense enough to search out the whole story before they contaminate cyberspace with their animosity.
I’ll tell you what: I’m really glad to be an American. There’s never been anywhere else on earth I’ve wanted to live. But proud? Well, yeah, of course I’m proud – just not as proud as I used to be.
Somewhere along the way, our message has changed, a change that's even reflected in our music. In the early ‘80s, we listened to the radio and heard words like, “I’m proud to be an American where at least I know I’m free.” More recently, the attitude we’ve projected to the world has been, “We’ll put a boot in your a$$, it’s the American way.” When did that change happen, exactly?
I know there’s nothing “average” about my regular readers, but I need to hear from you. Please reassure me that the kind of hostility I've described is not representative of the “average” Americans you know.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
In my face
If you have just a minute, try a little experiment with me. Keep both eyes open, but cover one eye with the palm of your hand. Assuming you didn't cover your dominant eye, you can probably read the words on your computer monitor, but you can also see the shape of your open palm. It's as if your palm has become semi-transparent and you can read right through it.
Now, we're not finished, so if you've already taken your hand down, please put it back.
What I'd like you to do next is imagine that instead of looking at your monitor, you're looking at your television screen. And instead of seeing the shape of your palm over one eye, you're seeing a big dog head. Got that image? Great. The point of this experiment was to show you how I've been watching TV lately. It leaves something to be desired, doesn't it?
I don't know what the deal is, but both Butch and Kadi seem to have decided recently that lying on the sofa next to me isn't good enough. Instead, whichever one of them gets to the sofa first will sit upright, facing me and leaning in to hover directly in front of my face. I love them, but this kind of togetherness is driving me nuts!
Do you suppose my breath has the scent of liver or some other doggy delicacy? I haven't noticed any people backing away from me in an apparent sense of urgency, but I can't think of any other reason why the dogs need to have their heads so close to mine. Perhaps I should find a mouthwash that smells like something they find repugnant. Unfortunately, that's a really short list.
Nail clippers, maybe. Or bathwater.
Now, we're not finished, so if you've already taken your hand down, please put it back.
What I'd like you to do next is imagine that instead of looking at your monitor, you're looking at your television screen. And instead of seeing the shape of your palm over one eye, you're seeing a big dog head. Got that image? Great. The point of this experiment was to show you how I've been watching TV lately. It leaves something to be desired, doesn't it?
I don't know what the deal is, but both Butch and Kadi seem to have decided recently that lying on the sofa next to me isn't good enough. Instead, whichever one of them gets to the sofa first will sit upright, facing me and leaning in to hover directly in front of my face. I love them, but this kind of togetherness is driving me nuts!
Do you suppose my breath has the scent of liver or some other doggy delicacy? I haven't noticed any people backing away from me in an apparent sense of urgency, but I can't think of any other reason why the dogs need to have their heads so close to mine. Perhaps I should find a mouthwash that smells like something they find repugnant. Unfortunately, that's a really short list.
Nail clippers, maybe. Or bathwater.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Signs of Spring
It's been months since the backyard was dry enough for me to venture out into it without staying on the stepping stones, but today I was able to take my camera for a short walk through the grass (or, more accurately, the dollarweed). The signs of Spring were thrilling.
The fig tree is covered with baby leaves, perfectly shaped but very tiny.
The tangelo tree survived a couple of freezes and now displays clusters of white buds. Each bud has the potential to be a blossom, and each blossom could produce a fruit. This will be the third summer for this tree, and I'm hoping the fruit will be sweeter this year.
I'm a little concerned about the gardenia bush. Some of the leaves don't look too healthy, and there's no sign of buds yet. Maybe it's too soon...or maybe this bright red bug (and others like him) are causing problems. Does anyone know what this creature is?
The crawfish (not the edible kind) have been busy building their muddy towers all Winter long, and there are quite a few of them in the backyard. The most ingenious of the lot belongs to the builder of this structure. At least one of the walls in his living room is wood-paneled.
Yesterday I saw the surest sign of all that Spring has arrived: my daughter and son-in-law mowing the lawn for the first time of the season. Thanks, Kelli and Troy. Next time, will you stand still long enough for a photo?
The fig tree is covered with baby leaves, perfectly shaped but very tiny.
The tangelo tree survived a couple of freezes and now displays clusters of white buds. Each bud has the potential to be a blossom, and each blossom could produce a fruit. This will be the third summer for this tree, and I'm hoping the fruit will be sweeter this year.
I'm a little concerned about the gardenia bush. Some of the leaves don't look too healthy, and there's no sign of buds yet. Maybe it's too soon...or maybe this bright red bug (and others like him) are causing problems. Does anyone know what this creature is?
The crawfish (not the edible kind) have been busy building their muddy towers all Winter long, and there are quite a few of them in the backyard. The most ingenious of the lot belongs to the builder of this structure. At least one of the walls in his living room is wood-paneled.
