'Tis the Season

Rice is Nice

The term is 'slacktivism.' That's a portmanteau word such as smog or brunch or spork. If you know what a spork is, stop eating in school cafeterias.

Slacktivism has a negative connotation, of course, since it often results in you being urged to forward a warning to everyone in your address book about some bogus threat. A quick trip to Snopes: Debunking the Hoax could save you from annoying folks, but even that takes too much energy for some people.

"...the powerful impulse of 'slacktivism,' an on-line trend that combines our internal need to make a difference with the personal inertia that keeps us from actually making an effort." Arts Journal

Finally, in the spirit of giving, yours truly has found a site that actually does contribute something for the common good, doesn't cost me a thing, and upgrades my word bank quite a few notches.

Surely you, too, would like to know the meaning of the word 'vibrissa' or 'chaffer' or 'macaronic.'

Because of my modest efforts, over 40,000 grains of rice have been bundled along through a United Nations program to help feed the hungry. So far.

Free Rice

Although one friend noted he would "play all day if they added birth control to the rice" his half an hour of guesswork sent a packet of grain to a sad spot in the world.

Here you go:

vibrissa=whisker

chaffer = haggle

macaronic = mixing languages

Free Rice because you have nothing to lose.

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Hillary Hating Is a Wasted Emotion

Many of the women quoted in the article below make reasoned arguments for why they are not thrilled at the prospect of another Clinton Presidency. Certainly we should not elect a person because of gender. We should not vote just to witness a "First." Hillary Bashing may deflect voters from the real fights ahead.

Anti-Hillary


I've not been a Hillary hater. It was her vote on Iraq that made no sense to me. I think she sold her soul on that one, in order to gain some street cred as not being generically anti-war. I believe she thought it was a good political move when she was looking ahead.

At that point, I didn't realize that she surely was going to run for president. I couldn't imagine that she would want that fight. My hope was that she, along with so many others who have weighed the idea, would decide to be one of the best damn senators ever. It's a worthy goal. Having Ted Kennedy in the Senate all these years has allowed him to be much more effective in causes I care about. All the dynasty issues that come up are buffered by his continual reasonable efforts in the Senate. His personal life may have been in tatters but he's fought the good fight for generally good causes. Joe Biden has been a much better senator since his public deflation the last time he ran.

When people run for The Senate, are re-elected and then launch a run, they cannot do the job they were elected for. That bothers me too. Obama needed to master one role before moving ahead with a run.

This time around Edwards is not a senator. He's running for president. That's a job, and I respect him for it. If her health holds, the idea of an Edwards First Family is quite appealing to me.

Bill Richardson doesn't get enough attention and consideration on the podium. Both he and Chris Dodd would be great vice-presidents. I say that based only on the issues of electability for the number one spot.

Joe Biden might be the smartest, most knowledgeable of the bunch, if he could only force himself to ask questions during hearings, instead of making stump speeches.

People joke about Dennis Kucinich, but he's a needed voice. It's an ad hominem fallacy to dismiss what he stands for and his profound consistency just because he's quirky as all get out.

Probably I will vote for one of the people who is behind in the polls during the primary. After all, I live in Massachusetts now, not Arkansas, so I don't have to vote for anyone symbolically.

I would like to be living at a time when there is NO question about the candidate based on anything more than who we think will best stand for The United State, its Constitution, and its real moral compass.

What an embarrassing set of questions. Is the country 'ready' for: a woman, a black man, a Catholic who does not represent Catholic teachings, a non-traditional mainline Protestant. Sheesh. Eventually, that will be expanded to whoever else is not part of what laughingly passes as tradition. Is the country 'ready' for a gay person, an Hispanic (apologies to Bill Richardson but it doesn't register with most voters) a Muslim, a Pacific Rimmer and fill in the blank for every one else who could ably lead this country in a more humane direction.

In this actual presidential election, however, no matter what, I will vote for the Democrat. I don't think any of these candidates are evil or stupid. However, I don't think any of the Democratic candidates will insist we are a Christian country, ignore credible science, and start a pre-emptive war.

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10 Things To Miss When Moving from Little Rock

It's that time of year when experts in their field make ten best lists of films, books, scandals, cheesecake recipes. I hate to be left out of anything unless exercise is involved, so now that I'm unpacked in Massachusetts and it's really, really cold out, here's my ten best list for the Little Rock area of Arkansas:


1. The Big Damn Bridge--spans the Arkansas River between North Little Rock and Little Rock. It's both a bike and walking trail and the view is amazing.


2. The Market Street Cinema--a labor of love, Market Street although a commercial operation, it's a 5 screen theater that shows independent films, off beat gems, and helps local talent. On Mondays you get free popcorn, if you bring your own bowl.


3. Silvek's bakery--notable because it's inside a Kroger store. Right next to not so good Kroger bread and day-glo seasonal cupcakes. There's no better bread around and the cakes are killer.


4. Colonial Wine and Spirit Shop--owned by consummate professionals, Clark Trim and Henrik Thorstrup. These guys are world traveled and totally unpretentious. They help people who are lost in the World of What Should I Buy? What with my terribly unrefined palate, and all, I never missed a wine-tasting they held.


5. Little Rock supports two public radio stations, one for music and one for talk. Some of their programming is familiar and some is unique, including Arkansongs, put together by the lead singer of the Bug Tussle Boys. Is that not a great name for a blues group?


