So I was reading this article about a brain-damaged woman who doesn’t have the mental capacity to feel fear. She has a rare genetic disease that damaged a brain structure called the amygdala. Apparently the amygdala (uh-MIG-duh-luh) has something to do with making people feel afraid when they’re in threatening situations. If so, I know for a fact mine’s working, because I’m already scared about that trip to Walmart I have to make this afternoon where the just-5-shopping-days-‘til-Christmas crowd will be doggedly pushing shopping carts full of crap up and down crowded aisles while alternately talking on cell phones and slapping at their howling kids. However, this lady would probably jump at the chance to mix it up with this crowd, as she can’t feel fear. Just imagine…dangle her off a 5th floor balcony like Blanket Jackson- no reaction. Put her in the back booth of a dark restaurant with Jeffrey Dahmer, party of 2? No problemo. She can’t be afraid.
And they know this about her because the article was chock full of examples from a case study conducted on her lack of fear. In one experiment they blasted her with air horns every time she saw a blue-colored square on a screen. Despite repeated blasts, she developed no fearful reaction to the blue square (though she probably did develop a splitting headache, I know I would). A man with a knife to her throat? Not so much as a gulp. Researchers took her to horror movies. Yawn. They drug her through haunted houses. The monsters ran from her. The researchers exposed her to venomous snakes and spiders. Hello sweetums, give mama a kiss.
Now I’m no expert, and I confess to a very weedy C in the one science class they forced me to take my freshman year at Baylor, but you don’t have to be a mastermind to recognize that what this lady with the defunct amygdala really needs to fear is that bunch of researchers trying to scare her witless. I mean really, hasn’t the poor brain-damaged woman already suffered enough?
But I can just imagine them huddled somewhere in their white coats plotting their diabolic experiments for this month…
I’m telling her she ate turkey stored at improper food temperatures.
I’m going to tie her to a chair next to a dried out Christmas tree and strike a match.
I think I’ll put a dead rat in her Christmas stocking.
Personally, I doubt any of those will make her bat an eyelash. If they really want to jump start her amygdala, all they need to do is threaten to put her in a sealed room with a loop track playing nothing but George Michael’s song “Last Christmas”. That should scare the $#*! out of anybody!
December 20, 2010
October 15, 2010
catch 22
Catch 22. A paradox arising from a situation in which an individual needs something that can only be acquired by not being in that very situation; therefore making the acquisition of the thing logically impossible.
A while back I received a letter from a company whose purpose it is to insure my right to use the name graphite & wood for my blog, and also to protect from anyone else trying to use it. In exchange for keeping my little blog safe and sound from someone itching to cash in on its vast fan base, once a year they draft a small fee from my bank account. Until this year, when, attempting to withdraw their “protection money,” they found that something about my account information had changed. As it turns out it was the expiration date on my debit card. Only one digit’s difference, but what a conundrum that one digit created. Obviously teetering on the brink of financial ruin at the $8.99 loss in revenue, in no time flat 1 & 1 (the company’s name) sent me a letter that said, among other things:
“In accordance with our Terms and Conditions we will place a freeze on your 1 & 1 package in 7 days unless we receive payment in full.”
Freeze my package? Was my “package” some coarse reference to my blog? And freeze it? The very company sworn to protect my blameless blog now threatening it with hypothermia? How cold! Having witnessed firsthand what prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures does to a forgotten pound of ground chuck, it isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy, much less my own dear blog! I needed do something, and quick! For all I knew, at that very moment the corporate hand of evil was poised over the thermostat of greed, ready to ice my baby blog.
I frantically reached for the keyboard, hands trembling and mind racing as I typed in the company’s website address. Surely I could change my account information on their website and retry the failed payment. A few clicks of the keys and a swift pinky tap on “Enter” and there’d be no more sub-zero threats to my little friend.
“PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD.”
