Here are the results for me. Since I am a female, I am heartened to see that 67% of my brain recognizes that fact.
Your Brain is 67% Female, 33% Male |
 Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you're tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you! |
My daughter has interesting and intelligent friends- Kenny immediately springs to mind, he of the lightning quick and cutting wit- but there are others, some of whom I got to meet during the one year we shared together at Motlow College - her last year as a student there and my first year there as an instructor. One of the brightest of her friends is a fellow named Griff, who writes THREE blogs; one on beer, one about geocaching, and one that is essentially the random musings of a most original and humorous mind.
I have just reinstated a link to my favorite of his blogs, Life Among the Natives (AKA catty wampus comments), to which I became addicted during Griff (and Kelly's) old Tullahoma.net days. Kelly was Griff's editor on the college paper as well, and so he has taken to calling her Darth Kel, which tickles me no end. I must warn you that he doesn't blog there often anymore, but when he does, it's choice, so dip into his ramblings from time to time. They are worth the wait.
Before you forward any email tragedy stories, or dire warnings about polluted purses, check out the veracity of the email at Urban Legends and Folklore. I have a link to that site as well. All sorts of weird and wonderful (and sometimes gross) things on that site. I particularly enjoyed the larvae infested breast- which, by the way, is true.
I have linked to the blog of my interesting and intelligent son, but he has not blogged in some time. He has been too busy. Aside from building a garage the size of the Taj Mahal, he has been going to school and taking piano lessons, while working a full time job and supporting a wife and four daughters.
My stage maven daughter will be here the day after Christmas with another of her intelligent and interesting friends in tow. Everyone here is so pumped about their visit. I can't wait. She is currently appearing in a most bizarre San Diego production of "The Importance of Being Earnest" as Mrs., rather than Lady, Bracknell, who, in this rendition, is apparently a yenta. Go figure. It kind of reminds me of the Richard III that was being produced in a movie called "The Goodbye Girl". Richard Dreyfus was being compelled to play the lead character as a gay cross-dresser with a lisp, a portrayal sure to offend everyone and end an actor's career. Sure hope "Earnest" doesn't go in the same direction. My daughter will pull it off, of course- she is wonderfully skilled at what she does- but why tinker with a classic, especially one so completely rooted in Edwardian England, and intimately intertwined with the British railway service? Some plays are just so anchored in a point in time that it is impossible to update them, and shouldn't be tried. Only my opinion- I could be wrong.
Well, my hand surgery went well, if a bit more painful than the last one in August. I have a magnificent bruise that covers the entirety of the palm of my hand and travels four inches up my wrist and two tiny incisions in the base of my hand. I actually think I am having a harder time without the use of my left hand than I did without the use of my right- and I'm right handed! I get the stitches out the day after Christmas. Looks like it is going to be an eventful day.
My Christmas is all ready to go. All the gifts are purchased and wrapped. My daughter-in-law Becca already knows every damn thing she is getting. It is IMPOSSIBLE to keep a secret from that woman! My son got one of his gifts early, of course. He is persuasive, and I am a push-over. Everyone but Mama seems to be in the holiday mood. Maybe if we all got grumpy, she would cheer up just to be contrary. Friends have been in and out, and Dave and I will be stocking the larder tomorrow. I love Christmas. I hand made all my Christmas cards this year and sent them out in vellum envelopes far and wide. I have received Christmas cards and early gifts, and mistletoe. David has brought home an obscene amount of spirits from his friends and co-workers; that's what men do at Christmas. They buy booze for the men and jewelry for the women, and so can shop in less than two hours. I, on the other hand, have been shopping since October. Of course, I shopped for 30 people as opposed to Dave's 9, and since I wrapped his gifts for his coworkers, he only had to wrap mine. No matter. Everyone is going to have a wonderful holiday.
My club, the GFWC Centennial Woman's Club, adopted a family this year, a single mom with seven children from what had been a blended family. We provided tons of gifts for the mom and children, as well as food baskets and a gift card to Kroger worth almost $400. There never were nor could there ever be more good-hearted and generous women than the good women of the GFWC. Toys for Tots, Karing for Kids, adopting a family, knitting scarves and assembling food baskets- you want to see the true meaning of Christmas? Come to my little town.
Which will be the subject of my next blog. For now, I will close with a sincere wish of health, prosperity, love, and all God's blessings for this wonderful season and the new year.
I am typing this from my classroom, on my last day of class for the fall of 2006. Six of my eleven students are still taking what has to be one of the hardest tests they've had at this college, not because I made it hard, but because genetics is a complex subject. They have had essay tests the entire semester, have written numerous lab reports, and were assigned five journal reports- I believe in writing across the curriculum- so I have prepared them for this last exam.
This entire semester, it has been like pulling teeth to get them to read the textbook. I really don't understand that. I model my lectures on the text, and sometimes take test questions word for word from it. This generation of student does not seem to feel the need to study from a book. Granted, I provide hand-outs, and I am a damn fine lecturer, if I do say so myself (and I do). But when I was a student, I lived in my books. Different generation, different learning styles.
This has been a great group of kids. I have really enjoyed being their teacher, and will miss them, both individually and as a group, when this is over. There have been a few that are brilliant, a couple that are brilliant but lazy, two very highly motivated, one struggler and one non-trad who has done what non-trads seem to do- bust the curve. I have had a pair of brothers, as different from one another as night and day, but both kids you'd be proud to call your own. The eldest has a special place in my heart because he is a smart-ass. I think he's terrific.
The class has been as evenly divided between male and female as a class of eleven can be, six males, five females. No gender bias here- they have all done well.
Now as Christmas approaches, and hand surgery approaches, and my daughter's visit approaches, I can't really say that I am sorry the semester is over. I just wish genetics was a two semester class so I could spend time with this group of people again next semester.
To my students, should you stumble across this blog, the merriest of Christmases and all my love and best wishes.
And Marcia, you are off the hook for strong-arming me into teaching this class. It was worth it.
A year ago, I took Mama to the eye doctor. Turns out her prescription had not changed one jot, so she did not need new glasses. The doctor did, however, mention Mama's macular degeneration, something Mama had forgotten she had. From that day to this, Mama has been "blind".
Frankly, I have had little patience with her "blindness". It seemed inconceivable to me that a person could be able to read one day and totally incapable the next, just because she hadn't gotten new glasses. "You don't need them, Mother," I told her, "Your eyes have not changed at all." "But I'm blind!" she responded, and it pissed me off. More of her drama, more of her acting up for attention.
But, being the good daughter-in-law I am, I took her back to the eye-doctor today. I sat there, irritated, as Mama claimed to be able to only read the first line of the chart - you know the line, the one with the giant E that is facing in the wrong direction. I listened as she first told the technician that there was nothing wrong with her vision, and then began to catalog a host of woes. When Dr. Bell came in to do the exam, Mama put on a show for her as well.
At the end of the exam, the doctor again informed us that there has been very little change in Mama's prescription. There is some "leaking" in her better eye, (the left), and so she will have a procedure on the 14th to see if she is a good candidate for laser surgery to stop that, but otherwise, her current glasses are filling the bill and will continue to do so until after the surgery, if it turns out to be necessary.
"I'm as blind as a bat" Mama yells. "Where's the bathroom?" I signal to the doctor to talk to me while Mother leaves the room in search of a toilet. "Her vision seems to be stable, but she keeps telling me she is blind. Is there any way you could give me an idea of what her vision is?" Doctor Bell left the room and came back with two different lenses, one for the left and one for the right eye. I looked through them. "Omigod! Is this what she sees WEARING her glasses?" I asked. Dr. Bell just nodded.