6. The Clinton Presidential Library--which does indeed look like an enormous double-wide trailer, Library but it's cantilevered over the river, green in its carbon footprint, and hosts a load of interesting material from the 90s, when I was much happier with the residents of the White House.


7. The Clinton Library offshoot, The Clinton School of Public Service. The man stood for some important national values, that got lost in the jokes, and this legacy provides a degree program for people who are not numbed by cynicism. The School Their speakers are top notch, varied by interests, and stand all over the political spectrum. The biggest foo-fah erupted when Richard Dawkins spoke.


8. Lily's Dim Sum and Then Some is a PanAsian place in a strip mall. It's friendly and fascinating. The owners are very community oriented, and one, Kathy Webb, won a race for a state representative office. The political scene is not easy there, and as they say in the south, "Bless her heart" for taking on the old boys' club.


9. The Heifer Project International has its headquarters in Little Rock, right close to the Library, so you can be efficient in your planning. Heifer It's possible that our grandchildren did not exactly appreciate receiving a card for Christmas noting that their gifts were a goat, a cow, and a flock of chickens sent to help a Third World family become more self sufficient.


10. The Farmer's Market in season at the River Market space. There are no better peaches. And I lived in Georgia for five years.


Every place has wonderful people and I will miss the ones I got close to, in the neighborhood and at the University of Central Arkansas in nearby Conway.

Hold the Phone

Visiting Hell and Holding

Telephone experiences feel phantom-like. You know you had them, but you can't prove it. Email evidence can be maintained, but those lost minutes, hours, and what seems like days trying to dodge, get past, get through, and get around the menu are gone forever.

When I am presented with a menu, I like food options to be available.

Instead, one of two voices greets me, assures me (usually she) can help if I press the correct number. She tells me what I can say. "You can say, 'account balance, technical support, reservations, order status, refill, missed delivery, new service, broadband' " and tells me to key in long numbers so she can pretend to pull up my account. A booping sound effect is supposed to give us the sense of someone working hard on our behalf. I say, "customer support, human being, representative, live person, agent," anything to trick the robot into giving up. It's come to this. I'm trying to trick a robot.

If I'm successful, I get to be on hold and listen to horrible music interrupted by the assurance that my call is important, I must hang on, and I must have patience. I have no patience. I put the phone on speaker and unpack a box, let the dogs out, make a sandwich. I sit in the sun with The New Yorker and the phone in my lap. Eventually, a person responds. Unless my cell phone breaks up. As it happens, I'm calling to end my cell phone service with this particular company. I've been trying for two weeks but She says they are experiencing an unusual volume of calls and I can expect a ten to fifteen minute wait. There is no place on their website to accomplish the farewell. You can expand your plan on line, extend a contract, pay for an allegedly free new fancy phone. You cannot break up with their company. Only their phones can do that.

Not all companies are understaffed. Just the ones that would rather not be bothered with pesky customers. None of this nonsense occurs with Lands End or LL Bean. They are human, and they are at the ready. It's the mail order prescription biz, the telecommunications companies, the airlines, the companies we must reach in order to keep our contact with the outside world on track that frustrate the consumer. We're wired. It's too late to turn back. But what a treat it was to call the Town Yard about recycling polices. Treat Defined: answered on the first ring, free bucket available, and a compliment on what a nice neighborhood we're living in. The woman buys pumpkins at the farm stand right next door to us. Her voice is nothing like Robo-Gal. Suddenly I remember a bumper sticker from the 70s. "Think globally, act locally." If only we could.

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Words I Never Thought I Would Say

Hey, If I'm Wrong, I Admit It.

My friends might be surprised to hear me say:

"Dick Cheney knows what he's talking about."

"Well, I'm on Dick Cheney's side on that issue."

"Dick Cheney makes a lot of sense."

Cheney on Iraq

It is said that people who don't know history are condemned to repeat it. But if it's your own history, how can you forget it? Get it right the first time, and you never have to deal with it again. Except for Dick Cheney.

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The Catch 22 of Cable Connection

Round and Round in the Circle Game

It's hard to coordinate the building of a house from 1300 miles away. I've said it before, and I'll likely say it again, but rarely have I been so thwarted until I tried to schedule an appointment for cable installation.

Comcast has a toll free number, as every major corporation does. Even the robots know how to route your call. Eventually. People need answers from people, not the phone-droids. I did not know then, that if you want to buy cable long distance you have to learn

Pizza is the answer

Problem:

If you want to schedule cable installation you are supposed to put in the telephone number of your residence. My residence-to-be does not have a telephone number. In fact, Comcast itself would be the ones to give me my telephone number due to a bundling offer. My residence-to-be does not yet have flooring. Wiring is going on.

Like a fool, I tried to get customer service the old fashioned way. By punching the "O" key furiously. By responding to the robot's every question with "customer rep" "help" "human being". After awhile the robot will say, "I'm not quite understanding, so I'm transferring you to some one who can help you. Yay, say I. I said "Yay" way too soon.

A patient woman named Marge introduces herself and asks how she can help me. The trouble is she is in Little Rock, near where I live. I am calling from an Arkansas number. She cannot transfer me to someone in New England. The numbers she gives me are fax lines, or ring endlessly, and are not toll free. I look for Comcast numbers for Massachusetts on Google and find offices all over the state, but their purpose remains a mystery due to voice mail or no answer.

Since one must use the cable company the town contracts with, and I wanted to try cable instead of DSL, I was in the eye of the storm with no way out.

