"Is Mary Magdalene in the Office?"

I'm making a lot of phone calls at work right now, to update our senior service directory. It's hard to get hold of the people I need to talk to during the holidays, as so many people are out of the office.

Yesterday, I called a local branch of the YWCA to check their info. The woman who answered the phone said that the person I needed to talk to was out of the office till after New Year's Day. She then said, “You could talk to Mary Magdalene at the main office.”

“Pardon me? Mary Magdalene?”

“Yes. Mary Magdalene,” she repeated with supreme confidence. And she gave me the number for the main office.

I knew that couldn't be the woman's name, so with great trepidation, I called the main YWCA office and asked for Mary Magdalene. The woman who answered reacted with obvious disbelief, as if I were making a crank call. “Mary Magdalene?” I could hear the suspicious sneer in her voice. I couldn't blame her. If I'd gotten a call like this, I would have suspected that the caller was trying to pull one over on me, too. She was probably imagining a young teen holding the phone, surrounded by a group of snickering children, hands clapped over their mouths to hide their laughter. I had to draw myself up and put on my most professional yet sympathetic voice. “Yes. I doubt that's her actual name, but that's who I was told to ask for.” She hardly listened to my attempts to salvage my self-respect.

“I think you mean Mary Gail Mullin.” I'm sure she thought that I was an idiot. That call was probably her laugh of the day, shared many times with her co-workers. I know it was mine.

It's Just What I Do

I tell long, involved stories. Always have. One of my brothers once said of me, when I was a teenager, "Kathy is the only person I know who can tell the plot of a half-hour sitcom in an hour and a half." I remember that remark because it was (and is) so true.

Delivered verbally, my stories are well received by friends and family. They get my gestures, body language, delivery, and comedic timing. Yes, I'll say it, I am quite a funny person. In person. I don't know that that translates well to the blog world because it makes my stories long. And involved. It may just be too much for the "give it to me in 15 seconds" world that we live in now.

But, for those who have the patience and the attention span, I will point you toward my new blog, "Long, Involved Stories." I've had a description and link to it in the right-hand sidebar of this blog for a couple of months now. I didn't want to announce it with a big media event or anything like that, so I figured that the link was enough. But the two people who have actually been reading my blog (and, yes, they're related to me) have chastised me for not making a bigger splash with it. I don't have the time, energy, or expertise to do the stuff that blogspot.com recommends to get one's blog noticed, so I have a pretty low readership for both of my blogs. That's okay with me. But my family said that I should at least point out in *this* blog that the other blog exists so that people who read this blog with interest and enthusiasm (ha!) will know that there's now "more of me to love." Oh, my!

I'm pleased with the stories I've posted on Long, Involved Stories, but I will tell you now that the blog is aptly named. It is not for the attention deficit or faint of heart. If you're interested, by all means, check it out: http://longinvolvedstories.blogspot.com

How to Roast a Small Pumpkin

Don't.

The end.

HaHaHahahahahaHahaHaha... (hysterical, edge-of-sanity laughter continues for quite awhile).

I like roasted veggies and fruits. I've roasted just about everything that can be roasted, to mostly good results (except for the watermelon incident. Who knew?).

So when I saw the little pumpkin pie pumpkins at Trader Joe's, they seemed like a natural for roasting. Sturdy, not real watery, and they can be prepared either savory or sweet. Sounded good. I bought two. Mind you, these were not the little decorative gourds that look like little bitty pumpkins. These were pumpkins for cooking. The big, jack-o-lantern pumpkins can be cooked, too, but they can be a little tough. These little pumpkins, though, are supposed to be excellent for cooking. I've got a checkered past when it comes to cooking, so, just to be sure, I asked the cashier, and she confirmed that these were cooking pumpkins. When I got home, I called my aunt, a veteran in the kitchen, and she agreed that I had a great idea in roasting these little pumpkins.

However, I was still a little nervous about this new endeavor, so I put it off for a week or two. When I went to do the deed, one of the little pumpkins had rotted and completely collapsed. Ewwww. The other was just fine, though. Well, I waited another week, checking the remaining pumpkin daily for firmness, and it was always fine.

So tonight I finally set out to roast this little pumpkin. It was about maybe eight inches in diameter. I may have never roasted a pumpkin before, but I have carved many a Halloween jack-o-lantern, so I got a good knife, and set to work. I sawed, I attempted to stab, I hacked, all to no avail. The shell on this thing was like iron.

I went to the Internet. Can this, in fact, be done? I asked it. Yep. I went to a site that showed the pumpkin cut into rings--horizontally--which hadn't occurred to me before. The recipe said “Prep time: 10 minutes.” I went back and reapplied myself to that pumpkin with a new vigor. But my family has a long, dark tradition of horrible accidents involving kitchen knives, and I became truly fearful that I was going to injure myself. I went back to the Internet. Did it mention anything about a chainsaw? About softening the pumpkin by soaking it in lye for 24 hours first? No. It merely said, “Cut pumpkin into rings of about one inch thickness....” It might just as well have said to cut through a coconut. Using only a sharp rock and your teeth. This pumpkin was impossible. I had managed to penetrate it with two one-inch stab wounds, which gave me the idea that, now that I'd managed to vent the pumpkin, I could try roasting it whole for awhile to soften it. At least, with those two narrow cuts in it, it wouldn't (I hoped) explode in the oven, which I set on 450 and inserted the pumpkin into for a good 45 minutes.

After letting it cool for quite awhile, I carved the stem out so that I could scoop out the steaming insides. This was much easier done this time, so I had great hopes that I had outsmarted this simple gourd.

But no. When I went to trim it into one-inch-thick rings, I once again had to saw and saw—so vigorously that I again could envision one slip of the knife taking me down a notch on the evolutionary scale. Again, I chopped, I hacked, I stabbed and cut and sliced. The inside was soft enough, but the outer shell was like a clam shell. Ten minutes! Ha! After almost 30 minutes, I was finally done, soaked in sweat and covered with pumpkin slime. I sopped up water, stray seeds, and blood. My back was killing me, but I took the time to sprinkle some herbs and spices on my mangled bits of pumpkin, put the whole mess into the oven, and then went to crash on the couch while it roasted.