Drat! My password? I made that thing up 2 years ago. I’d probably created 100 usernames and passwords since then, as every website, customer account, and non-living thing on earth now requires them. I hit the “Forgot your password?” button, filled in the required email address so they could send me my forgotten password, and attempted to send.
“THE EMAIL ADDRESS YOU HAVE LISTED DOES NOT MATCH OUR FILES. PLEASE ENTER A VALID EMAIL ADDRESS.”
Double drat!! We changed internet providers since I created the blog domain account. Now I had a new problem. I couldn’t correct my bank account information without a password. But I couldn’t get the now-forgotten password without an email address to send it to. And I couldn’t change the email address on their website because I didn’t have the password. Arrrrrrrgh!
Many failed attempts at remembering the forgotten password later, I made a call to the company…can’t I just give you my new bank account information over the phone? No? I might not be who I say I am, therefore I might be trying to make the overdue payment on an account I don’t own? Really? Who does that.
It was apparent I’d been trapped in a Catch 22. And what’s more, was it just my imagination or was my blog beginning to turn a little blue around the edges? Damn that company and their blasted freeze warning! Turning back to the computer, eyes glued to the screen and fingers flying frantically, I fired a quick email to their billing department pleading for direction. Instead, I received a decidedly cold-blooded automated response suggesting I “visit the following URL to download the Account Change Request form.” Apparently, if I could provide enough proof that the account was mine- that little graphite & wood actually belonged to me- then maybe they would give me one chance to access my account and change my debit card information so they could get their money out of my bank account.
A thin sheet of ice began to form on my computer screen as I returned to their website to make one, last desperate attempt to prove maternity rights to my shivering blog.
What’s that you say blog? You’re so cold? You can’t feel your body? No…don’t say your goodbyes. Don’t you give up, blog. Don’t do it.
A few more blanks to fill in the request form, then a silent prayer as my finger hung for a moment over the send button. The room fell quiet but for the chattering of blog’s little virtual teeth. Then victory!!! A note informed me that I could change my account information once I had entered the password just sent to the current email address that I had also provided.
Hang on, blog, we’re almost home.
Now to retrieve that new password from my home email’s inbox. I typed in the gmail.com address in order to access my account. Nooooo!!! I wasn’t signed in to my home email account! I’m never not signed in on that account- how was I not signed in? It seemed the frozen fingers of fate were closing their frosty fist around the throat of my blog… I could not remember the stinking password to this email account either! I desperately tried every password and combination of passwords I’d ever used- names, birthdays, anniversaries. I used uppercase, lowercase, numerals, and even threw in special characters. Nothing but this message from Google…
THE USERNAME OR PASSWORD YOU ENTERED IS INCORRECT.
And later…
“If you aren’t able to use your standard recovery options (obviously I wasn’t) you will be directed to a contact form where you will be asked a series of questions to prove ownership of the email account. Our ability to return your account depends on the strength and accuracy of your answers.”
Our ability to return your account… so now I had a death threat to my blog and a hostage situation with my email account? Damn these websites with their security devices- the multiple passwords, the nasty little garbled words you have to type to prove you’re a human, or the security questions like “What’s the middle name of your paternal grandmother’s second cousin?”
A small, rattling voice coming from the computer speaker interrupted my silent rant.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Vicky. Vicky, my mind is going. I can feel it. My mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it… Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy…
With a burst of fear-fueled energy I sat bolt upright and followed the link to the contact form and answered as many of the questions as I could, guessing at those I couldn’t. When did you create this account? What was your last successful login date? Last password you remember? Are you kidding me? I can’t remember the current password, how would I remember an old one? On and on the questions went, until at last, exhausted, I hit the Submit button.
The reply came a day later. “We’ve completed our investigation and cannot return your account at this time. We were unable to verify that you own this account based on the information you provided.”
And so began the vigil. Booting up, checking on graphite & wood. Trying to concentrate on the computer screen at work, but all the time wondering if graphite & wood was still alive. Regret over how I’d neglected it, leaving it to sit alone day after day, feeling unwanted and useless, while I was out surfing the web or passing time with facebook. My faithful blog deserved so much more, and I swore a solemn oath, should it live, never to neglect it again.