Back to the toll free number which asserts they are ready to assist 24/7. I get Marge again. In Little Rock. Hours and hours have passed. I'm dizzy. I'm cranky. I'm glum.

But if any of you get caught in this kind of whirlwind, given we are a mobile society, I have the answer to this ONE problem.

When I was mysteriously connected to Jason in NH who could help me, he told me the secret.

Pizza. Why it's the answer.

What you should do is find the number of a local pizza place in the town to which you are moving. When you are asked to punch in the home phone number you do not have, give them the number of the Vito and Tony's House of Pizza Trattoria Restaurante or some such in the area you will inhabit. You will be routed to the area rep and all will move smoothly from there.

That's yet another reason why pizza is one of the major food groups.

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Long Distance Decisions

Sure Fire Method for Avoiding Decorating Arguments

I got to thinking about all the choices that have to be made when building a house from scratch. Because we are doing it, that's why. And we are living in Arkansas but the house is being built in Massachusetts. Everything down to the cabinet knobs is fraught with potential disagreement.

Do you feel overwhelmed by wallpaper books? Do you get bewildered picking out paint samples. It may not be high up on most people's list of Things That Cause Anxiety Attacks, but it can certainly toss some people into a first class tizzy that results in putting off the project.

Since I am a big fan of making something happen as soon as I decide that I want it to happen in the first place, I am amazed at the months it takes some people to make a decision.

If you visit one of these people you might see a half a painted wall, another wall with four long stripes of various beige tones, and eight wallpaper books that are overdue from The Dakor Center.

Perhaps you've stopped by a friend’s house to bring over a half dozen ears of fresh corn, but before you leave you must listen to the alleged dilemma:

1. the aesthetic reasons behind the ‘stripes that go down’ patterns.

2. the possibilities of "going with the flowery choices"

3. the sheen concerns around the satiny group

4. why it's got to have at least a hint of mauve in it

5. and not be "too" feminine

Your friend wants you to look at the 34 samples she's narrowed it all down to and rank order them. Then she will want to argue with you about the order in which you placed them, or the price, or whether it might be a good idea to run over and get more books, like the ones with textured backgrounds. Or flocking. No! No flocking. And don’t make me tell you why I don’t like toille.


HOW TO CHOOSE

If you would like to help a person like this, or you ARE a person with a wallpaper dilemma of your own, here's a game to get you through it. Let's just start with the wallpaper. It's making a comeback, and lots of folks like it in bathrooms, regardless.

The rules are strict, but if you follow them, the decision will be made within 24 hours, not months.

1. Go to the wallpaper store, poke through the books for a few that look to be what ever you think your style is. Don't justify it. Just go with your impulse. BUT you may only check out four books to take home.

No. Not five, four.

2. When you get home, rip up a sheet of white paper into 25 strips.

3. As you look through the books, put a piece of paper to mark the page
every time something catches your eye. But you may only make 25
choices. When the paper is gone, that's that.*

*Well, OK, you can move a piece of paper if you find another one you
love, but you CAN'T add a 26th piece of paper.

4. Don't keep looking through the books when you have done this. It's a
rule.

5. When your significant other comes home, the one who hates shopping and would keel over before entering a decorating center, the next round starts.

(If you live alone, you can do this yourself, but it would be best if you waited a day to do the next step)

When your partner is relaxed and ready, because you have warned this helpmate that his/her services will be needed for no longer than fifteen minutes, here's what you do:

You say, "I'm going to show you two patterns at a time for the "whatever" room. Out of the two, you tell me which one you like best."

Since you have already made 25 choices that you like (or hastily removed a few of them within the past few minutes due to a change of heart) you can't lose. You've already chosen things that would look good.

6. Each time your partner makes a choice, remove the paper from the
"Uh, uh" page.

Bye, bye.

Take the "Uh, Huh" choice and put it next to another option. Never more than the two options at a time.

7. No going back. Just keep going forward. You'll be down to the last two in no time.

8. Ceremoniously pull the last slip of paper from the books, thus hiding all of your previous options, because you now have wallpaper that you like, and your partner has picked his/her favorite.

Tah-da! Bring the books back the next day and order what you need.

THE ALTERNATIVE


Some places maintain a very large selection of wallpaper and permit you to wander the premises with a scissors. Not only is it great fun, but you can get a larger hunk of wallpaper, and it's not bound. Therefore, you can forget about the slips of white paper. You've come home with NO MORE THAN twenty five samples.

You take your partner into the room to be transformed and hold up two samples. Crumple one as soon as a choice is made and move on, as above.

The benefits of the alternative is that the store will have the wallpaper in stock and there's even less down time to worry about your decision.

People get hung up in decision making because they fear making the wrong one. Many times there is no wrong decision to be made. This college will give you options, ideas, and contacts that will be different that attending that college...but neither choice will be wrong.

Certainly choosing wallpaper is easier, when you think of it in that context.

Now. Go look in the Yellow Pages for something like The Wonderful World of Wallpaper and get yourself there.

Oh. By the way, don't go to more than one store. Have you learned nothing from the above approach?

Simplify, simplify.

This works for paint samples. This works for tile samples. This works for fabric samples.

Practice over the years allowed my husband and I to make every aesthetic choice we needed to make including carpet on a weekend blitz visit with our builder who is working hard 1500 miles away from us, his clients. I bet he feels lucky we aren’t cruising by the building site every live long day saying, “Maybe we should move that window a few feet over. You think we could get a different countertop?"

