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