Mama has only blurred peripheral vision in her right eye. She perceives light and movement but that's about it. Her left eye is a little better, but not much, though it is hoped the laser surgery with help a bit; at least it should stop any further deterioration. I don't know how Mother recognizes faces, navigates steps, or manages to negotiate the house. Yes, her prescription has not changed in three years, but that, as it turns out, is meaningless. Her vision has not changed from GOD-AWFUL in three years. I had no idea. I thought she was myopic and a self-pitying, self-aggrandizing drama queen. Turns out she is a blind, self-pitying, self-aggrandizing drama queen.
Poor old thing. I feel lower than whale shit for not taking her seriously. All the times I looked through her glasses, I never got a sense of how the world really looks to her. No wonder she is depressed! And here I have been, making light of her problem, and assuming that, because her prescription wasn't changing, her complaints were without validity. I could have been so much more understanding and so much more helpful to her this past year than I was. I have been rolling my eyes at her complaints. What a bitch!
Well, I am both chastened and shamed by this experience. Hope I never end up with me as my caretaker when I am 78.
| Your Five Factor Personality Profile |
 You have high extroversion. You are outgoing and engaging, with both strangers and friends. You truly enjoy being with people and bring energy into any situation. Enthusiastic and fun, you're the first to say "let's go!" Conscientiousness: You have medium conscientiousness. You're generally good at balancing work and play. When you need to buckle down, you can usually get tasks done. But you've been known to goof off when you know you can get away with it. Agreeableness: You have high agreeableness. You are easy to get along with, and you value harmony highly. Helpful and generous, you are willing to compromise with almost anyone. You give people the benefit of the doubt and don't mind giving someone a second chance. Neuroticism: You have low neuroticism. You are very emotionally stable and mentally together. Only the greatest setbacks upset you, and you bounce back quickly. Overall, you are typically calm and relaxed - making others feel secure. Openness to experience: Your openness to new experiences is medium. You are generally broad minded when it come to new things. But if something crosses a moral line, there's no way you'll approve of it. You are suspicious of anything too wacky, though you do still consider creativity a virtue. |
What your soul really looks like!  This is what the test has to say about me: "You are a wanderer. You constantly long for a new adventure, challenge, or even a completely different life." (Okay, I do like a bit of a change now and then. Fair cop). "You are a grounded person, but you also leave room for imagination and dreams. You feet may be on the ground, but you're head is in the clouds." (Alas, too true...but it's more fun in the clouds than in the living room with Mother). "You believe that people see you as larger than life and important. While this is true, they also think you're a bit full of yourself." (Okay, I should be full of someone OTHER than myself? Won't it get crowded in here?) "Your near future is a lot like the present, and as far as you're concerned, that's a very good thing." (Got to admit, NOW is pretty good so I would be very happy to see NEXT as much the same). "For you, love is all about caring and comfort. You couldn't fall in love with someone you didn't trust." (Excuse me... who in their right mind COULD??) All in all, a fair description of me. I just can't figure out how they put together that horrifically ugly room out of all this. Though, sadly, they may be on to something with the nose. I must go. Clouds are calling.  The Giant, by N. C. Wyeth |
On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for my many blessings, one of which is my wonderful daughter-in-law who hosted the holiday this year. Becca, her mama Gail and I collaborated on a feast that was over-the-top. Turkey (deep fried by Jake), ham, two kinds of dressing, potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, corn, broccoli casserole, corn pudding, green bean casserole, fresh baked bread, cranberry sauce, deviled eggs, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate pie. Becca has a huge kitchen, and she and Gail and I worked very well together in it. I really like Gail; she's a terrific person and a lot of fun. I love having the combined Thanksgiving at Becca's house. It was such a good day, the three of us cooking, kids in and out of the kitchen, the men tending the frier. Good stuff.
I got lots of affection from my grandaughters, and actually got an unsolicited kiss from Kendall! Funny how little things can make your heart sing. I had a great time watching Kendall, Haley, Delaney, and Becca's little brother Keaton (10) interact. Emily even climbed up into my lap with a book and let me read to her. Emily had a tough day today; she tried so hard to be one of the big kids and spent most of the day frustrated- LOUDLY frustrated. She was over-tired, over-stimulated, hungry and THREE, so her behavior is forgivable.
And then, there's Mama. Mama is not forgivable. Adults acting like three-year olds are neither attractive or amusing. She was as tempermental (if not as loud) as Emily all day. She refused to be in any room that had people in it, barely spoke even when spoken to, and moped through dinner, which she did not eat. She did, however, announce that she was not hungry because she had diarrhea, something everyone wants to hear mid-feast. Thank goodness Becca's family has experience with Mama.
Mama seems to think that being pathetic, pretending to be blind and deaf, and sighing heavily every few minutes is the way to win hearts. It just gives me heartburn. She's a sorry, crabbed little woman, but she is inventive. She finds a way to make herself the center of attention even if she has to announce her bodily functions to do it. Sigh.
By the way, Mama is starving herself to death again. She announces her intent to do this about every three months. She's says she's too fat. (Not). She says she's ready for the boneyard. (Maybe). Her stavation attempts usually coincide with some event that does not center on her. Of course, she doesn't really starve herself; she usually has enough food squirreled away in her room to feed half the state. Usually, but not always; her larder is empty at the moment, so she has no surreptious munchies to sustain her. She came home today after the Thanksgiving meal that she didn't eat and went straight to her room. Haven't heard from her in six hours or more. I know she is hungry. I also know she won't venture into the kitchen to eat something until I am in bed. So I am deliberatly staying up late. I can act like a three-year old, too.
I am SO looking forward to Christmas with Mama. Fortunately, I have a supplier for coal- tons of it- for her stocking. And a really big cork for her next bout of diarrhea - though, if she wasn't so full of shit, she probably wouldn't have the problem in the first place. :)
Dear Constant Reader(s);
You may or may not have noticed that my blog looks slightly different. That's because, after moving to Beta, I have had to essentially rebuild the damn thing. Lost my links. Lost my counter. Couldn't figure out how to restore my counter. Finally just gave up and added a new counter, which, being new, reads 000000. At least it is pink. Of course, the minute I added the NEW counter, it came to me how to save the old one. Too late. I am always smart too late.
I know that as of five days ago, the last time I had statistics, there had been 3,924 hits to this site. Let's see how long it takes to get THAT kind of number again. Sigh.
It is nearing the end of the semester and I am slogging away at my genetics course. I have a wonderful group of students and have really enjoyed the teaching, but the prep has just about killed me. I have been building everything out of whole cloth. If I teach it again next fall, which I may or may not do, it will be a piece of cake, since I have spent ungodly amounts of time creating PowerPoints, hand-outs and tests, and designing lab exercises. All that will be ready for next fall... for whoever teaches it. I am a share bear.
Getting ready for turkey day. We are going to my son and daughter-in-law's for the feast, and it is going to be fun. Becca and I are all geared up to cook all day, her mama Gail is going to be right in there with us, and there will be kids running around, games on the TV, and crisp autumn breezes to chill the bones and make hot food just that much more delicious.
Here is my wish for us all as we count our innumerable blessings.
"May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that
has been given to you....
May you be content knowing you are a child of God...
Let His presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom
to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.
Bless us all and those we love.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Y'ALL!