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Can You Hear Me Now?

What's That In Your Ear?

I’m sure that none of YOU are guilty of doing the following, so forgive me if I complain a bit about those OTHER people....the ones who are having way too much of a relationship with their cell phone. These people don’t just use it. They caress it. Fondle it. Berate it. They flip it open the way smokers used to snap up the top of their metal Zippo lighters, just for show.

Some things should be done in the privacy of one’s home, or the privacy of one’s bedroom, for that matter. Some things should be done quietly, so our own air space isn’t more polluted than it already is with thumping bass whopping you from both sides on the highway or lockers slamming between classes, or a really bad radio station played too loudly while you are trying to do some serious shopping.

First, it’s important to note that if you are an actor or a writer, you have automatic permission to eavesdrop.

Because I said so, that’s why.

You can’t read other people’s mail. You can’t tap a phone. Do not start peeking at your kid’s or spouse’s journals. If you’ve got a telescope, keep it aimed at the sky, buddy, not someone’s window.

But when you are out in public, in a waiting room, wandering the mall, on a bus, in an elevator, or standing in line for something, anything people say can be what I call MATERIAL. Perhaps a couple is breaking up at the next table in the Chinese restaurant. That could be interesting.

But this phone stuff is starting to look mighty silly to me.

First, when car phones were so expensive they were a real status symbol, I read in a catalog that you could buy a shell of a car phone, really cheap, so other people would think you had one and therefore you would be cool. A phony, but....cool. I guess.

Then, just like the day that suddenly everyone is running around in shorts after a cold winter, the air turns warm and cell phones bloom every where you look. I’m not sure when it happened. But now it seems that almost everyone is connected.

A man is in the grocery store. He is standing in front of the produce section. He whips out the old phone and gets clarity on whether summer squash as opposed to zucchini would go better with the salmon, color-wise, that is. Oy. What if he got home and his spousal equivalent complained that the vegetables clashed? Absolutely a necessary phone call.

A woman is with a friend in the home accessories section of a discount department store. They are discussing lamps, just like normal people. Then debate about this couch cushion compared to that couch cushion. Uhf. Out comes the phone. “Honey? I’m here at TJ Maxx and I just wanted to know if you think that a lamp with a glass base or ceramic would be better in the den? Are you sure? Well, the glass one is like a Waterford crystal and...sure you do....no, no, Waterford. You know those goblets that Bob and Sissy gave us? Like that. Or there’s this other lamp here that’s a really pretty green only with a dragon on it. How do you feel about dragons? Well, just tell me. How can you not have time to talk about this?!” Meanwhile her in person friend is standing there like a lump. She’s been put on hold.

People are driving and talking, their head with that little tilt, while they are stopped at the light and looking something up in their day planner. They don’t notice the light is green.

People are walking and talking. They are wandering around parking lots mumbling into their palms as though they are Secret Service scanning for snipers. Except the guy in the golf shirt and shorts has tripped on the curb. The Secret Service doesn’t trip.

The people with earpieces are even more unsettling. We are walking on a city street and we do not know if the person approaching us is using his Bluetooth or speaking to his space buddies on Neptune.

Mostly, I wish that people would not answer their phones in restaurants, then eat and talk on the phone. Or yell. People are warned in honeyed tones by the stage managers at concerts and plays to “Please, take a moment to turn off your phones and turn your pagers to stun during the performance, thankyousomuch.”

I think phones should be checked at the door with the wet umbrellas. Perhaps you think I am being a tad petty. But you know I don’t mean you. If your phone rings you answer it, say, “Uh, huh, OK. Sure. See you at five,” and get back to the people you are with in person.

But none of you were with me that day at a nice restaurant when a woman dining with four friends called home, “Just to check,” and spent the next half hour yelling at her kids. She ordered during this time. She ate during this time. She didn’t talk to her dinner companions who couldn’t talk to each other, I don’t think.

She said, “Becky. I’m telling you. Are you listening? Because I’m only going to tell you once. Becky? What did you just say to me? No, no, no. You go get your brother. I want to talk to him. Go get him I said. Becky! Did you hear me? Go. Get. Your. Brother.” The next half hour was like that. Since I was eating with my father and step-mother who are both pretty deaf, they didn’t notice, and kept trying to engage me in conversation. But I could only hear The Mother of Becky screaming on her cell phone.

Also, given that I do believe in evolution, unlike most of the students I’ve been teaching for the last five years, I think opposable thumbs are going to morph. They are going to get long and pointy, the better to text with. Students can pretend they are paying attention while they text people they saw ten minutes ago. They don’t have to wait until class is over to let people know how bored they were with our class. Or that I slipped up and cussed.

If Mother Nature wanted us to use cell phones so much we would all have ears with Velcro like strips. Until that happens, keep the phone folded until you absolutely, positively need it. You and I know this.

Flat tire on the turnpike. Lost in a strange neighborhood. Really, really late and you don’t want anyone to worry.

But not when some trivia geek stops a conversation to phone a friend and find out whether the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer falls asleep in a tanning booth is the same one in which George is especially worried about “shrinkage.”

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Where The Guys Are

Creepy in The House

One of the problems with moving is that you have to find all New Guys. Male or female, it doesn’t matter, you’ll need a good mechanic, plumber, physician. You’ve got to keep all the machinery working smoothly.