I once again let it cool after it was well roasted. I just ate some. It has to be eaten like oysters on the half shell, scooped out of its hard little shell “cups” with the teeth. I wish I could say that it is well worth the struggle. It's okay, but it could be improved upon. If I can work up the strength to do it again.

The BDP

So as not to interrupt my own post, I will explain here that the BDP (for BrokedownPalace, a song by the Grateful Dead) was a century-old cabin that my brother lived in from sometime in the mid-1970s until sometime in the mid-80s. To say it was rustic would be putting a nice face on it.

And now, the actual, verbatim, phone conversation between my sister and me yesterday. We’ve been taking turns this week, staying with our teenage niece at our brother’s house while he is out of town.

Sister: When you spend the night at [our brother's] house, you should bring a blanket with you. I think that the one that’s on his bed now is from the BDP. It may be the same one we used when we stayed there when we were in high school [quite some time ago].

Me: Yeah, I remember lying on that mattress on the floor, staring at the hole in the floor where he’d shot the possum. Do you think the blanket has been washed since then?

Sister: Oh, yeah, I’d say it’s been washed since then.

Me: Do you think it’s been washed this year?

Sister: [long pause] Bring your own blanket.

[It was all I could do to contain myself to just this. I actually ended up writing a much longer piece, but I made myself cut it back. A longer version may appear soon in Long, Involved Stories.]

Are you SURE it's not Monday?

Today is Tuesday. The day-after-a-Monday-holiday Tuesday. Which means, for those of us who follow a five-day, Monday through Friday workweek, today was Monday. Well, you know what I mean. You get Monday off, so the following day, your first day of work that week, becomes Monday in your mind. You believe firmly that it is Monday. Sometimes this effect will last all week, making you feel like Friday is really Thursday, which becomes a very pleasant end-of-the-week surprise. 

This morning, I got a call from a person with whom I have a standing 7:30 a.m. appointment. On Tuesdays. It was 7:48, and she wondered where I was. I was, of course, at home. Getting ready for work. Because it was "Monday." It was a bad start.

So, without going into all of the details, I'll try to just hit the highlights (or lowlights) of the rest of my day.

1. Planning to spend the night at my brother's house for the next two nights to stay with my niece while my bro' is out of town. Had packed last night, but I had a few last-minute things to gather up before I was ready to go.
   
   
2. This also meant that I wouldn't be back home until after our first back-to-ESL class since the summer break. Having not yet thought about what I'd teach for that first class, I needed to do so now and pack some materials accordingly.
   
   
3. As I put my things next to the front door as I got them ready to go, I finally began to realize that the carpet was very, very, very wet.
   
   
4. My apartment had "flooded" slightly last week in this same area and in the cats' bathroom. I'd cleaned both up as best I could on Friday, before I had to leave town for the long weekend. It had smelled quite mildewed when I returned last night, but I chalked it up to last week's incident and made a "note to self" to deal with the mildew. But when? It would just be worse when I came home Thursday night.
   
   
5. This is when I discovered that the carpet had obviously gotten wet again sometime over the weekend. 
   
   
6. Began trying to sop water out of the carpet for the second time in four days. Without much luck. Decided to just leave it till Thursday night. Ick.
   
   
7. I was ready to go now. But then remembered that I hadn't set up cats' self-feeder and self-waterer so they'd be taken care of for the next two days.
   
   
8. Went to bathroom. Guess what? It had also flooded again. Spent more time, cleaning up that mess. 
   
   
9. Set up cats' food and water, and was finally ready to leave house. 
   
   
10. On way to work, decided that I was so late that I might as well stop at cell phone office to pick up my phone, back from manufacturer for repair, and return loaner phone. Took much longer than I thought it would because all of my info was not properly transferred back to my phone. 
    
    
11. FINALLY got back on interstate and headed to work. It was now well after 3:00 p.m.!
    
    
12. Getting onto I-40, I thought that the car's alignment was way off. Strange, since I'd just had the tires rotated and balanced last week. 
    
    
13. As I changed lanes, some five or six miles later, I could tell that I definitely had a flat tire. Crossed back over to right shoulder. Tire looked like it had been bitten by a gator. 
    
    
14. Went to call AAA. Had my own phone back. Battery was at 3 percent. Couldn't find car charger because I'd taken it on trip yesterday and didn't know where it ended up afterwards. Found phone AC charger. Took life in hands to get out of car and get my little box of car electronics out of trunk. I had a power inverter that I could plug AC cord into. Had to keep car running to get enough of a charge to be able to call AAA. Took awhile, which is when I noticed that the gas was very low.
    
    
15. Called AAA. 
    
    
16. It was 4:40 p.m. My office closes at 4:45 p.m. 
    
    
17. Got towed to place where I bought tires about a year ago. Michelin no longer makes the tires I bought in the size I need.
    
    
18. I DO have a spare (doughnut type)  and should have had it put on, but didn't, for a variety of reasons.
    
    
19. A bright spot: I was able to arrange a ride with Angie and Harold, who were going to be passing by the tire store soon after I called them. 
    
    
20. Now I'm home but still haven't figured out what I'm going to do about replacement tire tomorrow. Also not sure what I'll do for transportation tomorrow. 
    
    
21. I also still need to work on wet carpet/mildew in living room. 
    
    
22. And it's still Tuesday.

You Goin' to the Game Tonight?

Our dear niece E (age 17, senior at WHS) from middle Georgia has come to live with us in East Tennessee. And by "us," I mean, specifically with my brother M who is now her legal guardian (and perhaps the most generous and sensible-seasoned-with-compassion guy around), with the rest of us as a support team.

E plays soccer. By "plays soccer," I, of course, mean that she lives, eats, dreams, and thinks soccer day and night. She plays soccer the way that velociraptors hunt for food.

During this morning’s round of e-mails to determine who would stay with E during M’s upcoming two-week absence, M asked whether either my sister, S, or I were coming to E's game tonight.