Your Christmas is Most Like: Miracle on 34th Street |
 Sweet and caring, Christmas is about helping for you. While Santa may not exist, you try to share his spirit. |
You Were Nice This Year! |
 You're an uber-perfect person who is on the top of Santa's list. You probably didn't even *think* any naughty thoughts this year. Unless you're a Mormon, you've probably been a little too good. Is that extra candy cane worth being a sweetheart for 365 days straight? |
I spent six weeks in Madrid in 1966 on a summer scholarship to the University of Madrid. At that time, women were prohibited from attending that university except in the summer- hey, it was 40 years ago and Franco was not still dead at the time. I loved and love Spain and have always wanted to return there. So imagine my delight when I took a little quiz on my ideal European city and it turned out to be... Barcelona! I did not get to Barcelona all those many years ago, but think I will have to do that before I get too old to travel. I must brush up on my Spanish. Ole!
| You Belong in Barcelona |
 Barcelona is ideal for you. You can check out some Picasso, eat some tapas, take a siesta, and then dance all night! |
By my calculation, there are 16 clocks in my house, exclusive of the clocks that are bundled with appliances. Hey, I like clocks. I like the fact that even when I set them all for the exact same time AT the exact same time, they always give me different readings by the next day. I love that. Even time is open to interpretation. However, I do not like to have to reinterpret time twice every year to humor some demented legislative whim. Has ANYONE ever heard a reasonable rationale for daylight savings time? Now that we have fallen back during the short day portion of the year, and it is dark at 5 PM, might I suggest that we actually save some daylight during the summer and release it in the fall and winter so that we aren't living in darkness? And let us PLEASE do away with DST, the only function of which seems to be to ensure that our clocks are universally wrong twice a year.
Sigh. Forgive me. I am a bit cranky this time of year.
I really don't care for November.
Don't care much for February either.
November and February have ever so much in common. They are both cold, wet, dreary and depressing. Aside from the birthdays of several of my dearest, November has nothing to recommend it. Usually, I try to hibernate until November is over. It seems the only sensible thing to do. But NO... THIS November I have allowed myself to be put in the position of having to deal with November at least twice a week.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am basically a home-body. I like to keep my body in my home. All my stuff is here, there's food and drink, and it's full of comfy furniture, pretty pictures, art supplies and books. Why on earth would I want to leave? BUT, thanks to my dear friend Marcia, whom I blame entirely for my return to teaching, I had to leave the house today to go teach my genetics class. The weather was Novemberish; (see above, wet, cold, dreary, etc.) and so I was drenched by the time I got to the classroom. I love the smell of wet wool in the morning. My pants were wet half-way to the knee, so of course my feet were wet as well. Thank God the college is totally without heat, or I would have been perfectly miserable.
I miss October. October. Now there's a good month. Halloween was so much fun. I had LOTS of kids come to the door for candy and I met them in full witch regalia.
My ole college buddy Stacey showed up with a batch of little girls and it is always good to see her. My granddaughters showed up with two of their cousins, so my house was invaded by an Indian maiden (Emily), a princess (Delaney, of course), Spiderman (Kendrick), a baby witchling (Zoe)... and a hot dog and a bottle of ketchup (Haley and Kendall). Even Mama had a good time watching the kids come and go, and getting hugs from everyone who came in. It was the last time she was in a good mood, now that I think of it. I really love Halloween.
I really hate November.
My daughter Kelly has just left after a short, whirlwind visit, and I miss her already. She is heading back to San Diego, where I have not been since July- to the warm, breezy, ocean scented apartment that may or may not burn to the ground, depending on the direction of the Santa Ana winds in relation to the ubiquitous forest fires, or crumple to the ground in an earthquake, or drown in a tsunami. Despite all these dangers, and the ever present threat of drought, I could not convince her to stay in Tennessee. Back she goes. I’m thinking a tall, handsome someone had something to do with her leaving again.
While she was here, she touched base with her four nieces, two of whom were disappointingly blasé about her sudden reappearance. The youngest two gave her her propers, and Emily apparently recognized a kindred spirit. Kel and the Pookster bonded, and this with a child who is skittish- to put it mildly and kindly- around unfamiliar people. Kel and I babysat the human tornado yesterday, and it was a real treat to see the two of them interact.
Mama, of course, was jealous of the attention Kelly was getting. After months of wheedling, coercing and bribing Emily to play in her room, Mama was suddenly outraged and distraught when the baby climbed into her bed and cuddled up with one of her dolls. Any doubts that Mama and Emily are the same age evaporated in the melee that ensued.
Mama: That’s my bed.
Emily: No, it my bed.
Mama: Get out of my bed.
Emily: It MY bed.
Mama: Give me my doll.
Emily: It MY doll.
Mama: No it’s not.
Emily: Yes, it is.
Mama: I want my doll.
Emily: (to me) NeeNee, tell Busha it MY doll.
Mama: No it’s not. It’s my doll, and I want it.
Emily: NO!
Mama: Get out of my bed.
Reprise.
Imagine the volume increasing with each statement and you have a fair picture of the state of conversation in my home. Finally Kelly hopped into the bed with Emily and Mama left the room, muttering under her breath “It’s MY room. It’s MY doll.” The wisdom that comes with age… is apparently fictional.
Anyway, the lovely diversion that was my daughter’s visit is now over and I must put my nose back to the grind stone.
I wonder where that phrase comes from. Who would do such a thing, really? First of all, it would hurt, and second of all, what’s the point? Why would anyone want to grind their own nose? Maybe it comes from the days before plastic surgery. In any case, I have eight kazillion powerpoints to create, a test to write, a lab exercise to set up, and a trip to North Carolina to plan. I am attending my first ever South Eastern Region (SER) conference of the GFWC (General Federation of Women’s Clubs). I am looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. Dr. Young has kindly agreed to proctor my test on November 9, and my students will be busy building models of DNA in lab, so I feel only moderately guilty about missing a day of classes to go. I am sure I will survive it.
Now, I must go get ready for church. We have having a Halloween party for the kids today... hope some kids show up!
No one ever comments on my blogs about my dollhouse, so maybe it is only interesting to me. Sigh. I don't care. I promised a blog on the servants and I am a woman of my word. And the word is... entranced. I love my little corner of the dining room where Aubrey House dwells. I sit there to read, (after competing with Patches and Hobbes for the use of the comfy chair), and to gaze into the little late Victorian/early Edwardian world I have "created".
I chose the surnames for my characters very carefully, and a bit whimsically. As a rabid Lord of the Rings fan, I put a bit of a Tolkien bend on the selection of names. For example, Avery means "elven ruler"; Aubrey means "ruler of the elves"; Owen means "well-born"; and Wesley means "man of the west".
The servant surnames are just as apropos. Henry means "ruler of the house"; Emmett means "hard working"; Raymond means "wise guardian" and Thomas means "dependable".
I make up back stories for all my characters. For example, the Avery sisters, Katherine Avery Wesley, Marcia Avery Aubrey and Alice Avery, are, in my back story, wealthy orphans who were the wards of Walter Owen after the death of their parents. Katherine married late, but well, and Marcia's husband Rhett, a bit of an entrepreneur, went into business with Walter and helped make the Owens ever richer than they were. He did nicely for himself as well, but is "new" money whereas the Owens' and the Averys are "old money." Even so, you can see that the Owens/Avery/Aubrey connections are very close, and it should be no surprise that everyone is hoping Alice Avery will marry Eric Owen.
Enough about the rich crowd. This blog is supposed to be about the servants.
This is where they work.
Hazel Thomas in the dining room
Where they live
(with the exception of the nanny, Jane Raymond, who "lives" in the nursery with Christie and Beth).
The servants cottage, "side yard", Aubrey House
Mary and Ruth Henry are mother and daughter. Mary has been with the Avery family since she was 15. Her daughter Ruth was the result of a youthful indiscretion but the Averys, uncharacteristically of employers of the day, did not dismiss Mary. They sent her away for her confinement. Mary's own mother raised Ruth until Ruth was old enough to enter into service herself. Mary and Ruth are very close. Neither has ever married. Neither has ever worked for any other family but the Averys. They came to Aubrey House when Marcia did.
Maids Hazel Thomas and Susan Emmett share the upstairs bedroom in the servants cottage. They are both in their early 20s. Susan is apprenticing with Ruth in the kitchen as well as acting as maid; she hopes to be a cook one day, as cooks are in higher demand than maids, earn more money and get more respect. Hazel is hoping to meet a nice man and leave service. It could happen.
All the servants take their meals at the main house. In the kitchen.