Since we are moving--again-- I’ve got to resurrect my criteria for dealing with breakdowns. Good training, a fine reputation, and a code of ethics are critical.

Then there is a quirk of mine.

I’ve got this wee case of prejudice, it seems. People who don’t have pets make me suspicious. I can’t help feeling this way and there are no listings for support groups or associations or twelve step programs to help me deal with this narrow minded set of thinking that I’m carrying around.

I see meetings for Parents Without Partners but not People Without Pets. People want to work on not having a partner, but they don’t see the problem if they are Petless.

When an HMO assigned me a doctor, I interviewed him. Credentials? Attitudes about this? That? The Other? Then he noted that he had no pets, no, uh-uh, didn’t want them. Creepy in the house. I tried to forgive him because he was from Tanzania, and he said that pets and livestock were synonymous. But I found another doctor...an animal loving, warm, people person, who often patted me on the arm when she was explaining something.

At a New Faculty Orientation we all went around the room introducing ourselves. It’s still a requirement when new groups get together for any reason, I guess, even if it’s to be told where and when to get ID pictures done and what the deadline is for handing in a syllabus. Every person in the room included in their families their respective cats and dogs. The odd bird. An iguana. Until we got to The Dean. The Dean was petless. By choice. Not in mourning for a late Lab. No, no. Hated pets. Creepy in the house. Were he my department chair I would probably have had to resign.

One of my best friends and her husband are childless AND petless. They work long hours and travel when they aren’t working. They have lovely things, pristine rugs, and cannot keep a plant alive. When this best friend, Arlene, and I were growing up, she got a spaniel she named Lucky. Within 48 hours it was crushed by a car. For these reasons, I forgive them for not having an animal. These are the reminders they give me, but honestly? I think THEY think pets are creepy in the house.

The literature is loaded with articles about Pet Therapy. Pooches are taken to nursing homes; suddenly there is hope and love in that world. Petting a dog or cat lowers our blood pressure. Having a dog or cat around means there is always a beating heart to listen to. Right now we have our big standard poodle, Lillian, and a little rescue poodle, Zoe. The house is way too quiet and humorless when they are at the groomer. In fact, we had two standard poodles, but Miss Bessie died of a vicious anemia, and we got Zoe because all three of us--husband, wife, and Lillian--felt an empty space in our hearts.

A French poet in the last century insisted on walking a leashed lobster in the Tuileries gardens. He said he liked having a lobster for a pet because, “They don’t bark, and they know the secrets of the deep.”

OK. Another prejudice. Dogs and cats and birds are wonderful. Perhaps a ferret, if one likes weasels. But a lobster? Creepy in the house.

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Rugs, Carpets, and Coping

What IS That on Your Floor?

When we were house hunting due to our move to Georgia, I learned a terrible decorating truth. That truth was not nullified across state lines into Arkansas.

Apparently, a Meeting of UberRug Makers, in league with Rabid Sub-Division Developers, decided that All Carpet Is Good Carpet, as long as it is beige.

I lie.

It could also be eggshell, ash, antique caramel, a light nutmeg, tan, taupe, or tawny. Which means --beige.

No matter which subdivision: Trelawny Lakeside Estates, Purvis Plantation, Loch Interloch Fjord on the Fairways.....beige and its inbred cousins ruled.

Therefore, the house we bought has “Natural” wall-to-wall carpeting where it doesn’t have lovely, much easier to take care of, wood flooring.

THE REALITY OF LIVING A BEIGE LIFE

Not being the most pristine of domestic engineers, even after all these years of marriage, things happened.

Some of them were gross things, involving a new puppy that I insisted on adopting the first week we moved in, to help with the loneliness factor. After all, we were now living a thousand miles away from our grown children. Also, mysterious unnamable things had happened before we took ownership that resulted in spots or stains that could not be blamed on the dog. Latent, hastily steam cleaned circles emerged thanks to the previous owners. Who knows?

My tendency, after no success with a few of the usual suspects—products available from the supermarket shelves—was to hustle out in search of new scatter rugs. These rugs would be placed over various discolorations in hallways or centered in the den, or in front of a chair.

Because I learn great things from watching the Home and Garden Channel, I constructed “definition,” “a burst of color” that would “create interest” and, of course, “A Focal Point.”

THE NIGHTMARES BEGAN

A day came when a glance around my house looked like a giant tag sale of throw rugs.

Rug-o-rama.

I had nightmares that Early Birds would get the word, then start to ring my door bell and make offers.

“Would you take $3.50 for the little Chinese one?”

“I could maybe give you ten for the woolen Peruvian, if you throw in this ceramic clock.”

SEARCHING THE WORLD WIDE WEB

I found lots of rug cleaning products available on the web. Websites enumerated all the possible disgusting things that might confront someone and demand attention for cleaning rugs.

These graphic words could offend.

They grossed me out.

It was like being in the middle of a gastric and sewer explosion combined. But since none of the things I’d bought at the supermarket worked, I dared to order some kind of Wonder Warp Stuff (not its real name; I’m not peddling anything) It pretty much worked, and the rugs looked respectable.

Last Saturday I made a lovely Shepherd’s Pie with a red gravy sauce. I served it to my husband in the den. The den is Sports Central, and I rarely go in there unless it’s a delivery.

An Event occurred that we’ll just refer to as A BIG Whoopsidaisy. My understanding is, the side of the dish that he was holding became surprisingly hot, very quickly. In addition to the cursing, this meant that the entire hillock of Shepherd’s Pie took a header onto the carpet. Corn, carrots, peas, hamburg, fluffy buttery potatoes, the aforementioned very reddish sauce.