It had been an away game. Back when my sister and I played soccer (my sister: an excellent, enthusiastic goalie; me: a mediocre, half-hearted forward), "away" game meant "at a high school fairly near yours, or at least in the same county." However, "away" game seems to have taken on the meaning, "a high school that is not far across the state line from yours."

My sister, who does plan to attend tonight’s home game, asked in the next e-mail, "7:00, right? At WEST."

I, sensing that S was not requesting enough information to clarify the situation, sent the following list of questions, which I wish we’d had the foresight to do before yesterday’s game.

1. At WEST High School of Knoxvegas. Tennessee, that is.

2. And, when they say it’s at West, they mean on the actual premises of the school? Not some community soccer fields several miles away.

3. And there’s not a West High School South and a West High School North? Some miles from one another?

4. And by 7:00 p.m., we mean 7:00 in the evening in the Eastern (U.S.) Time Zone? And both high schools are still on regular--not daylight savings--time?

5. And the GPS has heard of this high school, right? And won’t take you 13 miles in one direction when the high school was actually .2 miles in the opposite direction?

6. And the 13 misdirected miles do not go, in a meandering fashion, through the lonely, abandoned, rural parts of Outerwestfumblebuck, Tennessee? Far, far from things like high schools. And gas stations.

7. Let’s see…what else? Oh, and everyone has plenty of gas in their cars, right?

8. And people in the community near the high school

• Have heard of the high school and understand that they live near it.
• Have attended some high school, even if they didn’t graduate.
• Have heard of sports fields and have a general idea whether the local high school has them.
• Have heard of soccer, even if they’ve never seen it played before.
• Have heard of girls, even if they didn't know that girls are now allowed to be athletes.
• Will not give you directions when they cannot answer the previous questions in the affirmative.

But I’ll not beat a dead horse. We did, after all, make it for the final three minutes of the game.

I am sooOOooo tired!

Dear Sis,

I’ve given a lot of thought to the opinion you expressed the other day about my feeling exhausted all of the time. In case you don’t recall, you said that you think that my mantra, "I’m so tired. I’m soooooo tired. I’m so, so, so, so tired," chanted pretty much any time I’m awake, becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You think that if I’m getting enough sleep ("enough," of course, being a relative term; but I am getting more sleep than I used to), I really shouldn’t be tired all of the time, and therefore, I am tired only because I tell myself I’m tired.

Having given your remarks a lot of consideration, this morning I tried to make a change. I was ready for work. Well, I mean, I was dressed for work and pretty much ready to leave my house. I was not ready in the larger sense of the word. Oh, and I was already pretty late, so I needed to get a move on. This led, naturally, to me giving into the inexorable pull of the couch. I slumped onto my side, half prostrate, but with my feet still on the floor, and began the internal chant. 

After repeating the "I’m tired" chant for awhile, I thought about you, and I decided to give it a try. I changed my chant to "I’m so energized! I’m so eager and excited to go to work. I feel so energetic! I’m going to just bounce right up from this couch and go to work. I feel so...[I was trying to find a synonym for "energetic," but couldn’t]...energetic! I feel [pause for another word again]...bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! I’m just so excited about work today! I hate all of this lying around. I’m getting off the couch...NOW! [Still lying on couch.] Yes, I’m going to get up right...this...minute! [Not so much.] Because I’m so full of energy! I just feel great! I can’t wait to go to work. I’m the essence of pure energy! I’m getting up right now!"

This went on for quite some time, finally ending with, "I can't wait to go out and greet to-DAY!" This was so ludicrous and so over-the-top that I then croaked, out loud, "Oh, god,’ with such resignation that I sounded much more like Eeyore than like Tigger. Which made me laugh out loud. A dull, hollow laugh, mind you.

I did finally get up. I left for work. It was not one of my better arrival times. Oh, but hey! I went about 65 mph the whole way and stayed out of the fast lane. So that was good. Right?

[Except for the two driving incidents that I *didn't* tell you about. And you don't want to know. The ending was, "I lived."]

Have a blessed day!

Love, 

Sis

I need to turn off the TV more often and...

Read.
Write.
Draw.
Color.
Play.
Go outside.
Sit quietly.
Drink iced tea.
Lie in the hammock.
Think.
Look around me...

...and enjoy beauty

...at the reflections in the pond

...at the fading light of the sunset

...at the clouds

...at the lights of the last few fireflies of summer.

Pray.
Walk.
Breathe.
Tell myself a story.
Go say hi to the horses.
Listen...

...to the brook

...to the cicadas

...to the still, small voice of God

...to the tree leaves rustling in the breeze

...to the frogs as they come out of hiding and join the cicadas

...and after that--finally--to the silence.

Watch dusk turn into dark...

And the lights of the few houses visible from our farm blink into being.

Appreciate more.
Gripe less.
Enjoy being here.
Enjoy being.
Enjoy.

And so I did.

I love the Olympic Games! I can't wait till they're over!

Dear Olympics:

I love you. Really, I do.

Jumping, diving, spinning, running, grunting, bouncing, punching, spiking, sweating, throwing, splashing, bench-pressing, lifting, rowing, you make for a frenetic companion as you “verb” your way through life, yet you never seem to tire. I, though, over the years, have slowed down. Much like the characters in J. M. Barrie's classic tale (set, of course, in London--when not in Neverland), you, Peter, have remained young, while I, Wendy, have grown up. And though I won't yet say that I've grown old, I've become middle-aged. I'm tired, Olympics. I'm really tired. I just can't take your youthful pace anymore.

The last two weeks have been absolutely magical. Thrilling. Exhilarating. You have grabbed my attention and never let it go. I'ts been a heart-stopping, breathtaking adventure. That's why what I have to say next is going to come as a shock to you.

Please go away. Now.