I have added a link to Miniatures.com to this site, because so much of what I have purchased for my doll house has come from good ole Ernie and his crew. I think Ernie is fixing to retire on my spending alone, but if you enjoy miniatures, you may find yourself as addicted as I am if you dare to visit his site.
I think the key to a great doll house is not just what you see, but also what you don't see- dishes in the cupboards, utensils in the kitchen drawers, clothes in the closet, toys in the toybox. My doll house is sort of like an iceberg- a large part of it is hidden from view. But the joy comes in sharing it, in seeing the faces of my friends when they find hankies in the tallboy, and sheets in the trunks.
I know that I am blessed beyond words in that I can indulge my passions with a relatively free hand. I hope I am generous with all my gifts. I believe in joy. I believe in fantasy. And I believe in sharing.
So, please share in the fantastic joy of my doll house. And visit Ernie at your own risk.
The parlor, where family and friends have gathered for a dinner party. The lady of the house, Marcia Aubrey, has just finished playing the piano for her guests, who are engaged in a lively discussion with Captain Michael O'Toole, retired (seated) and his lovely wife Barbara, (in pink). Marcia's sister Katherine is particularly interested in Captain O'Toole; unlike the others, she has NOT read his latest book and so is drilling him intensely about his adventures. Katherine's husband George Wesley is content to listen and sip his dark beer. Seated next to him is Anthea Owen, wife of Walter Owen, who is in partnership with Marcia's husband, Rhett.
The dining room. Dinner is almost ready to be served. Not all the guests at the soiree at staying for dinner; the Owens (Anthea and Walter) have stopped by with their son Eric en route to the opera and so will not dine this evening.
A peek into Peter's room- actually, a large corner of the nursery- but with enough privacy for an 11 year-old boy, thanks to a large screen and Nanna's vigilance on his behalf.
The master bedroom, which shares a floor with the bath. Nestled in his crib in the corner is baby Austin. Hanging on the armoire is the dress Marcia had hoped to wear, but which Rhett found too fancy for the occasion. Marcia's maid Susan has laid out her nightgown and slippers, and is, at the moment, in the parlor, offering coffee to the guests. The house maid, Hazel, is in the diningroom, putting the final touches on the side board.
My next post will highlight the servants, who, being very good servants, are basically invisible in this posting.
I LOVE the fact that whoever designed this test does not think that being a teacher is a "realistic" career. Believe me, it ain't no fantasy. If it WAS a fantasy, I'd be teaching at Hogwarts. Too bad I am a squib.
Your Career Type: Social |
 You are helpful, friendly, and trustworthy. Your talents lie in teaching, nursing, giving information, and solving social problems. You would make an excellent: Counselor - Dental Hygienist - Librarian Nurse - Parole Officer - Personal Trainer Physical Therapist - Social Worker - Teacher The worst career options for your are realistic careers, like truck driver or farmer. |
Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence |
 You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator. |
You Are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew |
 You take the title "mad scientist" to the extreme -with very scary things coming out of your lab. And you've invented some pretty cool things, from a banana sharpener to a robot politician. But while you're busy turning gold into cottage cheese, you need to watch out for poor little Beaker! "Oh, that's very naughty, Beaker! Now you eat these paper clips this minute." |
A few weeks ago, I posted a picture of my adorable toddler granddaughter, Emily (or as I like to call her, Pookie, AKA Horadora- short for Horrible Adorable).
I don't think her picture was up 15 minutes before my son was on the phone, asking me, nicely, to take it down. He was worried about having her sweet face out there in cyberspace.
I don't really think there is anything to fear in posting a picture on the web, but I immediately did as he asked. If he is afraid of potential kidnappers, who am I to argue? Maybe he's got something there. Maybe kidnappers ARE surfing the web. It makes you think, you know?
Makes me think it is time to post a picture of Mama.
Mama on her 78th birthday in May.
It has been a pirate-y month for this ole scalawag, and while I have enjoyed all the fun and friviolity, I am a bit concerned that
1) I have been too much in the public eye, which is not good for a pirate, especially when that pirate is a pudgy, grey-headed middle-aged broad who's ruthless days are mostly behind her (as, by the look of her butt, most things are);
and
2) there's a very real chance my old crew-mates may now be able track me down, which would NOT be good because there was a slight disagreement about the redistribution of wealth the last time we met which, of course, I won. (I cheated ... Hello! Pirate!)
I will never renounce the name Red-Handed Jill (which I stole, like the good pirate I am, from someone else) but will now also have an alter- ego I can default to when the British Navy gets too close on my heels, or my crew insists on its share of the booty, or I decide to run for Governor. It's good to have choices.
There really was a Captain Ann Bonney, by the way. No relation to Billy the Kid. Or Billy Budd, for that matter. She's dead now. Her name is fair game.
I had a three day birthday this year. My birthday was on September 12, but I worked all day and had my GFWC meeting that night, so planned no celebration. Besides, how celebratory can one be at 57? At least it is a memorable number. I was 55 (the speed limit) until I turned 57 (Heinz varieties) because I could not think of a memory device for 56. Turns out I did celebrate, because my Old Lady Mafia pals staged a surprise party with a pirate's theme for me at the Woman's Club. Great fun! On the 13th, Dave and I had a quiet celebration at home- we grilled steaks and fell asleep on the couch.
Will this gay, mad whirl never cease?! Tonight, my daughter-in-law arrived, kicked me out of the house for awhile, and continued the pirate theme in my diningroom. Then she made a fantastically delicious supper for us all, an Italianate chicken casserole, fresh hot rolls, a tossed salad, and a made from scratch cake, decorated with doubloons.... AND 57 CANDLES WHICH THE WENCH PROCEEDED TO LIGHT! I am amazed the smoke detectors didn't go off. It took three tries to blow the damn things out- I thought maybe they were trick candles, but by the time I was trying to blow them out, they were essentially one big, wide candle with 57 wicks. The cake was wonderful, and Pookie and I competed so see who could eat the most. Pookie won. All in all, a really wonderful birthday. I am posting a picture Dave took with his phone. It's not too clear, but clear enough, I think, for you to see the amount of heat 57 candles can generate. Now I must go put butter on my scorched nose.
Thanks, Becca. XX OO
You're an intellectual, and you've worked hard to get where you are now. You're a strong believer in education, and you think many of the world's problems could be solved if people were more informed and more rational. You have no tolerance for sloppy or lazy thinking. It frustrates you when people who are ignorant or dishonest rise to positions of power. You believe that people can make a difference in the world, and you're determined to try.
Take the Which Sports
Car Are You? quiz.
When I really don’t want to do something, I procrastinate. At this very moment, I should be creating a PowerPoint presentation for my genetics class. I am really enjoying my class, and have a wonderful, truly wonderful group of students. I anticipate a very good semester with these young people. I am enjoying being in front of a class again, refreshing my memory about my beloved subject, and remembering again just what it was that brought me to teaching the first time around.
It wasn’t creating PowerPoint presentations.
Which is why I am blogging instead of slogging right now. I will regret it. I will push myself to the limits of deadline, I will be up until 4 o’clock in the morning, and I will not learn from past experience.
Sigh.
On the one hand, it has been gratifying to see how genuinely I have been missed at the college. It has been lovely teaching again, and feeling like I have some cachet in the world. A faculty parking hang tag does wonders for my self-esteem. I am in the system again; I have an email that ends with .edu; I have access to the faculty web; I have a cubicle with my name on it. (Actually, the sign reads “Kate Lapczynski, Resident Queen of Genetics”- and I didn’t post it!) All of this is so seductive to me.
On the other hand, it is aggravating that after two years away, many of the things that made my going away fairly easy in the first place are basically unchanged. The administration is still calling students our “customers”… (excuse me, but isn’t the customer always right? Because my students aren’t. If they are customers- not clients, even, but customers- doesn’t that make us merchants? And if we are merchants, just what is it we are selling? Knowledge, or college credits? ) … there is little to no respect afforded the faculty… attempts to use technology are thwarted by failure of the technology, and the apparent inability of the IT people to make it work consistently… moral is low… pay is low…
And I gave up scrapbooking for THIS?