All soft, all hot, all soaking the carpet.

Today? The crime scene is gone. Nothing was going to get that smirch out of our line of vision.
We found a large enough square of extra carpeting in the attic to replace the ruined reminder.

My husband, of course, I will never replace.

But no one in this particular household should be allowed near beige carpet. Not me, not the husband, and definitely not the dogs. We have two black poodles. A little one and an enormous one. I’d never have a white one. It would bear the results of a merlot spill, blueberry pie raids, and purple permanent marker before two weeks had passed.

The new house will have multi-colored tweeds in every carpeted room. I get lightheaded at the thought. Hiding a multitude of sins might be my housekeeping mantra.

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Anti-Organization Rationale

Take Good Care of Your Junk Drawer


A neighbor of mine, ordinarily a fine yet impulsive person, has done something very, very wrong.

She cleaned out her junk drawer.

For some reason she thought it was a good idea. And she’s proud of herself. She invited me over to see it. “Everything in its place,” she noted.

In case any of you get the notion, some day after you’ve seen one too many HGTV inspirational shows about organizing your life, that you too should engage in such an activity, I would urge you to eat a Ring Ding instead. Keep noshing until the mood passes.

I’ve been brooding about this urge to get organized due to our upcoming move across half the country . I’ve been standing in front of my junk drawer for long minutes, trying to imagine going through it, trying to imagine breaking it down and hauling it away.

There is a reason for junk drawers.

I’m convinced they exist to block the passageway to other dimensions in the time/space continuum. And I’m not even one of those people who wear aluminum hats. It is our duty as American citizens to maintain a strong line of defense. Forget about color coded terror warnings, those impractical, empty rainbows of threats from the Department of Homeland Security. You already know that we can only respond after the fact to disaster. Oklahoma bombing? Olympic explosion in Atlanta? Katrina? Tornadoes bearing down every which way in the Midwest?

Here's my theory: for unknown reasons the contents of junk drawers are Alien Entity Repellents. No matter what those folks in Roswell say, alien abductions are a crock. And it’s because of our ever vigilant construction of house hold junk drawers. You know, like clapping to keep the zebras away.

If you have been maintaining a household without a junk drawer, it’s only a matter of time before the balance of power tips.

Please. I urge you. Create a junk drawer today.

Include the following:

• broken pencils preferably with half eaten erasers

• at least four fortune cookies from Chinese take-out.

• a package of birthday candles (half full is fine)

• a couple of jingle bells

• unwrapped hard candies that will stick to the bottom of the drawer

• five boxes of matches. Not match books. Boxes.

• three marbles

• unasked for address labels from two organizations that are stuck together and therefore, unusable

• two metal skewers

• a yellow highlighter (excellent for its chemical properties, it interacts synergistically with fortune cookies to form an impenetrable wall)

• at least one figurine from a popular movie. Toy Story is best. Reports of success with Donkey, from Shreks I, II, and III, are coming in.


If you don't have a junk drawer then you have an empty drawer.

An empty drawer will result in a small passageway to an alternative universe where alien junk will seep into your pristine space unbidden.

One day you will find "frazmits" and "gurf" and "kildies" in there.

After that, you’ll only have a 48 hour envelope of time to stop the invasion.

Please heed this consumer warning now.

Go. Get unorganized.

A nation’s freedom is at stake.

Thank you.


* the following essay is written due to my wonderful husband’s despair at my lack of organizational skills. “How can you live this way? You don’t know where anything is!” he protests. He is a man who arranges his wallet with all the bills facing the same way and in value order. That thought would never ever occur to me.



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The New Age Is Aging

Just Where Do I Fit In

The trouble with not being “New Age” is that the opposite feels like “Old Age.” Since not too many of us want to be “Middle Aged,” what’s a person to do?

I need a category. It’s lonely flying solo, and I want so much to find my niche.

In women’s magazines, there always seems to be a quiz. Taking the quiz will let you know the following:

• Have You Outgrown Your Marriage? Take the quiz to find out!!!

• Are You Addicted to Dairy? See our survey to discover if that’s your problem!!!

• Should You Change Careers? Our handy dandy check list will tell you!!!

• Are You a Beer Broad or A Champagne Chic-ster? Find out inside!!!!

I’m pretty sure that if I were hiding in my closet crying about my husband and my job, with an eight pack of yoghurt and a six pack of wine coolers, I could figure I had a problem on my own without turning the page of a magazine to find the answers.

But what “Age” do I belong to? How do you know you are New Age or.....Not?

Examples:

1. You read articles about feng shui, but never bother to move your furniture around. Plus, your front door doesn’t face south, so you are already in trouble, and can’t afford to move. And the indoor fountain you bought on impulse just makes you go to the bathroom more often.

2. You buy aromaeopathy candles with names like Harmony, Wisdom, Peace, and Acceptance. You think your house smells better but you don’t feel:
in tune with your biorhythms
smarter
less tense
or more kindly toward telemarketers.

3. Whenever you try to get in touch with your inner child, you wind up eating dumb things: Fluffernutters, marshmallow Easter chickens, Spaghetti-Os, and tri-colored cereal. You lose your taste for vegetables. You start saying things like, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t,” and, “You’re not the boss of me,” and, “I’m telling.”