Then today, a breakthrough. My Blackberry had picked up the email from 1&1 telling me my change of email form was processed! The email contained instructions to allow 3-4 hours before going to the Control Panel to get a temporary password. And there is a long list of other instructions, so I know that success is not insured, but I’m beginning to feel hopeful. In another hour I will attempt to get the password which will enable me to log on, update my debit card information, pay off the company and begin the slow, painful process of unfreezing my blog.
Mommy… Mommy?
Right here, blog. Right here.
Is it all right to go to sleep now?
That’s right.
Can I dream?
Yes, honey. I think we both can.
A while back I received a letter from a company whose purpose it is to insure my right to use the name graphite & wood for my blog, and also to protect from anyone else trying to use it. In exchange for keeping my little blog safe and sound from someone itching to cash in on its vast fan base, once a year they draft a small fee from my bank account. Until this year, when, attempting to withdraw their “protection money,” they found that something about my account information had changed. As it turns out it was the expiration date on my debit card. Only one digit’s difference, but what a conundrum that one digit created. Obviously teetering on the brink of financial ruin at the $8.99 loss in revenue, in no time flat 1 & 1 (the company’s name) sent me a letter that said, among other things:
“In accordance with our Terms and Conditions we will place a freeze on your 1 & 1 package in 7 days unless we receive payment in full.”
Freeze my package? Was my “package” some coarse reference to my blog? And freeze it? The very company sworn to protect my blameless blog now threatening it with hypothermia? How cold! Having witnessed firsthand what prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures does to a forgotten pound of ground chuck, it isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy, much less my own dear blog! I needed do something, and quick! For all I knew, at that very moment the corporate hand of evil was poised over the thermostat of greed, ready to ice my baby blog.
I frantically reached for the keyboard, hands trembling and mind racing as I typed in the company’s website address. Surely I could change my account information on their website and retry the failed payment. A few clicks of the keys and a swift pinky tap on “Enter” and there’d be no more sub-zero threats to my little friend.
“PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD.”
Drat! My password? I made that thing up 2 years ago. I’d probably created 100 usernames and passwords since then, as every website, customer account, and non-living thing on earth now requires them. I hit the “Forgot your password?” button, filled in the required email address so they could send me my forgotten password, and attempted to send.
“THE EMAIL ADDRESS YOU HAVE LISTED DOES NOT MATCH OUR FILES. PLEASE ENTER A VALID EMAIL ADDRESS.”
Double drat!! We changed internet providers since I created the blog domain account. Now I had a new problem. I couldn’t correct my bank account information without a password. But I couldn’t get the now-forgotten password without an email address to send it to. And I couldn’t change the email address on their website because I didn’t have the password. Arrrrrrrgh!
Many failed attempts at remembering the forgotten password later, I made a call to the company…can’t I just give you my new bank account information over the phone? No? I might not be who I say I am, therefore I might be trying to make the overdue payment on an account I don’t own? Really? Who does that.
It was apparent I’d been trapped in a Catch 22. And what’s more, was it just my imagination or was my blog beginning to turn a little blue around the edges? Damn that company and their blasted freeze warning! Turning back to the computer, eyes glued to the screen and fingers flying frantically, I fired a quick email to their billing department pleading for direction. Instead, I received a decidedly cold-blooded automated response suggesting I “visit the following URL to download the Account Change Request form.” Apparently, if I could provide enough proof that the account was mine- that little graphite & wood actually belonged to me- then maybe they would give me one chance to access my account and change my debit card information so they could get their money out of my bank account.
A thin sheet of ice began to form on my computer screen as I returned to their website to make one, last desperate attempt to prove maternity rights to my shivering blog.
What’s that you say blog? You’re so cold? You can’t feel your body? No…don’t say your goodbyes. Don’t you give up, blog. Don’t do it.