Fortunately, one can bear anything for 15 weeks. Except, maybe, Mother. I am not sure I will maintain my fragile sanity through 15 uninterrupted weeks with Mother. It’s me, really. She is what she is and what she has been and is incapable of change, and it is I who needs to maintain an even strain. Of course, going deaf and blind would help, but what are the odds of that happening?
At least Dave is home for a week or two, just long enough to screw up the dynamics here, but not long enough to settle comfortably into greased grooves. Soon he’s off to New York and then to San Diego.
I will be here.
My blog is worth $1,129.08.
How much is your blog worth?
A friend sent me an email today, warning me of the dangers of my purse. My purse, it seems, is a portable laboratory of microbial nastiness, and should never be placed on my counter, my desk, or any other contaminatable surface, including myself. Just the latest in the germ phobia of the average American that is making our children the sickest they have ever been. Yes, I mean that. They have puny little immune systems and so get sick every five minutes. I blame Clorox, Lysol and all the other merchants of terror that want us to live antiseptic lives.
When I was a child, shortly after the creation of the firmament, childhood was a dangerous time. Children suffered from and were maimed and killed by “childhood” diseases no one gets any more, praise God and science. Diphtheria, typhus, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, measles, mumps, polio… all conquered, all but gone forever. There were scarier diseases back then, but fewer allergies, less asthma, and considerably fewer trips to the doctor. Since the advent of these wonderful vaccines, you’d think people would be more sanguine about the colds and flu we intermittently suffer. But no- Americans seem to think they should be immune from illness.
Americans do not seem to understand how their immune systems work. For an immune system to become competent to combat pathogens, it must be exposed to pathogens. That’s the underlying fundamental biological surety behind the development of vaccines. What do vaccines do? They introduce the immune system to pathogens that have been rendered mostly harmless so that the system will learn to recognize them. When the real thing comes around, the immune system is armed and ready to launch an attack against the pathogen it has been trained to attack. No exposure to germs, no protection.
So what have the last two generations of guilt-ridden, over-burdened, two-incomes-no-time parents done? They have created a population of “boys in the bubble” by pathologically protecting their children from pathogens. They have become psychotically over-protective to the detriment of their children at the same time that they have become convinced that they are well informed. Well informed by TV. What are the odds?
I wish Americans would turn off the damn TV. TV has convinced parents that pedophiles are on every street corner, taught them to fear gangs and drugs beyond any reasonable level of necessary fear, and trained them through advertisements that no home is safe for children until it is surgically sterile and hermetically sealed. Kids don’t go out to play anymore because pedophiles, gangs, drugs and germs lie in wait for them there.
News flash, constant readers. The world is NOT more dangerous that it was when I was a child and my mother threw me out of the house and told me to be back when the street lights came on. We just THINK it is because of TV. We are afraid of pedophiles in Texas and gangs in Los Angeles in tiny little Tullahoma Tennessee and it’s STUPID. Our children are fearful and sedentary because TV brings us a cornucopia of bad news every day that exaggerates the nature of danger because danger and fear SELLS STUFF.
And the stuff it sells the most are anti-bacterial cleaners. Don’t get me wrong, I am not against being clean. I am against being neurotic about it. Kids should be allowed to get dirty without having to be laundered with Lysol and fed antibiotics “just in case”. ANTIBIOTICS ARE NOT PROPHYLACTICS, PEOPLE. They can’t prevent an infection, they can only attack one. Next time a doctor prescribes antibiotics as a preventative, FIRE HIM! He is a moron, and you are being moronic if you take meds you don’t need, or feed them to your kids because you are fearful. Antibiotic resistant bacteria. Ever heard of them? Guess where they come from? FROM THE INAPPROPRIATE USE OF ANTIBIOTICS.
Tell me why you are wiping down your lamps with Clorox. Why are you so afraid of Salmonella, when just a little common sense is all you need to be safe? Detergent and water will clean up after chicken prep just fine. Wash your counters, don’t disinfect them unless you plan on doing surgery on them. You are going to cook the damn food anyway. High heat kills bacteria. Hello!
My grandmother and mother and women of their generations believed that a “child will eat a peck of dirt before its fifth birthday.” (A peck, by the way, is ¼ bushel, or eight quarts. How many quarts in a bushel, then, class?) Children didn’t take multiple baths in a day. They were washed regularly, don’t get me wrong, but they didn’t take morning and evening showers, or change their clothes three or four times a day, or only wear an outfit once before it was laundered. They were inundated with bacteria, microbes, viruses, and fungi, and still were healthier than most kids today. They had fewer colds, less flu, fewer infections, and astonishingly fewer allergies. Had the vaccines of today been available back then, they would have been superkids.
Most of the bacteria encountered in day-to-day life are harmless. Some of them are actually beneficial. I say, America, get over your germ phobia. Turn off the damn TV. Send your kids outside and let them get really dirty and sweaty; it’s good for them. And stop sending me emails about how there are germs on everything. I know that already, and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
I babysat my wonderful baby granddaughter Emily (three in November) for the very first time in her entire life today. Becca left her with me while she ran to the grocery store. Emily looked adorable, and we had such a wonderful time she did not want to go home. Isn’t it funny how something as simple as the pleasure of a child’s company can iron all the wrinkles out of your life? My eldest granddaughters Kendall and Haley have apparently reached the “we don’t need you, thanks” age; Delaney still loves me, but she stopped dancing with joy at the sight of me some time ago. Sometimes you just need someone joyful at seeing you to know your life has meaning. We played with the castle and put all the people in the dungeon- Emily is very strict- we had Popsicles, and washed our hands and faces and admired ourselves in the mirror; she even let me brush her hair! We hauled out the paints and were in mid-masterpiece when Becca came back insisting on taking Emily home. Just because she had to pick up the three big girls from school, put away the groceries, and start dinner, was that any reason to spoil our fun?
Segue...
Every week, Dave and I watch “Two and a Half Men” and laugh our asses off. Fortunately, they are large asses and easy to find, and we have a good time screwing them back on again. Sometimes we exchange them, - which is always good for a laugh, and our asses fall off again. You find your amusements where you can at our age.
Anyway, at the end of each show, there is a 1.5 second flash of a vanity card, written by Chuck Lorre, writer, producer, and dazzling wit. (Mr. Lorre was same for Cybill, Dharma and Greg, Grace Under Fire and Roseanne.) What is a vanity card? It’s like a mini-blog flashed onto the screen in which the writer indulges his own vanity.
Or, as IMDB dryly puts it, “The Chuck Lorre Productions vanity card at the end of each episode consists of the words "Chuck Lorre Productions", the episode number, and a short essay or mini screenplay that changes with each episode. Topics have included a riff on slang words that Lorre wants to coin(1), the reason a certain scene containing the line of dialogue that was used as the episode's title was edited out(2), and a screenplay about Lorre's assistant entering his office and finding him curled up in the foetal position(3).”
Foetal rather than fetal.
How effete.
Makes you want to dash right out and read it, doesn’t it?
No matter -you cannot read a vanity card in 1.5 seconds anyway but thanks to TiVo, you can pause it to read it. Or, if you are like Dave and I at the end of the show- you know, looking for your ass- you can find the hilarious cards here:
http://www.chucklorre.com/text/
I warn you, his writing is subversive, politically incorrect, slightly skewed toward dementia and brilliant. It’s also somehow endearing. I would love to meet this guy. You cannot help but love a guy who makes you laugh with delighted abandon until you wet your pants. Thank God for Depends. The vanity card that nearly killed me was Year Three, Episode #146 entitled “The writers of ‘Two and a Half Men’ foolishly present the 25 'old' jokes we didn't use”( in an episode about Alan “dating” his 80-year-old next door neighbor, played by Cloris Leachman). Well, at least I would have died laughing.