Yesterday I saw the surest sign of all that Spring has arrived: my daughter and son-in-law mowing the lawn for the first time of the season. Thanks, Kelli and Troy. Next time, will you stand still long enough for a photo?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
While I'm complaining...
...in the last few days I've been having problems with Blogger comments. Specifically, once I've clicked on comments, I can't get away from the comments window without closing the blog window.
I used to be able to read comments, add one if I chose to, and then use the back arrow to go back to the blog I was reading. From there, one click of the back arrow would take me back to my own blog so I could click on the link to the next thing I wanted to read.
Recently, though, I've been getting stuck in the comments screen. The back arrow brings up the little security question window again. If I click on any part of that, it takes me right back to comments. I end up toggling back and forth between the comments and the security window until I get frustrated and click the "x" to close the blog window.
I haven't changed any settings, so I'm wondering if Blogger has tweaked something recently that might be causing this? Does anyone know?
I used to be able to read comments, add one if I chose to, and then use the back arrow to go back to the blog I was reading. From there, one click of the back arrow would take me back to my own blog so I could click on the link to the next thing I wanted to read.
Recently, though, I've been getting stuck in the comments screen. The back arrow brings up the little security question window again. If I click on any part of that, it takes me right back to comments. I end up toggling back and forth between the comments and the security window until I get frustrated and click the "x" to close the blog window.
I haven't changed any settings, so I'm wondering if Blogger has tweaked something recently that might be causing this? Does anyone know?
Stop it! Go away!
No, wait, I don't mean you.
I love getting comments on my blog. Sometimes people e-mail me instead of commenting, and I really enjoy that, too. What I don't like is blog-related SPAM.
Within days of starting the new book-review blog, I started getting multiple unsolicited e-mails every day, always from a different name and always with a book reference in the subject line. They all contain book reviews, and they're all typed in the same font and format, so I knew they were coming from the same place. By right-clicking on the e-mails and selecting "properties," I learned that all of them are coming from one e-mail address, despite the different names in the "from" column.
I know a couple of my regular and/or occasional readers write book reviews sometimes, and I'm wondering if you've ever had this problem. If so, what did you do about it?
I've read that it isn't a good idea to respond to a SPAM e-mail, because doing so confirms that the unwanted messages are finding a target. Becsause of that, I haven't asked the sender to cease and desist. Any ideas out there?
The source of this particular SPAM is Bostick Communications. When I Googled that name, one of the search results included the words "making a press release through Bostick Communications who are a Christian company..." That might explain it. Maybe they see it as their religious duty to annoy the hell out of people.
I love getting comments on my blog. Sometimes people e-mail me instead of commenting, and I really enjoy that, too. What I don't like is blog-related SPAM.
Within days of starting the new book-review blog, I started getting multiple unsolicited e-mails every day, always from a different name and always with a book reference in the subject line. They all contain book reviews, and they're all typed in the same font and format, so I knew they were coming from the same place. By right-clicking on the e-mails and selecting "properties," I learned that all of them are coming from one e-mail address, despite the different names in the "from" column.
I know a couple of my regular and/or occasional readers write book reviews sometimes, and I'm wondering if you've ever had this problem. If so, what did you do about it?
I've read that it isn't a good idea to respond to a SPAM e-mail, because doing so confirms that the unwanted messages are finding a target. Becsause of that, I haven't asked the sender to cease and desist. Any ideas out there?
The source of this particular SPAM is Bostick Communications. When I Googled that name, one of the search results included the words "making a press release through Bostick Communications who are a Christian company..." That might explain it. Maybe they see it as their religious duty to annoy the hell out of people.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Still another Boleyn girl
Blogging wasn't the first pastime to keep me tethered to the computer for hours on end. That distinction belongs to genealogy, a joyful pursuit that began in 1989 and continues to this day. I couldn't begin to estimate the hours (and dollars) I've spent tracing my ancestors and learning as much as I could about them.
Most of the people in my family history were ordinary citizens, living their lives in the best way they could, much as most of us try to do. I'm pleased to have inherited whatever common genes I share with them, and I wish I knew more about them.
Other ancestors were more prominent, so much more has been written about them, and some of them were not especially nice. If you've turned on your television set for more than an hour in the last month, you've probably seen the trailer for The Other Boleyn Girl. The "other" refers to Mary Boleyn, the lesser known sister of Anne Boleyn, whom King Henry VIII married and later caused to be beheaded. Mary was my 15th-great-grandmother, on my mother's side of the family.
Mary was a married woman (girl, more accurately) who had a long-term affair with Henry VIII before her wily sister, Anne, wormed her way into his favor. The stories of these two sisters totally dispel the notion held by some folks that Hollywood is to blame for today's "loose morals." Ha! The people in that particular royal circle thought up plenty of naughtiness all by themselves.