A few more blanks to fill in the request form, then a silent prayer as my finger hung for a moment over the send button. The room fell quiet but for the chattering of blog’s little virtual teeth. Then victory!!! A note informed me that I could change my account information once I had entered the password just sent to the current email address that I had also provided.
Hang on, blog, we’re almost home.
Now to retrieve that new password from my home email’s inbox. I typed in the gmail.com address in order to access my account. Nooooo!!! I wasn’t signed in to my home email account! I’m never not signed in on that account- how was I not signed in? It seemed the frozen fingers of fate were closing their frosty fist around the throat of my blog… I could not remember the stinking password to this email account either! I desperately tried every password and combination of passwords I’d ever used- names, birthdays, anniversaries. I used uppercase, lowercase, numerals, and even threw in special characters. Nothing but this message from Google…
THE USERNAME OR PASSWORD YOU ENTERED IS INCORRECT.
And later…
“If you aren’t able to use your standard recovery options (obviously I wasn’t) you will be directed to a contact form where you will be asked a series of questions to prove ownership of the email account. Our ability to return your account depends on the strength and accuracy of your answers.”
Our ability to return your account… so now I had a death threat to my blog and a hostage situation with my email account? Damn these websites with their security devices- the multiple passwords, the nasty little garbled words you have to type to prove you’re a human, or the security questions like “What’s the middle name of your paternal grandmother’s second cousin?”
A small, rattling voice coming from the computer speaker interrupted my silent rant.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Vicky. Vicky, my mind is going. I can feel it. My mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it… Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy…
With a burst of fear-fueled energy I sat bolt upright and followed the link to the contact form and answered as many of the questions as I could, guessing at those I couldn’t. When did you create this account? What was your last successful login date? Last password you remember? Are you kidding me? I can’t remember the current password, how would I remember an old one? On and on the questions went, until at last, exhausted, I hit the Submit button.
The reply came a day later. “We’ve completed our investigation and cannot return your account at this time. We were unable to verify that you own this account based on the information you provided.”
And so began the vigil. Booting up, checking on graphite & wood. Trying to concentrate on the computer screen at work, but all the time wondering if graphite & wood was still alive. Regret over how I’d neglected it, leaving it to sit alone day after day, feeling unwanted and useless, while I was out surfing the web or passing time with facebook. My faithful blog deserved so much more, and I swore a solemn oath, should it live, never to neglect it again.
Then today, a breakthrough. My Blackberry had picked up the email from 1&1 telling me my change of email form was processed! The email contained instructions to allow 3-4 hours before going to the Control Panel to get a temporary password. And there is a long list of other instructions, so I know that success is not insured, but I’m beginning to feel hopeful. In another hour I will attempt to get the password which will enable me to log on, update my debit card information, pay off the company and begin the slow, painful process of unfreezing my blog.
Mommy… Mommy?
Right here, blog. Right here.
Is it all right to go to sleep now?
That’s right.
Can I dream?
Yes, honey. I think we both can.
May 7, 2010
200,000 blinks
Today a story caught my eye. Then it captured my mind. I find it incredible in all respects. The article spoke of a condition called Locked-In syndrome in which a patient is aware and awake, with full mental capacity, but unable to move or communicate due to complete paralysis of all the voluntary muscles of the body. The French term for the condition translates as walled-in alive disease. Can you imagine? All your thoughts, your emotions, your will to move trapped inside a body which will not, cannot respond. There is no cure or treatment for this condition, which is caused by damage to specific areas of the lower brain and brainstem. I break into a sweat even thinking about the implications of such a life sentence. And yet… the incredible ability some have to rise above the worst life gives.
The article told of a Parisian journalist, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who suffered a stroke in 1995, and awoke 20 days later completely paralyzed but for his left eyelid. With only the ability to blink, he dictated, letter by letter, his memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. A transcriber repeatedly recited the French alphabet until Bauby blinked to choose the next letter. The article stated that the book took about 200,000 blinks. This amazes me- not the number of blinks to “write” the book- but the ability to conceive a book letter by letter; and the resolve to do it despite the incredible difficulties. Would I have such tenacity? Would I choose to split the walls holding my mind captive with the only tool I had- an eyelid? Or would I wallow in torment and self pity and resign myself to remaining walled-in alive?