You have wrecked my physical, mental, and emotional health. I have stayed up way too late ever since you came back into my life. I am in physical pain from sleep deprivation. You know how they say that 300 million cells in our bodies die every minute? Well, I can actually *feel* them dying. I didn't know that was even possible. They actually scream as they expire. I think that other people can even hear them. It's kind of embarrassing. I can also feel dying neurons as they crash into the walls of my brain, much like X-wing fighters leaving a trail of sparks as they are annihilated as they bounce off the Death Star and then into the darkness of space. You are--quite literally--killing me. When I was younger, I looked forward to your visits. But I could take it then. I could withstand a couple of weeks with no sleep. Not so anymore, dear Olympics. I am older. I've been worn down by years of sleep deprivation, worry, late-night study sessions, and all sorts of other foolishness.

Now, as I try to stay awake to watch one more dive, one more race, one more match, my body screams in pain. I've heard the expression before but only rarely experienced it: “Too tired to sleep.” I lie there, with the TV on, lest I miss one record-breaking moment of you, but willing myself to fall asleep. However, even when I can quiet my thoughts for a moment, I still hear a noise. It's a steady buzzing sound. And then I realize what it is. It's an alarm that is built into our brains as we form in our mothers' wombs. Most people will never hear this alarm. That's because it signals when we have reached our Lifetime Maximum Allowable Level of Sleep Deprivation. It's a frightening sound, my dear Olympics, because once that alarm goes off, it means that each minute of further lack of sleep in my life will bring dire consequences.

So, as much as I love you, it is time for you to go. Come back in a couple of years. I'll be well rested by then, I hope. I'll be waiting for you. But for now, please, just go. Let's meet one more time, perhaps tomorrow afternoon, for a goodbye celebration. And then we must part, neither of us looking back. You, Olympics, will go with a bounce in your step, looking toward a bright and energetic future. I...I will be in a coma.

With much love,

A lifelong devotee

Itty, bitty mite facts #2

The bad news:

"Dust mites cause several forms of allergic diseases, including hay fever, asthma and eczema and are known to aggravate atopic dermatitis. Mites are usually found in warm and humid locations, including beds. It is thought that inhalation of mites during sleep* exposes the human body to some antigens that eventually induce hypersensitivity reaction. Dust mite allergens are thought to be among the heaviest dust allergens."

--wikipedia/mite

[Emphasis added by KB.]


The good news:

Ten minutes in a household clothes dryer at lethal temperatures [near 105 °C (221 °F)] has been shown to be sufficient to kill all the dust mites in bedding.

--wikipedia/house dust mite

*One last little not-related-to-dust-mites-but-pretty-close story. This is not for the squeamish, but if you clicked on a post about dust mites, and you read the above info and you're still reading, I don't think that you are too squeamish.

A year or so ago, my then-18-year-old nephew S woke up with a hellacious ear ache. I think that it woke him up in the night, which, with S, is saying something, since he sleeps like the dead. Actually, his mother thinks that there are dead people who would be easier to wake up than her son S. I think that there may have even been a little bit of blood trickling from his ear. He was in so much pain that his mom took him to the ER right away. The ER doctor examined S's ear and diagnosed the problem as a bug (or spider) bite on his eardrum. Very painful, the doctor says, but not much we can do about it, and sent S home with pain relievers.

Strange fact #1: This was the second time in S's 18 short years on earth that this has happened to him.

Disturbing fact #1: The ER doctor told S and his mom, "When insects and spiders crawl into our ears while we sleep, if we move around or do something that scares them, they sometimes bite whatever is handy." My sister, S's mom, blinked hard and said,

"When they crawl into our ears while we're asleep? Not if..." To which the doctor responded, "Oh, yeah. Things crawl into our ears and mouth all the time when we're asleep."

S, his mom, and I now all sleep with ear plugs in and surgical tape across our mouths.

Men Are From Bruno Mars, Women Are From Venus Williams

I admit that I don't keep up with contemporary music much. I hear it only when I'm out in public somewhere where they play music in the background, when I'm riding in someone else's car, when a Young Person is riding in my car and hijacks the sound system, and so forth. My nieces and nephews used to keep me up on the latest music, but most of them haven't needed me to drive them anywhere in a long time.

It seems like I hear this song, Grenade, sung by Bruno Mars, a lot. I've heard it all over the place, so I guess it's a popular song. I also don't know whether young Mr. Mars is wildly popular right now or if he's on the B team. I don't mean to offend any of his fans by saying that, I'm just trying to establish how truly out of touch I am with contemporary music (actually, with contemporary culture in general).

Every time I hear Grenade, I am always struck by its lyrics. As “research” for this post, I watched the video on Youtube. I will give you this, Bruno Mars not only has a beautiful, smooth singing voice, but he's also quite easy on the eyes.

I realize that Grenade is a “my woman done me wrong” song. According to the lyrics, he really did get a bad one. But every time I hear the song, the “heartless bitch” theme takes a back seat to the other theme: that the bravest, most significant, most manly act that a man can do for the woman he loves is to take a bullet for her.  Grenade video

Years ago, a good friend of mine remarked that her husband has told her many times that, if she or any of their children were ever in danger—for example, being held at gunpoint—it was his duty to jump in front of them and give his life for theirs. He took this duty quite seriously, and he was prepared to make that sacrifice without hesitation. My friend told me, “This from the man who will sit, watching TV, while I have to make five trips, struggling in with the groceries! You know, I'd rather have the help with the groceries and take care of myself if I'm ever being held at gunpoint.”

She also pointed out that he gets the best part of the deal. The “bullet day” is probably never going to come. But the groceries are always going to need to be brought in. So, which is the bigger sacrifice?

The thing is, I think that some men do have this romantic notion that saying that they would take a bullet for their beloved is this huge gesture that demonstrates the depth and breadth of their love. Just like saying they'd give her the moon and the stars. Well, for one thing, there's saying, and then there's doing. And, as my friend pointed out, for most couples, this is a gesture that is never going to have to be acted upon.

Some people postulate that men are actually the romantics, whereas women are the practical ones. I think it may be true. I think that many women value the practical action over the romantic notion. I don't mean that men are being disingenuous in making their sweeping romantic gestures. I think that their hearts are really in it, and I think that they feel deflated when their wife or girlfriend responds with a practical suggestion to one of their quite sincere, brave, and romantic offers. Both are speaking languages of love. The problem is, they're speaking their own love language to a person whose ears are deaf to it. Women would probably do better to offer more romantic responses to their men's Great Gestures, and men would probably do better if, rather than talking about the moon and the stars, they unloaded the dishwasher without being asked.