I wish I'd known all this stuff when I was younger. When my mother walked in and found teenage me in a passionate lip-lock with my boyfriend, it would have been really handy to be able to say, "I know this looks bad, Mother, but at least I'm not as bad as your Granny Mary or Auntie Anne." And if, as an adult, I ever made a questionable, late-night decision out of loneliness or longing (not that I'd ever admit to that), it would have been less regrettable in the morning if I'd known about Mary and Anne. I could have written off my foolishness to genetics and cut myself some slack.
Fortunately, in the generations between Mary Boleyn and myself, our gene pool has been watered down by plenty of people who were more grounded than the members of King Henry's court. Grounded is better, I think. I may never have romanced a king, but I've loved at least one royal pain in the a$$, and I suspect my experience in that regard was not dissimilar to Mary's.
When I think about Mary, I like to picture her in the latter years of her life. She married a second time, for love apparently. Because Mary married a commoner, her sister, who was queen by then, banished her and her husband from the court. According to historians, they lived the rest of their lives in relative anonymity.
If there was any part of Mary that's now a part of me, I believe she appreciated the peace and quiet.
Most of the people in my family history were ordinary citizens, living their lives in the best way they could, much as most of us try to do. I'm pleased to have inherited whatever common genes I share with them, and I wish I knew more about them.
Other ancestors were more prominent, so much more has been written about them, and some of them were not especially nice. If you've turned on your television set for more than an hour in the last month, you've probably seen the trailer for The Other Boleyn Girl. The "other" refers to Mary Boleyn, the lesser known sister of Anne Boleyn, whom King Henry VIII married and later caused to be beheaded. Mary was my 15th-great-grandmother, on my mother's side of the family.
Mary was a married woman (girl, more accurately) who had a long-term affair with Henry VIII before her wily sister, Anne, wormed her way into his favor. The stories of these two sisters totally dispel the notion held by some folks that Hollywood is to blame for today's "loose morals." Ha! The people in that particular royal circle thought up plenty of naughtiness all by themselves.
I wish I'd known all this stuff when I was younger. When my mother walked in and found teenage me in a passionate lip-lock with my boyfriend, it would have been really handy to be able to say, "I know this looks bad, Mother, but at least I'm not as bad as your Granny Mary or Auntie Anne." And if, as an adult, I ever made a questionable, late-night decision out of loneliness or longing (not that I'd ever admit to that), it would have been less regrettable in the morning if I'd known about Mary and Anne. I could have written off my foolishness to genetics and cut myself some slack.
Fortunately, in the generations between Mary Boleyn and myself, our gene pool has been watered down by plenty of people who were more grounded than the members of King Henry's court. Grounded is better, I think. I may never have romanced a king, but I've loved at least one royal pain in the a$$, and I suspect my experience in that regard was not dissimilar to Mary's.
When I think about Mary, I like to picture her in the latter years of her life. She married a second time, for love apparently. Because Mary married a commoner, her sister, who was queen by then, banished her and her husband from the court. According to historians, they lived the rest of their lives in relative anonymity.
If there was any part of Mary that's now a part of me, I believe she appreciated the peace and quiet.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Breathing a sigh of relief
Between presidential politics and the new season of reality shows, it’s been hard for me to tear myself away from the TV long enough to blog lately. I’ve seen a lot of things that were inspirational and a lot of others that have distressed me. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of ugly out there.
I’ve been particularly disturbed as I’ve watched one high-profile woman, for weeks now, maintain a professional demeanor and a smile on her face while lies and exaggerations poured out of her mouth. She has portrayed herself as the brightest of the lot, the most capable performer, the shining star, deserving of the ultimate prize. She has taken credit for the work of others and blamed those same others for her own errors of judgment. When challenged, she has twisted the truth at every turn to suit her own agenda, and she hasn’t missed an opportunity to misdirect the viewing public and point a figurative middle finger at a series of opponents. It’s been sickening to watch.
Tonight, though, I’m feeling encouraged again. Justice prevailed on my TV screen earlier this evening, and that “Washington insider” whose underhanded tactics left me so dismayed is out of the race.
Tonight I heard the words I've been waiting to hear: “Omarosa, you’re fired!”
Thank you, Donald Trump, for restoring my faith in humanity.
I’ve been particularly disturbed as I’ve watched one high-profile woman, for weeks now, maintain a professional demeanor and a smile on her face while lies and exaggerations poured out of her mouth. She has portrayed herself as the brightest of the lot, the most capable performer, the shining star, deserving of the ultimate prize. She has taken credit for the work of others and blamed those same others for her own errors of judgment. When challenged, she has twisted the truth at every turn to suit her own agenda, and she hasn’t missed an opportunity to misdirect the viewing public and point a figurative middle finger at a series of opponents. It’s been sickening to watch.
Tonight, though, I’m feeling encouraged again. Justice prevailed on my TV screen earlier this evening, and that “Washington insider” whose underhanded tactics left me so dismayed is out of the race.
Tonight I heard the words I've been waiting to hear: “Omarosa, you’re fired!”
Thank you, Donald Trump, for restoring my faith in humanity.
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