1TAAHM- Year Two- Episode #130
The words Chuck invents are doorgasm, gridlove, and homortified. Look ‘em up.
2TAAHM – Year Two- Episode #124
The title of the show was “Frankenstein and the Horny Villagers”.
3TAAHM- Year Two- Episode #136
Title: “Persistent Vegetative State: Pilot Script”
My answering machine is always complaining that I never listen to it, which is patently untrue. I listened to it last Friday. I ‘d left the house for the first time since my hand surgery, which went well, thank you, though the pain pills are better for causing indigestion than they are for curbing pain. And, of course, the minute I left the house, someone interesting called.
That someone was the division secretary of the college for which I used to teach. She’s a sharp cookie; she practically runs the math and science division single-handedly, and is the picture you see when you look up the word “competence” in the dictionary. She’s also a lot of fun. But I digress. She was calling to ask if I would be interested in teaching a genetics class this fall as an adjunct. She was calling on Friday. She needs an answer by Monday.
Remember, constant readers, three things:
I left the college so I could travel with my hubby, who is gone most of the time.
I recently had hand surgery and am still recovering from it.
I have been out of the teaching field for almost three years.
I hate making choices, especially ones that must be made quickly.
Okay, so that’s four things. I was in the science half of the math and science division.
There are advantages, believe it or not, to being an adjunct rather than a full-time faculty member, but none of them are monetary. The first advantage is that you don’t HAVE to teach anything you don’t want to. Don’t want to teach nights? Okay. Only want to teach one class? Okay. Only want to work two days a week? Okay. You don’t have to work registrations, do student advisement, serve on committees, or try to work professional development into an already over-crowded schedule. And if you don’t want to travel to satellite campuses, they can’t make you.
I spent 10 years commuting almost an hour each way to a site where I was, for all intents and purposes, the science department. Other faculty cycled in and out, but I was assigned there and was the lab supervisor there. I loved the campus, loved my co-workers, loved my students, loved teaching. I also hated my cubicle- in my entire career, I was in a bull-pen all but one semester- hated the long hours, hated fighting for every reasonable, necessary and logical thing with a bureaucracy that was a disinterested 47 miles away, and hated being treated with disrespect by the people who should have valued me. Towards the end, even the commute was becoming hateful. Those two hours out of every day were beginning to take their toll. Over time, I became very unhappy with my job.
But never with teaching. I have really missed teaching. So teaching this class will be a good thing, right?
Then again… it will take a lot of work to get prepared on short notice, and I have gotten kinda lazy being semi-retired. All my teaching materials are scattered, stored or outdated, so I will essentially be starting from scratch. Teaching the class will cut seriously into my scrapbooking time, but my clipped wing is going to do that anyway. It will call a temporary halt to my trips to San Diego, and I really enjoy my trips to San Diego, even though Mama tries valiantly to give me an ulcer with her antics while I am gone. If I take the job, Mama will be happy because I won’t be traveling, but I’m not sure how well I could weather 15 solid weeks of Mama without a break. I don’t have a professional wardrobe anymore… then again, that’s easily solved and I do love to shop. I don’t know. I’m torn.
I have been weighing the pros and cons and asking everyone’s advice. My daughter has disdained to offer any. David thinks I should do it. My friend Marcia thinks I should do it. My Dad is vehemently opposed to my doing it.
Damn. I have to have an answer for them tomorrow. I wonder what I am going to say. I will be on pins and needles until I find out.
Stay tuned.
It would be comic if it weren’t so painful.
About five weeks ago, Dave’s right leg began to give him serious grief. Serious enough for him to go to the doctor, have an MRI and actually take the pain drugs he was prescribed. The pain was relentless, poor soul, but it gradually lessened so that he could go from crutches to cane to own steam. Oddly, though the MRI showed a torn ACL and a torn cartilage, there is no surgery in his future.
About four weeks ago, I woke up with a very painful thumb. Once we got Dave stabilized and relatively pain-free, I went to the doctor myself, figuring I had slept on it wrong, or suffered some kind of X-treme scrapbooking injury. My doctor sent me to an orthopedic doctor for cortisone shots. Yeah, right. I am having surgery tomorrow- for trigger thumb (a tendon problem) and severe carpal tunnel.
I was feeling pretty put out- he’s the one with all the torn stuff and I’m the one going under the knife??!!- until yesterday, when his face swelled up until he looks like a walrus. His mouth is now the source of excruciating pain. Yes, he has an abscess. We took him to the dentist, and she started him on penicillin and pain pills, and Thursday, the tooth is coming out.
Dave was going to take the day off to take care of me after my surgery, but I may have to hire someone to take care of the both of us. Like I said, it would be laughable if we both didn’t hurt so much.
Mama is terribly upset that we aren’t well, but due to the perversity of her make-up, her concern takes the form of demanding constant comforting for herself. Forget that the man is in agony. Mama needs cosseting because she is worried about him. In her own inimitable nurturing way, Mama is doing all she can to make herself perfectly miserable. She really should write a book on the subject. I can already envision some of the chapter headings:
“How to be lonely by leaving the room whenever people come over, and by having two phones and never answering either one of them”.
In this chapter, Mama will explain how to get the maximum mileage out of the complaints “Nobody ever comes to see me” and “Nobody ever calls me.”
“How to be banished from the kitchen for setting fire to the microwave”
In this chapter, Mama will demonstrate how to get out of cooking for oneself by nuking a potato until it catches fire. (Frankly, I didn’t think it could be done, but if anyone can do it, Mama can.) An accident like this can be milked for weeks with endless variants of misery; poor me, I’m gonna starve; poor me, I was so scared; poor me, I can’t even cook anymore; poor me, Dave and Kate are mad at me- and, of course, peppered with the inevitable denials of responsibility-“It’s not my fault. It’s that stupid microwave’s fault.”
“How to turn other people’s misfortunes into laments of your own.”
In this chapter, Mama teaches the art of misery one-upsmanship. Apparently, once you live to be 78 (or 98, as she has been telling people she is here lately), no one can have an ailment you didn't have first and worse. David has a bad tooth? “They pulled out all my teeth when I was 18. It was a mistake. My mother was so mad. One tooth they were supposed to pull, and they pulled them all.” Run time for this story so far- 60 years. I have to have surgery on my hand? “Look at my hands. I had 38 operations and I have arthur-it is, and I am in pain all the time.” Heard it. Heard it. Heard it. Damn, here it comes again.
Right now, she is sitting in front of the TV, finally calm after an inexplicable burst of crying. She would not and will not tell me why she has been crying, but she has made herself miserable somehow.
“How to dwell on every slight, hurt or heartache you have ever endured for fun and profit.”
I don’t put too much weight on her immediate sorrow, since it doesn’t seem to have curbed her appetite at all. When she thinks I am not looking, she is chowing down on the Chex Mix snack I made for her. I just opened a can of Pepsi for her; sadness is thirsty work.
In the meantime, the two people who actually have reasons to be miserable right now are typing a blog with her hand in a splint, and working from home, despite a walrus face and mouth from hell.
LIES.
I guess the biggest lie of all is that we are not supposed to lie. What hypocritical horse-hockey that is. We should stop using that lie… totally honest people are not well tolerated, and sometimes tarred and feathered in locales where the practice still persists. We don’t like totally honest people. We don’t want to be around them. We don’t want to be one of them, because they are usually lonely since no one wants to be around them. Face it, we must lie for the sake of our own social survival. That’s why we invented the lie about the “white” lie. All lies are bad, but some lies are less bad than others because they spare people’s feelings, right? Slippery slope, people, slippery slope. Still, if we must be liars, we should lie with
TACT
Tact is basically a tactic for softening or avoiding an unpleasant truth, and is therefore intrinsically a form of lying. Still, tactfulness is more highly prized than bluntness, and in my middling years, I am finally beginning to catch on to that. I am trying to blunt my bluntness.