What men say (Grenade lyrics):

            What women think:

...I'd catch a grenade for ya

Would you make dinner or wash the dishes for me?

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

Could you give me a hand with these groceries?

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

How about fixing the sink drain like you said you would?

You know I'd do anything for ya

Anything? How do you feel about vacuuming?

I would go through all this pain

Skip the pain. Listen to me—not the TV—for just one hour.

Take a bullet straight through my brain

Ick. And you think that changing the baby's diaper is disgusting?

Yes I would die for you, baby

You don't have to die, but if you lived for me

But you won't do the same

I will do the same.

I would go through all this pain

You want pain? Let's clean out the garage.

Yes, I would die for you, baby

If you are willing to give your life for me,

Are you willing to live your life for me?

But you won't do the same

           And I'd love to do the same.

Who Knew They Had Balls? Resistentialism & the Need for Constant Vigilance

I saw this product in a store the other day, and I thought that it explains a lot in regard to the theory that inanimate objects are out to get us. The theory, called Resistentialism, is one to which I have subscribed for most of my life.

Wikipedia describes it thusly:

Resistentialism is a jocular theory to describe "seemingly spiteful behavior manifested by inanimate objects."^[1] For example, objects that cause problems (like lost keys or a fleeing bouncy ball) exhibit a high degree of malice toward humans and lend support to resistentialist beliefs. In other words, a war is being fought between humans and inanimate objects, and all the little annoyances objects give people throughout the day are battles between the two. The term was coined by humorist Paul Jenningsin a piece titled "Report on Resistentialism", published in The Spectator in 1948^[2] and reprinted in The New York Times.^[3] The movement is a spoof of existentialism in general, and Jean-Paul Sartre in particular (Jennings identifies the inventor of Resistentialism as Pierre-Marie Ventre). The slogan of Resistentialism is "Les choses sont contre nous" -- "Things are against us".

It does not surprise me that things are out to get us. What does surprise me is that there are so many people who do not believe it. My dad didn't. Nor do a couple of my brothers (although my mom, my sister, and my brother M are in the know). Over time, I discovered that there are lots of people out there who think that inanimate objects are, in fact, inanimate and do not plot our downfall, in spite of the overwhelming amount of evidence to the contrary. My sister-in-law, SW (who is married to my brother R, who is not a believer), knows good and well that things are, indeed, out to get us. I'm glad that at least one of them gets it, as she can then try to defend her poor, misguided husband from the onslaught of attacks from "things."

But my brother is not the only one who doesn't believe. Ironically, when I googled "things are out to get us" (because I can never remember the word for this phenomenon), more than half of the results were for-real professional psychological resources to "help" me overcome my fear that inanimate objects have a life of their own and that they hatch malevolent schemes against us. They have obviously gotten the psychiatric world into their corner: a powerful move on their part, considering that mental health professionals can join the inanimate objects and the other human nonbelievers in convincing us that this notion that things are out to get us is "all in our heads." A little therapy, a few meds, a little reprogramming, and you'll be good as new. But many of us have escaped this societal brainwashing, and we are ever vigilant to protect ourselves and others from this threat.

Back to the picture. This gives me hope that my species is not so clueless as it seems. Maybe we have turned a corner, and now we are not just acting defensively but have taken an offensive stand. It looks like we are out to get the inanimate objects before they can get to us. Certainly, harvesting their balls--and then displaying them on store shelves like the heads of our enemies on a pike at the main gate into the city--should be a move in the right direction. It not only humiliates them but it also keeps them from procreating. That's what they get for "disappearing" our socks--only one of a pair--for generations.

I hope to see more products like this in the stores and "advertised on TV!" in the future. Maybe this will finally put a stop to chair legs that grab our bare toes, keys that creep off into dark corners when we know that we "left them right here," and TV remote controllers that do the same thing as keys, except that they prefer nice, soft hiding places, deep between the cushions of the living room furniture. Do you think it a coincidence that toilets back up on Thanksgiving Day when you have a houseful of guests? No, they know that you will have to pay about $750 an hour for a plumber who will come out on a holiday—but they’ve got you by the…where they want you: completely subjugated to them. Is it happenstance that your computer gets the blue screen of death with the most recent changes to your doctoral thesis on its hard drive? (You knew you should have backed it up to a jump drive, but you couldn’t find one handy, and you thought, “No big deal, I’ll do it in the morning.”) This computer had always acted in a trustworthy manner before and had never given you any reason to think that it was unreliable. That’s how they do it, you see. They’re very sneaky. In fact, computers and other digital technologies have their own section in the Inanimate Objects’ Manual of How to Screw With People’s Minds.


I have all sorts of stories of being vexed by machines and other things. I once almost smashed a recalcitrant VCR with a hammer. Now, admittedly, I shouldn’t have been working on a VCR with a hammer to begin with, but it had come to that. Fortunately, just before I took the hammer to it to “fix” it for good, I recalled that it wasn’t my VCR, but one I’d borrowed from a friend. I was so angry at it that I literally had to leave the room. Speaking of hammers, I once pounded the fuel filter casing off of the carburetor of my old Ford by using the wrench—with which I was trying to remove the filter in the traditional way—as a surrogate hammer. Another time, I almost launched a hammer through a large picture window because whatever project I was working on was not cooperating with me. I was standing on the back of the couch, which I’d pulled out several feet away from the wall (what on earth *was* I doing? I have no recollection now, but it involved using a hammer on the wall above the window.) The materials required by this project were not only not cooperating, but they were taunting me. In a rage, I pulled the hammer back over my shoulder, took aim at the big window, and, just as I prepared to fling it, I had a rare moment of clarity that allowed me to assess the satisfaction:consequences ratio of this act. It was a rental house. It belonged to my brother’s boss who was renting it to him at a very low cost. My brother R, had graciously allowed me to move in with him when I was in a housing crisis.  R would be dismayed to come home to find the living room furniture in disarray, the picture window with a large hole in it, and me, balled up on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, and saying something like, “They’re out to get me, they’re out to get me, they’re out….” My quick mental analysis worked. I put the hammer down, went to my bedroom, and proceeded to throw all of the lightweight things I could find at the wall. It wasn't as satisfying, but it also didn't have negative consequences.