4. You try to meditate but you can never clear your mind of thoughts. When you make an “Ommmmm” sound, it tickles your inner lips. You decide you like your thoughts and clearing your mind causes you to fall asleep out of boredom. You worry that you are not spiritual at all.

5. You go out of your way to buy food at The Farmer’s Market, get good crusty breads, all kinds of fresh fruits, make smoothies in the blender, eat a lot of fish.

But you have one drawer dedicated to Oreos, Big Cheezits, Frito Big Dip Chips, and Butterfingers (the Fun!!! size) You worry you will be found out by the New Age Community who will come and hug you and leave pamphlets recommending yet more kinds of herbals in addition to the seven you already take. You will buy them, just in case there is something to homeopathic cures.

So? What does it all mean? Am I quasi-New Age? A big fat phony? A wannabe?

Most importantly...am I alone?

Rounding up the Wayward Words

Word Choice and Finding Your Voice


Man invented language to satisfy his deep need to complain.
-- Lily Tomlin/Jane Wagner

Man, do I love words. Words have such power.

I’ve been known to complain bitterly about punctuation, but for now, I’ll leave comma faults and exclamation point addiction for The Punctuation Police, and concentrate on what word choices do to people.

I think about words and sounds. A lot.

Take “despot” for example. I don’t mean take a despot home with you for a BLT and lemonade. But doesn’t the word “despot” sound like someone who would try to lord it all over the premises? The word hisses and spits. More than a dictator, martinet, or warlord does.

But the “esses” in these lines of Poe below don’t hit you over the head or leave a gob of phlegm on your face like the horking despot above.

Listen. Say these out loud:

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
(from The Raven)

Listen some more: Silken. Sad. Uncertain. Rustling.

It’s the words that are moving, just out of vision. It could be a soft summer breeze or an evil spirit sneaking, sidling, snaking our way.

Naming Characters

Even people’s names evoke reaction. The character heroes in romance novels are not named Elmer, or Dwight, or Archibald. More likely they are Lance, or Paolo, or Dirk. Also, they are tall. Stumpy is not a word seen in romance novels. The bosomy heroines, with flowing tresses are not Ethel, or Gladys, or Velma. They are Destiny, Franchesca, or Rain.

A Seattle reporter for NPR has the BEST, most mellifluous name I’ve ever heard. Get this: Ruby DiLuna. Oooh. That is magical. I want it for my very own. Or at least for a character in a story. Sigh. If my name were Ruby DiLuna I would have had a very different life. And better hair.

Above I was concentrating on the part sound lends when conveying meaning.

Word Sounds

Turning to the coincidence of words that rhyme, we find something mighty peculiar about a sound.

His face turned ashen when receiving the news.

Uh, oh. That can’t be good. Whatever the news might be, ashen signals disaster ahead.

In fact, when you consider all the words that rhyme with “ash”, you’ve got a violent situation on your hands just thinking about the possibilities:

smash, thrash, mash, crash, lash, clash, bash, gnash, trash, gash, slash—even rash isn’t too pleasant, whether it’s hasty or itchy. Hash is all chopped up. No, no. An ashen reaction is clearly not boding well.

Be Particular

You cannot be too particular when choosing your words. You shouldn’t settle for the first familiar phrase that comes to mind. Likely it’s stale, it’s been laying around so long.

I used to worry that I might have a...wee problem. An obsession of sorts. I wondered if I should join a Twelve Step Program.

Picture it.

Hello. My name is Beverly. And I am a ‘tweaker’.

I've been tweaking for a long time now.

Hi, Beverly!

For you late comers, the other kind of Tweaker 12 Step meets down the hall. Sorry about the meth problem. Can’t help you here.

My tweaking problem started when I realized that nothing having to do with words is ever finished. It might be done, it might be turned in, but it's not finished. So....whenever I can...I grab the chance to make it better. When you have your own blog, it’s even harder to control. The Internet understands the need, the hunger, of a True Tweaker way more than print outlets can manage.

Tweakers sneak into their home offices after everyone is asleep. We don't want them to know. The dogs know. But they keep close counsel. And they’re biscuit sluts.

What would those who love me think of me? Tweaking in the dark, turning the computer screen to a corner so no one can see what I’m doing. Not downloading porn or having a simultaneous cyber affair with eight guys strewn all over the country who all seem to be named Dylan or Ed.

Nope. I’ve come forward, because I know there are others like me. We Tweak. We love words. We want to improve our work. A new day brings a new perspective and a chance to make things better.

Sometimes righting a wrong or a bad move is a hard thing to do when we’ve really mucked up in our every day lives...ignored someone...made a remark that hurt and we didn’t even know it. But our vision and the way we say it is up on the screen available for reaction. Often it’s our own.

Are we supposed to sit there and just watch a limp phrase dangle in the wind? Can’t we go in and get our verbs to agree? Surely we have to take pity on on the apostrophe that doesn’t know where it’s supposed to be. How about a better analogy that wandered over and bit me on the knee? Got to get it off my person and into an argument slot where it can do some good and not pester me, with “Woulda, shoulda, coulda.”

TWEAKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE!!

We are working on our craft. Say it loud, say it proud. Repeat after me, “I TWEAK and I don’t care who knows it.”

Thank you very much. This meeting is over.

Hot cookies await in the vestibule. There’s punch, and a special Long Island Tea you might like to try.

-o-

When Moving Forward, Think About the Past

Arlene's Mother's Blueberry Cake


Because we are moving back to New England after ten years living in the Deep South (5 years) and Mid-South (5 years) I keep thinking about what it means to go home, in my head and for real.