I will give you an example. Imagine you are in the presence of young parents who are showing you the ugliest baby you have ever seen in your entire life. Pleasant enough looking themselves, they have managed to produce a living illustration of why some genes SHOULD be recessive. The dewy eyed parents look to you for a comment on the child.
Do not say “Omigod! What possessed you to bring that home?” Don’t do it. These people LIKE the baby. They may even think it’s cute. They certainly see it as a gift from Heaven, especially since they haven’t been parents long. They expect their spawn to be beatified by all who see it, so it would be bad to say “Honey, when the nurses said “Jesus Christ!” when they saw him, they were NOT announcing the second coming.”
Do not be tempted to say that the creature looks like either, or both, of its parents. One of the parents may actually be wise to the fact that the baby is a horror and take offense. And, for the same reason, do not tell an outright lie. I tried that once. I looked at an ugly baby and said, with a straight face and a falsetto voice, “Oh, what a beautiful baby!” and the father looked up at me and said “What, are you nuts? He looks like five miles of bad road.”
Now, learned reader, should I have agreed with that statement or not? See what I am saying here? Mendacity (AKA tact) is required in these situations. A tactful person would think of something innocuous to say and then change the subject. “Oh, my goodness, look, a baby. How about those Mets?”
It is not cool to respond to a dinner invitation with “Dinner with you? I’d rather have my teeth drilled.” Too honest. Or with “No.” Too blunt. Try “I am touched and honored by the invitation but regret that I must decline at this and all future times.” Now that’s tactful.
Other examples… When someone is stupid enough to tell their proper age, an honest person might respond with “Damn! You ARE older than dirt”. Once again I must ask, do you believe anyone would appreciate that level of truthfulness? I think not. The blunt person might respond “Bet you wish you’d taken better care of yourself, huh?” Tsk, tsk, tsk. The tactful person would respond “Oh, the history you have seen. How about those Mets?”
This is the end of today’s lesson. I know that to some people, my teaching tact is like Mother Theresa teaching belly dancing, but I am learning from my mistakes and want to share my insights with you.
Okay, so that’s a white lie.
I really do not travel well. I wish I did. Like a fine wine, I am susceptible to changes in altitude, temperature, pressure, and am bruised by buffeting. This trip was really uncomfortable, since both Dave and I were walking wounded. Dave’s knee has stopped screaming, but is still protesting LOUDLY, and he can’t walk without a cane. I have tendonitis in my right thumb and am wearing a brace to keep it immobile. Imagine us negotiating security in any given airport and weep. Or laugh- we looked pathetically laughable, I am sure.
Segue - For some reason, people seem to think I am dramatic. Grant you, I can emote, mug, and ham it up with the best of them- I think most good teachers are really frustrated actors, and I am a really good teacher- but I don’t think of myself as dramatic. My emotions may be relatively binary, but they are genuine, and I don’t see that as dramatic. Unfortunate, yes. Dramatic, no.
Because of this general misapprehension on the content of my character, I have been “blamed” for my daughter’s dramatic tendencies. I am proud of her tendencies, and in awe of her talent but I have often said, and quasi-believe, that I was just the container for the thing contained when it comes to Kelly. I harbor a secret suspicion that despite my carrying her in my body for nine months and loving her with all my heart, she is really Dave’s sister Rita’s child. There is so much that is deep, strange, unfathomable- and similar- about the way Kelly and Rita’s minds work. Rita would have been one hell of actor had her interests bent in that direction. Since they did not, everyone assumes Kelly’s flare for the dramatic comes from me. Balderdash, I say. I really don’t think that with Mama around, fingers should be pointed at me.
I suppose it didn’t help, really, that I was gone Friday night and half of the Saturday before Dave and I returned to San Diego. I was attending the GFWC of Tennessee Summer Board meeting. As President of the Highland Rim District, I am a de facto member of the State Board. The meeting was in Cookeville, and was very instructive and great fun. I was home by 1 pm on Saturday. Mother was where Mother usually is unless the Western channel is playing on the living room TV- she was in her room, eating and watching old movies. I popped my head in to let her know I was home, and was thoroughly snubbed.
Here we go, I thought, and I was right. The rest of the day was spent enduring a concerted effort on Mama’s part to get us to cancel our trip. Dave’s leg was no good. Travel would be bad for it. (I happened to agree with her on that point). Then she worried about my poor thumb. As we spent the day preparing food for her, making hair appointments, setting the thermostat to her comfort level, etc., we reminded her that Stephanie would be there every day. (“No she won’t. She never comes when you are gone. She never cleans the house. She never cleans my room. I will be all by myself. I’m gonna cry”.) We reminded her that Jake would be dropping in. (“No he won’t. He never comes when you are gone. He never comes to see me. Becca doesn’t even talk to me. The baby spits at me. I will be all by myself. I’m gonna cry”.) I reminded her that Marcia and her crew would be there every Wednesday. (“No they won’t. They never come when you are gone. They never come to see me. She doesn’t even talk to me. I will be all by myself. I’m gonna cry”.) At which point I stopped talking to her.
Sunday morning, we fixed her a good breakfast and tried to spend some quality time with her… through her closed bedroom door. Dave set the TV to the Western channel and hid the remote so that she couldn’t screw up the TV while we are gone. As I was putting the finishing touches on my packing, I heard her sobbing away in the living room, and heard David “comforting” her. She apparently wasn’t comforted. She wailed her way into the kitchen where I was, and I made no attempt to comfort her, so she went out and wailed on the front porch. It was a nice quiet Sunday morning. I hope all my neighbors were in church.
We packed the car and kissed her good-bye and I genuinely felt bad because this time she had produced genuine tears. It can’t be easy living alone for two weeks at her age, I thought, though a part of me wondered what was going to be different when we left. She rarely interacts with us. Maybe just HAVING us there, whether she engages with us or not, is all she wants. I was feeling pretty low when I remembered I had forgotten my glasses. I tried to get back into the house. She had locked me out. When she came to let me in, she was not crying. She was eating.
No sign of tears whatsoever until I stepped back out the door. What an actress! I am sure she will be fine. I am also sure where Kelly gets her flair for the dramatic. She learned at the feet of a master.
The pattern of things going wrong in Tullahoma whenever I am in San Diego has taken a turn. I hope all is well in San Diego, because everything HERE has gone to worms.
First off, my housekeeper Stephanie took a week off to be with her beautiful niece Amanda and I was left to my own devices taking care of the house. I actually was doing semi-okay on my own, except that my hubby came up lame in a big way, and threw a spanner in the works. His leg was so painful that I couldn’t share the bed with him, so I was sleeping on the couch or on the recliner. That was the second can of worms- I am not a pleasant person when I am not rested. And I am never a pleasant person when my hubby is unwell. It scares and frustrates me when the man is ailing.
I have been dealing with fear and frustration since we got back from California two weeks ago. Dave has had another in a series of leg “flare-ups”, attributed variously to arthritis, tendonitis, and a damaged (local) lymphatic system , a complication from the bite of a black widow spider. Yes, he has been bitten by a black widow spider. Don’t ask. He doesn’t get sick or injured often – which is a good thing, because he will not take care of himself in either case- but when he does, it is always picturesque.
And this time is no different. A limp became lameness became a horrendously swollen leg; an ache became a twinge that became raging pain. Through it all, he went to work. By the end of each day, he was barely able to walk. When a week of raging pain finally drove him in to see his doctor, the doc barely recognized him, it had been so long. Doc injected cortisone into the knee and sent Dave home with an appointment for later in the week, but no drugs other than OTC ibuprofen. An additional week of suffering, and Dave was back in the doctor’s office. This time, instead of driving something into his knee, Doc now tried to pull something out- the excess fluid that was making Dave’s right leg look like he had elephantiasis- but it couldn’t be done. He prescribed some medications, at LAST, so the man could at least get some sleep and scheduled Dave for an MRI the next day.