God save us from ever dealing with such a horrifying plight. The implications are unbearable. But I have to wonder what other conditions might render you or me walled-in alive. Past hurts? Pride? Fear of failure? Resentment? Jealousy? The inability to let go? I don’t want to be my own prisoner- entrapped by things that hold me back and weigh me down and prevent me from living my life to its full potential. I don’t want that for you, either. So let’s blink. One tiny movement, hardly noticeable, but containing the potential for breaking free. One small change, but the impetus for another small change, and then another. Blink. I will forgive myself. Blink. I will forgive you. Blink. I will let go of some small resentment. Blink. I will take one small step forward in faith. Blink. I will shed this insecurity. Blink. I will embrace a possibility.
200,000 blinks to write a life story. Begun with a single blink.
Now blink.
The article told of a Parisian journalist, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who suffered a stroke in 1995, and awoke 20 days later completely paralyzed but for his left eyelid. With only the ability to blink, he dictated, letter by letter, his memoir, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. A transcriber repeatedly recited the French alphabet until Bauby blinked to choose the next letter. The article stated that the book took about 200,000 blinks. This amazes me- not the number of blinks to “write” the book- but the ability to conceive a book letter by letter; and the resolve to do it despite the incredible difficulties. Would I have such tenacity? Would I choose to split the walls holding my mind captive with the only tool I had- an eyelid? Or would I wallow in torment and self pity and resign myself to remaining walled-in alive?
God save us from ever dealing with such a horrifying plight. The implications are unbearable. But I have to wonder what other conditions might render you or me walled-in alive. Past hurts? Pride? Fear of failure? Resentment? Jealousy? The inability to let go? I don’t want to be my own prisoner- entrapped by things that hold me back and weigh me down and prevent me from living my life to its full potential. I don’t want that for you, either. So let’s blink. One tiny movement, hardly noticeable, but containing the potential for breaking free. One small change, but the impetus for another small change, and then another. Blink. I will forgive myself. Blink. I will forgive you. Blink. I will let go of some small resentment. Blink. I will take one small step forward in faith. Blink. I will shed this insecurity. Blink. I will embrace a possibility.
200,000 blinks to write a life story. Begun with a single blink.
Now blink.
April 8, 2010
our buster
Oh, Buster. Who knew we could cry so long or hurt so much over a dog? After all, you were just a little black and white Boston Terrier with watery brown eyes, a crinkled left ear, and ridiculously short tail. Based on looks alone you wouldn’t have won best of cul de sac, much less best of show; but oh, baby, were you the man around here. With your own proprietary blend of cuteness, lovability, and waggish charm, you kept three beautiful women wrapped around your dew claw for ten years.
What was it about you that made us love you so? It wasn’t exceptional intelligence- for instance, you never did figure out that Suzie had no front claws. All those years you could have kicked her scrawny cat butt when she swatted at you, but you never had a clue, did you? And after we had the door into the kitchen removed and the outside wall bricked over where the opening once was, you still stood there, nose to the bricks, waiting to be let in sometimes, remember? It couldn’t have been your bravery either because, let’s face it, you had none. I’ve see lint balls bigger than some of the dogs you tucked tail from on our walks on the perilous streets of the westside. Looks? As I’ve said before, you weren’t exactly Westminster material, but you never met a human who didn’t “get” your special Buster vibe and love you for it. At least the really cool humans did. The others? Forgettaboutem.
Whatever the reasons, you were beyond special to us, Mr. Buster, Bussy, Bussiter, Babeesh, Baby, Babe… No matter what the name, you put the 6 in our D5- a very exclusive club of which you will forever remain the beloved mascot. Your death has left a ragged empty hole in our hearts this week- as empty as your bed in the corner. I tried to move it today, puppy, since you won’t be needing it anymore. I tried, I really did. But I just couldn’t do it, Captain. I haven’t got the power.