Because my mother hated to cook, I became a good one. I’m ornery that way.

Mom was a great seamstress. Therefore, I do not sew. Mom could knit Fair Isle patterned sweaters that would make another woman nuts with frustration. I can knit a scarf. A long straight scarf. Let me know if you need one.

Mom thought dessert meant Jell-O. Or something from the pastry shop around the corner.

I didn’t know Other Mothers baked.

When I was seven we moved two towns over, to a different factory town. There I met my new best friend and her mother Alice, The Baking Queen.

Officially, she was known as Arlene’s mother. Maybe not on the voting roster, or on her Filene’s charge card, but to me she was Arlene’s mother, the woman who bakes.

Going over to Arlene’s to play always meant we got to come in the house “so we wouldn’t get over heated, or dehydrated, or God Forbid, get sunstroke” whenever Arlene’s mother said so. She would pour us a glass of the Special Concoction Arlene’s father made (which I now suspect was a lemonade, grape juice, pineapple juice, ginger ale punch). Anyway, it was called The Concoction. And it was delicious.

On some days it would be our other favorite—diluted Lime Zarex sryup. We would have to make about two gallons of it at a time. Then, Arlene’s mother would offer us whatever she had baked that day. Zarex and other regional foods are hard to find but Home Town Favorites is a good place to look for the foods you remember that are not on store shelves now.

Back to the cake.

Arlene and I have a tendency toward chubby thighs. I maintain it was all worth it. Arlene says otherwise.

Arlene’s mother lives in Florida now, and bakes for her condo association. My loss. But before she packed up and moved to her place in the sun, I managed to wrest the recipes of all my favorites. The deal was, I would send her copies of my short stories when I wrote them, and I would name all her recipes after her when I made them.

In the spirit of generosity, I would like to present:

Arlene’s Mother’s Beautiful Blueberry Cake

*you can double this recipe for a larger pan or crowd. You can make two at a time and freeze one.

1/4 cup real butter (softened)
1 cup granulated sugar
1 3/4 cups sifted flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1 egg beaten
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp. real vanilla
1 cup FRESH blueberries

Blend butter, sugar, egg with electric mixer on slow speed.
Add dry ingredients in three alternating steps using the milk each time.
Add vanilla until batter is smooth and light.

Wash blueberries in a strainer and sprinkle with Wondra flour.*

*This way they won’t sink to the bottom.

Add to batter.

Bake in a greased/floured 8” square pan

Sprinkle top with sugar and cinnamon if desired.


350 degrees for 45-55 minutes (test until the toothpick comes out clean)

When serving, be sure to say, “It’s Arlene’s Mother’s Blueberry Cake.”

Thinking About Writing: The Warning Label

A writer friend of mine was in a philosophical mood a few weeks ago. One of the short stories she was working on insisted on cutting her too close to the bone. She found herself upset by what she was working on, and wanted to change details. She wanted to create a happier ending.

Now, this ending she was thinking of might not have been a better ending for the story, but it would have been much happier for her to write about.

She asked me four questions, and they are questions that all writers might ask themselves at one time or another, whether they are poets, or writing a column, or covering a horrible story.

Q: Ever hide behind a character?

Don't we all? Whether we are writers or not, aren’t we different people a lot of the time, depending on our mood, setting, the other characters around us? It’s at least one reason why Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage.” We are the players, the watchers, the writers, the cheerleaders, the audience, the buffers, and the creators. Those are a lot of characters to go out in the world on any given day.

Q: Should we really bare our souls?

Rarely. I'm thinking that in this culture of the moment, there's entirely too much of that going on. Too many people walking, wounded, wearing pain as a badge and telling their stories, unfiltered, to anyone who will listen. Including audiences on television.

Q: Is it dangerous, in some cases?

Yes, I think so. It's dangerous in lots of ways. We have our defenses for very good reasons. Who would pay to watch a guitarist who bled every damned concert because s/he couldn't form the calluses needed to play the music long and hard. (OK. Some people would go see The Bleeding Guitarist...but you wouldn't want to BE him. Playing nightly: The Martyr String Quartet, Stigmata as guest soloist)

Q. Why do we write?

What takes experience past venting, dumping, and dissipating? That's the part that interests me. The exploration of ourselves and others in characters, the worlds we live in, the schemes and plans that we can try, the revelation when we are surprised by what comes out on the page, that's the exciting part. Even if it's not clarified at the end. Maybe a glint of illumination amid the murk? Maybe that's enough.

Moving Is an Art

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.

Moving is an art, and I am not very good at it. This wonderful poem captures the feelings of the leavings. In a mobile world, two people--one of whom is me--left New England ten years ago. We were quite happy where we were, but as husband Bill says, "We go where the work is." That meant Georgia for five years. Then that meant Arkansas for five years. The 'art of losing isn't hard to master.' Except on the days when it felt impossible. Tennessee Williams' narrator, Tom, said in The Glass Menagerie, that their father worked for the phone company and fell in love with long distance. Some people enjoy fresh starts. Me? Not so much.

Now it's time to move back. We are building a house. We will wind up with friends and family and know where everything is. Hot dog rolls will open at the top. The ocean will be a mere three hours away. More importantly, the poem's last paragraph disaster of loss does not apply here. I can accept the fluster and the floundering and the fickle unpredictables because we are returning home. Together.