A Short Note to Followers of Christ

Brothers and Sisters,

As followers of Christ:

It is our place to lift people up.

Not beat them up.

We are to shine the light,

Not curse the darkness.

Jesus told us to share the good news about him,

Not to use him to condemn others who haven't yet believed (and might never).

He told us to testify for him,

Not to win arguments about him.

He told us to seek peace,

Not inflame anger.

He told us to go forth and make disciples,

not to go out, hurling invectives that create haters.

He told us to love those who hate us.

He told us to forgive those who do us wrong.

He told us to be like him. (Seems like I recall that he gave up his life for those who hated him.)

And he probably meant for us to do all of this stuff,

Even on the Internet.

Amazon at 3:30 a.m.: For All of Your Iceberg and Other Arctic Needs

Okay, so, I'm up at 3:30 a.m. with nothing much to do. Can't sleep. It could have something to do with the large meal that I ate at a local Mexican restaurant in Williamsburg, KY. It was delicious; perhaps even worth the insomnia now.

Even though I am wide awake, I don't want to awaken SBM, sleeping soundly in the bed next to mine, so I can't turn on the TV. Probably not much on at this hour anyway. Not that I want to watch, anyway. S, who is my favorite sister and my lifelong friend, has many wonderful qualities. None of them show up when she is awakened in the wee hours of the morning for no good reason. She requires a full eight hours of sleep every night and becomes beyond grumpy when she doesn't get it. I mean, REALLY grumpy.

So, I'm trying to just quietly surf the Internet, with the laptop facing away from her bed so that the light won't bother her. I'm glad that one of her wonderful qualities is that she sleeps quite soundly.

But, on to the real reason for this post. After checking FB (not many of my friends are on at this hour--not even the ones in far-flung time zones) and email, I still needed something to do. I don't feel like reading, so blog-surfing is out. So, I decided to do some window-shopping. Can't think of anything that I want or need to buy, so I just went to Amazon to look at random things.

Well, talk about random. This thing I found, right away, is TOTALLY and magnificently random. How does one even find an inflatable 14-foot inflatable iceberg/climbing wall/water slide? Well, a couple of weeks ago, I looked at grass trimmers on Amazon. You know how the site shows you items along the lines of the latest products you viewed? Well, there among all of the grass trimmers and accessories, was a $6,107.02 inflatable iceberg. Who knew that anyone even made such a thing, or that it could be had for such a reasonable price? I won't spend $6,000 on a car, but I sure would spend that much (plus the additional $107.02) to be the only person on my block with a large inflatable iceberg. (Not to mention climbing wall and water slide.)

I read the product description to see if it was for real. The jury is still out on that. The listing notes, "Only one in stock. More coming soon!" Well, guys, I'm guessing that you're not going to need to start cranking these things out at high volume any time soon. Although I'm sure that there are a few penguins who might be wanting to order fake icebergs in light of what global climate change is doing to their habitat. (I think that they would especially enjoy the water slide, though I'm not sure that the climbing wall would be that useful to them.)

I read all of the reviews, all of which were bogus but a lot of fun to read.

So, with no further ado, I give you...the 14-foot inflatable iceberg (slash climbing wall slash water slide). Just in case you are feeling wide awake at a ridiculous hour of the morning and need something to do.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004ZBVGY4/ref=s9_simh_gw_p86_d8_i3?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-3&pf_rd_r=0NCAWGXREY2T6YNZZJ2R&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1688200422&pf_rd_i=507846

Car-Shopping Is Fun!

Car-shopping is fun! And sometimes incomprehensible!

For example, let's take a look at this random listing from craigslist:

1968 american rambler - $2500

very original 4dr 6 cly 3 speed with over drive white blue int have original papers int is great dash perfect trunk great call will text pic 865 315 4007 it has 59242 real miles

Okay, just forget the fact that the guy doesn't understand the use of punctuation (or got one of those keyboards that doesn't have any punctuation keys on it). 

We are, of course, to understand the abbreviations, as any good reader of classifieds should. Even when they're misspelled so that it looks like the car has 6 clays, not cylinders, but other than that, the standard shorthand is used.

I am glad to know that the white/blue interior looks great, that the dashboard is perfect, and that the trunk is great (I would have preferred to hear that the trunk was wonderful, or fabulous, or capacious, though that might have been giving away too much info). I wonder if the car runs?

My favorite turn of phrase is, "Very original." I'm glad it's not one of those "sort of originals." 