Now you can see why I think that this is a very real threat to the human race and not just some sort of psychological issue. Please, friends. Be ever watchful. Warn others. Carry a hammer.

Itty Bitty Mite Facts #1

Okay, I admit it. I'm a little bit obsessed with mites. I wrote about them in the very long post, "The Itch List" (summer 2011), but I continue to think about mites a lot, whereas I don't think about mosquitoes and poison ivy all of the time. Mites just fascinate me. We and all of our stuff are just crawling with the little buggers, and there's not much we can do about it.

But, in keeping with the size of my subject, I'm trying to keep this post extremely short. So, with no further ado, here's Mite Fact #1. Yes, there will be more. If the subject of dust (or other types of) mites makes you squeamish, it will be easy to avoid these posts because they'll all have the words "Mite Facts" in the title.

"We may not realize it, but each one of us is a walking ecosystem. Minuscule, eight-legged Demodex mites nestle head down inside the follicles of the eyelashes, feasting unnoticed on skin cells. Microscopic bacteria live on the tongue, teeth, and skin and in the intestine*. Dormant viruses like herpes simplex may loiter for years inside nerve cells."   

--from discovermagazine.com

Evelyn Bryan Johnson, Aviation Pioneer, Dies at 102

Just saw this in the Knoxville News Sentinel. If you don't live in East Tennessee, you have probably never heard of Evelyn Bryan Johnson, but she was truly an aviation pioneer. If it had wings or rotors, Evelyn could fly it. She was especially committed to making aviation accessible and safe for everyone involved in it. This quote from the linked article pretty much says it all, "She is said to have logged more flight hours, trained more pilots and given more Federal Aviation Administration exams than any other pilot on the planet."

I feel very honored that I received my private pilot's license from Evelyn. Through a fluke of the weather, I had to fly to the Morristown airport to do my flight exam and check ride. Morristown was Evelyn's flight base and where she worked as the airport manager and as an FAA examiner. I had heard of her before and was in awe of her but had never met her before. My awe at having her as my flight examiner made me all the more nervous about the test! I passed with "flying" colors, and Evelyn was so kind to me. That's the only time I ever met her, but I will never forget it. She was an amazing lady. At the age of 97, Evelyn lost her left leg in a car accident. She later returned to work as the airport manager. She was truly an inspiration to everyone who knew her, and to those in the aviation world in particular.

If you're interested, you can read more about Evelyn in the linked obit/article below, and in the links that are given in that article as well.

 

http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2012/may/11/aviation-legend-evelyn-bryan-johnson-dies-102/

Dear Janelle (#2)

May 3, 2012

Dear Janelle,

You have been "gone to California" (my new euphemism for "dead") for exactly two weeks now.

It is really weird to be writing an obituary for someone whom I don’t actually believe is dead. It’s fun to think about you and to remember so many good times and funny stories about you. To think about what was important to you and how much you genuinely cared about people and issues that mattered to you. So many of our memories of you revolve around laughter and singing. You’d like that, I know.

But the reason that we’re all thinking about you is that we don’t have you with us anymore, and we’re trying to encapsulate your life in a few hundred words or so. Not a single one of us has actually come to terms with that yet. You had such a joie de vivre, such childlike wonder at the world around you, you were so *alive* that none of us can imagine you not alive. "Janelle" and "dead" just don’t belong in the same sentence. It’s an oxymoron. The very essence of "Janelle" is "alive."

So, I sit here, writing your obituary, waiting for your return from California.

In fact, Rusty and I have been exchanging e-mails as we edit your obit. A question came up about exactly when you moved to the East Coast. My recollection is that you first moved to Atlanta and then migrated to Tennessee, where the Boy was. So, we’ve been trying to decide at least a year when that happened, if we can’t conjure up the exact date. As I wrote my last e-mail to Rusty on this subject, I thought, "Well, let's just settle this by asking Janelle. She'll remember exactly when she moved out here."

Sigh.

Dave D. says, "You never get over it; you just get used to it."

Dear Janelle

May 1, 2012

Dear Janelle,

I know that, wherever you are, you are happy. You went out like everyone would like to go out. It was peaceful and painless. We all agree that it was absolutely the best thing for you, and the way you would have wanted to go.

For the rest of us, though, it has been very hard. In my opinion, a person should not just leave like that. Without saying goodbye or telling anyone. It was quite a shock. It’s rude, even. Actually, you did it like the way you went to bed during parties. You just quietly slipped away because you didn’t want the fun to stop just because you were going to go to sleep.

But still.

I mean, we weren’t done with you yet. I had things to talk to you about. No, not anything specific that I can think of right now. I mean, in the future. We had all kinds of stuff to talk about. And laugh about. And make fun of. And cool words to marvel over. Plus, we hadn’t finished figuring Mikey out yet.

And what are the Burkes--especially the Knoxville Burkes-–supposed to do now? You know how disorganized and incompetent we are. We can each barely take care of ourselves. We certainly can’t take care of ourselves and mom and each other. I can do the communication part, like I’ve always done. "Hey, everyone, next Thursday is the anniversary of mom and dad’s anniversary. Mom would probably like to go out to dinner and/or get a phone call or something that day."

But you were always the one who organized the actual plan. If it hadn’t been for you, we would have never gotten the folks’ 50^th anniversary celebration off the ground. We would have started too late, for one thing–if at all. We Burkes are not planners-ahead, as you well know. In fact, we’re not even that good at planning when the moment is absolutely upon us. You know how you always hated all of the standing around in the driveway, with everyone saying, "I don’t know. Where do you want to go?" You’d finally get mad enough that, in spite of your resolve not to be the one to make the decision, you would say, "Okay, dammit, we’ll go to Sullivan’s." (Or wherever.)