And the results are in. Turns out Dave has both a torn ligament AND torn cartilage in his right knee. All this damage was caused by an old fracture to the tibial tubercle, (a large outcropping of bone at the head of the tibia). As the bone remodeled over the fracture, it became a dense mass with spurs that shred ligaments and cartilages. But here’s the kicker. Dave cannot remember breaking his knee. To the best of his knowledge, Dave has never broken his knee. And here’s where my frustration comes in. I can remember at least two instances over the years where he “hurt” his knee badly enough to have fractured it and refused to go to the doctor. He just stayed off the leg for a few days- you know, like you do- and let nature take its course. MEN!!! Now he’s telling everyone that I knee-capped him while he was sleeping.
Of course, Dave being laid low has upset Mama. She manifests upset in unique and peculiar ways. First, she goes into what I call “babble and shout” mode. She wanders through the house, making bizarre noises- gobbling like a turkey, shouting “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH” at the top of her lungs… If that doesn’t get her some attention, she sings in her shrill tuneless voice… for hours… and hours… The latest expression of concern is to imagine she has been robbed. She has been obsessed about losing a necklace I have never seen her wear, so we tore up the house looking for it. She became convinced she lost it at church, but it wasn’t in the lost and found, and the altar guild is pretty thorough. She thinks its been stolen. She thought her wedding rings had been stolen about three years ago, and after filing a police report, she found them in her purse. I’m guessing the necklace is either mythical or in her purse.
Today, as Dave remained sequestered in our bedroom keeping his leg elevated, she insisted that Stephanie and I search her bedroom for an 8 X 10 portrait of herself that has gone missing. We have searched for this before. I am fairly certain she sent it to her daughter, but what the hell? My time has no value anymore, so I helped search. We didn’t find it, of course, so now – don’t get ahead of me - she is convinced someone has stolen it. Since the only people who come into the house are friends and family, it would seem that she suspects those nearest and dearest to her of being thieves. YOU have NOT been robbed, I say firmly. Why would anyone leave your cash and jewelry and steal your portrait ? I ask, being the damn fool I am.
Because it ‘s beautiful, she replies.
Kinda hard to respond to that.
Off to bed, me, to cap my hubby’s other knee. I think I’ll use Mama’s cane.
My buddy Richard punted the Round Robin story ball back into my court, and I inadvertently punctured it. It be dead. Sorry. I like the idea that young Gryphon started, but think an email version would work better, as each addition could be tagged on and forwarded and the entire work would be of a piece. Anyway, killing the robin is probably one of my lesser crimes.
I am in San Diego for the first time since February, and am enjoying – NOT- the cold and damp of “June gloom”. It is otherwise nice to be here, great to see my lovely daughter Kelly again, lovely to finally meet Orrick, and beyond wonderful to have a mocha frappucino at Starbucks once again!
News from the home front- somehow the sand filter for our pool has been punctured and will have to be replaced. According to my son, by way of my husband who actually spoke to him, the punctures appear to be deliberate. I can’t imagine who would deliberately vandalize our property…
Well, that’s not strictly true. When I heard of the damages, my first thought was that the pool company I recently fired might have sent ole Terry over for a bit of mischief, or that Terry, who is not the brightest bulb in the box, might have done it on his own, forgetting he was fired, and doing the typical kind of damage to the system that got him fired in the first place. Like backwashing the pool to the point of draining out half the water, and floating the liner. Like improperly closing the pool and using the wrong chemicals so that our liner is permanently stained. Or like replacing a pool pump that was under warranty and only needed a $20 part. I could go on, but if I do, I will be compelled to go puncture Terry, and he probably had nothing to do with this latest damage.
Why do major things always seem to happen while I am out here? Televisions go south, trees fall on outbuildings, the pool is attacked by gremlins… Thank goodness my beloved son is on the scene to handle emergencies, but it is stressful fretting about them from half a continent away.
On a happier note, Kelly and I have done some shopping, a lot of cooking, and have shared some quality time with Orrick, who is a very nice man. Dave took us out to our favorite Italian restaurant Bellagio tonight and then we raided Barnes and Noble. It is heaven to have REAL BOOK STORES in the area. Expensive, but heaven. Wednesday we are going out for a day of beauty at Reflection Day Spa.
I was there on Tuesday, getting my hair cut. My stylist Tammy has moved on, as all good stylists seem to do, and I was assigned to Derrick. It has been a long time since I have had a male stylist, and it felt a bit weird, but I am very pleased with the result, and will use him again in six weeks, if he is still there. Stylists are a lot like nomads. They “fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently slip away” every 8-10 months. Which in turn makes me a nomad, because when I find a good stylist, I tend to follow him/her to the new shop. I followed one stylist to five different shops before I realized she was trying to lose me. Hope Derrick has better stamina.
And now, for something completely different- La Chef Kelleé, in our kitchen. 
Hope she doesn’t beat me to death with a spatula for posting this.
I got up in the middle of the night and tripped on something. Since I don’t sleep in my contacts and my glasses were out of reach, I just nudged the unseen something out of my way, made for the bathroom- where everything came out all right- and then went back to bed. In the morning, I discovered the something was the white rubber stopper from my tub. How in the world, I wondered, did that thing get here? I put it back where it belongs.
Later in the day, I stumbled upon a black rubber something that turned out to be the gasket from my garbage disposal. I jumped to the only logical conclusion for these bizarre events- we must have a poltergeist. You know, poltergeists really piss me off, so I did the obligatory three turns to the left followed by spitting on the floor which is guaranteed to piss them off in return, and put the gasket back into the kitchen sink. Done and done, I thought.
But I was wrong. (I will give you a moment to get over the shock of that statement.) It wasn’t over, because the next day, the two items were right back where they didn’t belong, in the middle of my bedroom (white) and the middle of the kitchen (black). I realized I was wrong on two points- we don’t have a poltergeist, and this thing isn’t over.
And as long as Hobbes lives with us, it may never be over. Yes, Hobbes, the water-loving feline has developed a fetish involving sink and tub stoppers. He needs them. He craves them. He may even worship them, who knows? Whatever his pathology may be, I don’t want him tearing up the plumbing. My problem is I am stymied as to how to discipline the little twerp.
The problem: You can’t reason with a cat (hello! They are morons!), you can’t hit a cat (they are vengeful and will pee down your heating vents), and, especially in the case of Hobbes, you can’t scare a cat. They can be startled, but, being essentially brainless, they are, of course, essentially fearless. I have a discipline tactic that is fool-proof, but sadly it’s not Hobbes-proof.
You may remember me telling you about using the tried and true water treatment on Hobbes to discourage him from naughty behavior. This tactic has worked on 15 of the 16 cats on which it has been used. You fill a squirt bottle with water and squirt kitty whenever he misbehaves… cats hate water… millions of squirts later, VOILA! You have a trained kitty. Unless, of course, kitty LIKES to be squirted.
Hobbes likes to be squirted. He likes to get into the kitchen sink. Since squirting didn’t deter him, I tried pouring a full 12 ounces of water on his head to get him out of the kitchen sink, and he liked that, too. He likes to slide around in the bathtub while it is still wet from my shower, and then slide across the laminate floor on his wet paws. Hobbes Brinker, the skating cat. He has learned to flush the toilet because he likes to play in the swirling water.
Sigh. I am at the end of my tether.
Newest wrinkle: He likes to sleep in Mama’s sink.
Mama, of course, doesn’t care for this behavior. She screams at him thirty or forty times a day.
Hobbes apparently likes being screamed at as well.
It’s very wet and noisy here. How are things in your world?