That reminds me of the name of the repair shop that I recently helped my friend take her Jeep to. It's called Just Jeeps & More. Do they know what "Just" means?

Next fave in the ad is the last few words, "59242 real miles." That's pretty profound, if you think about it. How many of us know how many *real* miles we've covered? Of course, it reminds me of that beautifully written short story by Raymond Carver, "Are These Actual Miles?"

You might be able to see why, now, it has been close to two months, and I still haven't found a replacement for my wrecked Miata. It takes awhile to thoroughly digest these ads.

Southern Exposure

A visiting pastor from Ohio told this story to our congregation of East Tennessee Presbyterians. The pastor, who found Southern ways strange and accents almost incomprehensible, had found himself transplanted to Tennessee, and he often used examples of his confusion over all things Southern as illustrations in his sermons. He sometimes referred to the place where he’d found himself as the “Deep South.” 

Finally, after one of many such references had been made from the pulpit, an old man from Mississippi who had been transplanted to East Tennessee himself to live with his daughter and her family (and apparently was none too happy about it), went to the pastor after the day’s service. 

The Mississippian said to the pastor, “Suh, you often refer to Tennessee as the Deep South. Tennessee is not the Deep South. Tennessee is not the South.  Tennessee is not even the beginning of the South. Suh, Tennessee is the bottom of the Nawth!”

To read more on this story, go here: http://longinvolvedstories.blogspot.com/2013/02/where-is-south-anyway.html

I Want That Thing That Is Not Really That Thing

I pulled up to the Starbucks drive-through window and ordered a salted caramel hot chocolate.

Long silence.

Then I realized that that might have just been a holiday flavor, so I asked if that was the case.

SB Barista: No. We still have it. Just without the salt.

KB: You have the salted caramel without the salt?

SB: Yes. Well, no. We have the drink. But it was a holiday flavor [Ah!]. But we’re out of the salt crystals that go on top.

KB: Ooooookkkkay.

SB: The caramel hot chocolate is the same drink, just without the salt.

KB: Okay. I’ll have that then.

SB: It’s the same drink once you get past the caramel topping and the whipped cream.

KB: Got it. I’ll have that.

***

This reminds me of one of my and my sister’s favorite stories about our dad. Dad had a wit that was as dry as the Sahara, and was delivered with such flat affect that almost no one could tell for sure when he was joking and when he was serious. (This combination of humor and poker face continued to the end of his life, in spite of his dementia, which threw off many a nurse involved in his care. They would mistake his humor for confusion.)

Oh, before I embark on the story of Daddy Mac’s hammer, I have to give the back story that my maternal grandfather–dad’s father-in-law–known to all as “Daddy Mac” was a revered and larger-than-life character in our family. His sons-in-law loved him as dearly as his three daughters did, and though Daddy Mac had died before most of us grandkids were born, our childhood was so rife with stories about the man–his boyhood, his humor, and his adages (which were many) that we felt as if we’d known him. He was a venerable person in our eyes.

Now, cut to many years later. My sister and I, in our midteens, were hanging out in the kitchen, which was a sure sign that there was nothing that had to be done there, as we had a gift for making ourselves scarce when there was work to be done, particularly in the kitchen.

Dad came into the kitchen from the garage (his workshop), which was just off the kitchen. He came through, armed with the basic tools needed to do some sort of simple DIY project somewhere in the house. We spoke to him, and, for some reason, he held up his hammer, and he said, “Have I ever told you that this was Daddy Mac’s hammer?”

We were properly impressed with this bit of information and expressed an appropriate amount of awe and respect. It was certainly believable, as the hammer was really quite ancient-looking, and I couldn’t remember his having had any other hammer in my lifetime. The handle, which had obviously started out as a blonde, was now burnished to a rich auburn by much use and “elbow grease.”

Dad went on to tell us that Daddy Mac had given him (the oldest of the sons-in-law, who had known Daddy Mac the longest) many of his tools before he died, this being one of them. Well, as far as Sis and I were concerned, this made all of dad’s tools family heirlooms, and, again, we expressed our appreciation of this info. Dad then began to walk past us, explaining, almost as if to himself, “Well, of course, I had to replace the handle after it split, and then I replace the head when one of the claws broke off. But it’s Daddy Mac’s hammer all the way.”

By this time, he was out of the kitchen, leaving my sister and me looking at each other quizzically until his words sank in, and we were left, as my dad used to say, “to ponder the advisability of it all.”  

"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."