You were the Burke Herder. We couldn’t plan our way out of a paper bag, and you know it. You have really left us in the lurch. I mean, honestly. It’s been close to two weeks since you died, and you know what? I haven’t called my mother even once! I keep meaning to, but then I forget.

You don’t just go and die and leave a bunch of Burkes behind to plan a funeral. Good grief! We have no idea what we’re doing! If it weren’t for Patti, Michael and Maryl would’ve never even gotten out to California. Thankfully, one of your friends has the planning gene and used it on our behalf. But I already tried to talk her into taking over the care and feeding of my mother, and she didn’t take the bait.

When I look around your house, I see all of the things you left undone. Because you were coming right back and would attend to them then. You were apparently sorting all of the most recent mail and bills on the dining room table that y’all rarely ever used (for dining, that is). You had more flowers to plant.

You didn’t like the idea of leaving a mess behind when you died. You had told me–jokingly–many times that that’s why you hadn’t committed suicide after you and John C. got divorced. You couldn’t think of a non-messy way to do it (to do it right, that is), and that meant that some poor soul would have to come along after you and clean up the mess. So, what the hell, you decided. Might as well live.

Well, this time, you didn’t decide to live. You decided to leave. (Did you even know?) And here we are. Bereft.

Hummmppphhh. (As you would have said.)

The Phone Call

One phone call can change your life.

“You have a new grandbaby!”

“This is the highway patrol. We’re sorry, but your son has been...”

“I asked, and she said yes!”

"Congratulations! You're a winner!" (You should hang up on this one immediately.)

The call came at 1:49 p.m. on Thursday, April 19. It was from my brother M. Usually,  M's wife, Janelle, would call me if we needed to discuss something. But I knew that Janelle had left just the day before for California, to help her brother care for their father, who is in the hospital with double pneumonia, and their third stepmother, who is in a different wing of the same hospital, suffering from kidney failure. Janelle, a caregiver at heart, had been here last weekend, with my and M’s mom, who was also in the hospital. Mom is doing much better, and Janelle felt that she really must get to her father’s side as quickly as possible. It had been a long hard week for her brother and his wife.

So, when my brother called and said, “Janelle’s dad...” I filled in the rest of the sentence myself. Has died. Oh, I’m so sorry for Janelle and Butch. My brother repeated himself: “Janelle’s dead. She died in her sleep last night.” We did a long round of me saying things like “What?” “I don’t understand.” “You’re not saying that right. You mean Janelle’s *dad*.” “I don’t believe it.” And M saying, “No, you heard me right.” “No, I mean Janelle.” “I don’t understand either.” and “I don’t believe it either.” His voice was as calm as if he’d called me to tell me about the progress of his vegetable garden.

M had that same conversation at least 20 times on Thursday. Having to calmly repeat the information that his wife of 28 years had died, across the country, just that morning. He had to repeatedly try to convince each person he called that the news was true, though he hardly believed it himself.

We all gathered at M & Janelle's house throughout the day. Family, longtime friends, co-workers (M's, Janelle's, and their "adopted" daughter's), anyone who knew and loved M and Janelle. There was a never-ending--and welcome--stream all day long and late into the night. They brought food, love, comfort, stories, grief, and disbelief.

This post is not for the purpose of eulogizing Janelle. That will come later. This post isn't even about grief, really. This is about shock and disbelief and the ability of the human brain to suspend reality.

Because Janelle's death happened all the way across the country, and none of us had any physical evidence that she was really dead, the idea was completely abstract, and surreal. 

All day long, my brain grappled with this concept--for that's all it was--that my dearly loved sister-in-law really was dead and that I would never see her or talk to her on this earth again. 

At first, my brain would not even allow such thoughts. Any time I tried to entertain them, I would unconsciously shake my head or blink my eyes to get rid of them. Any time that someone referred to Janelle in the past tense, any time I thought, "she's gone." any time that I saw her things around the house (and she is all over that house) and thought, "she won't be back to enjoy them," I would shake off the thought or think, "That's just wrong."

That feeling, that this just wasn't right, that it couldn't possibly be true, that everything was all wrong, persisted for all of us, all day Thursday. It made me marvel that the human brain, presented with factual information, could completely reject it and cling to a comfortable untruth. We use the expression, "I can't wrap my brain around this…" all the time. On Thursday, it was quite true. None of us could wrap our brains around this new, unwanted information. We knew it to be true. We knew that Janelle's brother was reliable and that there was no reason why he would perpetrate such a cruel lie. So, it had to be true. But it wasn't right. It didn't fit with anything we knew about Janelle. It just couldn't be true.

Janelle planted flowers in her garden last weekend. She hugged M at the airport when she left, and told him she'd see him next Saturday. She had plans for the near future, she'd be back, she had a job to go to, she had more flowers to plant, kitties to feed, friends to drink wine with. She wouldn't have just left all of that.

I have so many questions. Most of them for Janelle. I need to talk to her about this. I need for her to walk into the room and make sense of all of this. But there seem to be no answers.

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

When you ask a child what he or she wants to be, they always answer with jobs that have simple, one-word names that everyone has heard of. Ballerina. Firefighter. Astronaut. Teacher. Policeman. Doctor. No little kid ever says, "I want to be an actuary when I grow up." Or Public Information Manager, or Financial Advisor, or Amortization Clerk. Or thousands of other career opportunities that their little brains have never even heard of and couldn’t wrap themselves around if they had. Yet many of those little children are doomed to become amortization clerks or insurance salespeople or dental hygienists.

I remember going to the dentist when I was in the beginning of my career in publishing. The hygienist was cleaning my teeth, and–as they are wont to do–she was asking me questions while she alternately scraped my teeth with a medieval instrument of torture and blasted them with frigid water. Why do they do this (ask questions, that is, not the scraping and blasting)? Can’t they see that this is not a good time for us to be trying to answer questions? They should just develop some kind of stand-up routine that they can perform for you, their captive–and mute–audience. It could prepare them for a second career.

Anyway, she had asked me what I did for a living. I told her that I was a proofreader. She asked what that was, and I explained to her that I read magazine articles, looking for and marking mistakes. She said, "Ugh!" in real disgust. "I could never do that! What an awful job!"

So, the next time I could speak without drooling, I said, "This, from someone who sticks her hands in other people’s mouths and scrapes six months’ worth of dirt off their teeth? Good grief!" And she said, "Oh! I love my job! It’s the best! But reading all day long and having to correct the mistakes? Ugh."

And that is why some of the kindergartners whom you talk to about their future jobs will end up happily becoming dental hygienists. Or, worse, apparently, proofreaders.

Good Friday

I've been back home in beautiful East Tennessee for about two and a half weeks. I'm so glad to be home. Being away for three months, and returning just as the area bursts into late spring sunshine and flowers--I  really do live in paradise.

However, my life sometimes seems to be unnecessarily eventful. The last week was a good example.

Monday: Went to the doctor and finally got a diagnosis on the ankle that started hurting while I was in Boston. By the time I left, *both* ankles were hurting. I've got tendonitis in both and have been referred to physical therapy.

Tuesday: Had a wardrobe malfunction that caused me to be running late for an important early appointment. Got out to the garage, only to discover that the car battery was dead. After several abortive attempts to roll-start it down the driveway (something I've never had trouble doing before), we finally jumped it off. Missed my early appointment and was late to work.

Wednesday: An idiot backed his Jeep into my car at a red light, took off, and then--when I caught up with him--he cussed me up one side and down the other. (For more on that story, see post, "Is It a Crime to Be a Verbally Abusive Jerk?" April 17, 2012)

Thursday: Left my coat in a bathroom at work (which is a large building in the inner city that is open to the public). Lost and found was closed when I left because all other staff were gone by then. Got to my car and remembered that my car keys had been in coat pocket. Had to go around building, peering in doors and windows, to find a custodian to let me in. Searched building, found coat, and left--late--for ESL. Three hours later, after ESL is over, I discovered that I'd locked the same keys in the trunk of the car. Had to get a ride home, get my extra key, and then get another ride back to church.

Friday: Good day!

Saturday: My beloved Molly, an indoor cat, has gone missing. I've searched the house high and low. She must have somehow slipped out when I came in the night before. I've searched everywhere outside I can think of, with no luck. I think I broke a toe during my search for her. Later in the day, my mom went to the ER and was finally admitted to the hospital to get her blood pressure under control.

I guess I should focus on Friday. It really was a beautiful day. And all of those other days--they had their high spots, too, I'm sure. I just reported the low points here, but it's not like every day was like that all day long.

Is It a Crime to Be a Verbally Abusive Jerk?

Here are the facts:

•  Driver in Jeep Grand Cherokee in front of me at a red light backs into the front end of my car.
• Even after he makes solid contact with my front bumper, he continues to rev engine until his bumper pops over my bumper onto the top of my car.
• I was laying on the horn, from the time he first put his car into reverse until...
• Finally realizing what he’s done, he swerves into the right-hand lane, which is a right-turn-only lane.
• He takes off like a bat out of hell.
• I take off after him (my car is not seriously damaged, but I haven’t seen it yet, so I don’t know).
• I catch up to him, overtake him, and park my car diagonally in front of him so that he can’t get away.
• He jumps out of his vehicle, hurling invectives at me, of a sort that I have *never* heard come out of another person’s mouth. He used every gender-specific crude or foul word toward women that I have ever heard of, and perhaps some I’ve never even heard before.
• His veins were popping out on his forehead and neck.
• He tells me I’m a g**damn idiot (several times, in fact).
• Yeah, really.
• His premise is that he wasn’t trying to get away, he was merely getting out of traffic so that we could exchange info without tying up traffic.
• Yeah, right.
• These are the sum total of words I say to him during our “conversation,” and these are precise quotes: “You hit my car.” and “Oh, I will.” (When he screamed that I could call the g**damn police, and I could call his g**damn insurance company.)
• He screamed at me at the top of his lungs for quite a long time.
• I got into my car because I was afraid that his assault would become physical (however, the top was down, so my car didn’t offer that much protection).
• He continued screaming at me.
• I called the police.
• The driver, Robert R., stopped screaming, got into his vehicle, and we waited for the cops to come.
• The cops cited Robert R. for some sort of irresponsible driving for backing into me at a red light.
• Despite my protests, the cops did *not* charge Robert R. with hit and run.
• They also did not cite him, nor did they even say anything stern to him, about his verbal assault.
• They told me that I don’t have much recourse in the verbal assault matter.
• Robert R. does have good insurance.
• His insurance company’s claims adjuster came out and looked at my car.
• He says that the bumper does not need to be replaced, and he waxed off the scuff marks that were left on the top of the car from when Robert R.’s car popped over my bumper.
• He calculates that the total of my damage/losses is $86.84 (damage to a car-dealer tag and tag holder on the front end of the car).
• I think that he’s being generous, given that he says that’s all the damage there is. But I think that, with just a few well-placed words, and no foul language, I got him to understand that his client is a jerk.

These are my opinions:

• Robert R is a liar.
• Robert R has a major anger-management problem and possibly hates women.
• Robert R has the intelligence of a gnat. However, to make up for this deficiency, he has the vocabulary of a sailor on meth.
• Robert R has the driving skills of a drunken chimpanzee.
• Robert R should’ve gotten stuck with way more than one traffic ticket for backing into my car and an insurance bill of $86.84.

And, not to get all preachy on you, but–lacking legal or civil recourse–it gives me solace to know that God knows what’s what.

The Bible says:

• Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes.
• But the Lord laughs at the wicked, for he knows their day is coming.
• The words of their mouths are wicked and deceitful; they fail to act wisely or do good.
• How long, LORD, how long will the wicked be jubilant?
• Blessings crown the head of the righteous, but violence overwhelms the mouth of the wicked.
• The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life, but the mouth of the wicked conceals violence.
• The wages of the righteous is life, but the earnings of the wicked are sin and death.
• The tongue of the righteous is choice silver, but the heart of the wicked is of little value.
• And so on in that vein.

And that’s all that I have to say about that.