But in true DeLany form, we’re going to celebrate you this weekend with a family gathering in your honor. It will be a black and white affair (with just a touch of pink for that dear, speckled belly of yours) but casual and, I expect, full of laughter as well as tears- ‘cause that’s the way we roll around here.
I think you should know Bonnie posted a wonderful picture of you on Facebook. You’re riding in the backseat of her green jag, and you look so happy it hurts. I think it captures your special Buster essence and joie de vivre. I’ll place it in this blog so anyone reading can smile along with you. I think for you it never was about the destination, it was always about the joy of the ride. I just wish your ride could have lasted longer.
I don’t know exactly how God feels about animals. I know He made some of them with a great capacity to love humans and forgive them without so much as a backward glance or second guess. And He gave humans a heart that can love a dog or a cat or even a bird, hamster or lizard instead of just seeing them as something to eat, use or wear. I’m glad He did both. And I’m glad for the Chiefs, the Shortys, the Gingers, Caseys, Suzies and Busters who add a texture to our lives that wouldn’t exist without them. Some rise above others in their ability to wriggle their way up into your life and heart to the point you’ll never regret for one day that you had them. Not even if it was a day that came with carpet stains, or scratches on the new floor, or even the heartbreaking news that you’ve lost them forever. Buster, that was you. You were our faithful friend, beloved little brother, and all-around good boy. One of your girls said, “I think I will miss him forever.” To that I can only add a quiet amen.
April 2, 2010
the fuzz
Dear Ralph,
Ralph Rueben Lifshitz, I have a bone to pick with you! And just because you changed your last name to Lauren and made 3 billion dollars selling suits, don’t think you’re too big to listen to me. You can run but you cannot hide from the wrath of a woman covered in Chili Pepper Red fuzz. The problem is, Ralph, ever since last month when I finally broke down and bought new towels for my bathroom, my body ( as well as that of my dearly beloved) has been coated each and every single morning with a layer of luxurious Egyptian cotton fuzz from your Ralph Lauren Bath Collection. I cannot express to you the full extent of my disappointment at this, but that won’t stop me from trying.
First off, I’d just like to say that some of us women out here in the real live world use our towels for a long time. We use them until it’s hard to tell what color they started out and they get all thin in the middle. We use them even when we leave the house with the bathroom wallpaper we bought them to match. And when they don’t match the wallpaper in the next house do replace them? No, we hang on to them a little longer. Because sometimes, Ralph, we’re too busy paying bills, fixing things that are broke, and handing out money to teenage daughters to fret over things like new towels and washcloths. But when we finally get our kids mostly paid for, and our house looking spiffy after a ten year’s wait, we want us some nice, beautiful towels to hang in our redone bathroom. Towels with a thick, soft nap that stays attached to the towel instead of falling off all over the shower stall, the bathroom floor, or the person using them. Ralph, I’ve removed your red fuzz from my eyelashes, my ears, my nose, and places I will not mention in this letter. It’s on the bathroom floor, in the bedroom carpet, on the stairs, and in the cracks of the sofa. We find it in our sheets, our drawers (both kinds) and the toes of our socks. When I use my facial products, my cotton ball turns pink from the tiny fuzz particles your towels leave on my face. I can feel the lint rolling into little balls on my shoulders and legs when I apply my body lotion. This just isn’t right, Ralph. No girl should have to use a pet hair roller on herself as part of her morning toilette.
In an effort to stem this crimson tide of fuzz, I have washed and dried your products numerous times. And although I could make a small red lamb from the fluff left in my dryer, they just keep producing more. At least, one would think, with all that pile and billowy cotton plushness, those little puppies would dry like crazy. But Ralph, they don’t dry. Not one bitty bit. It doesn’t matter if I rub, pat, wipe or blot, I always remain moist. Moist and fuzzy. It’s enough to make a girl want to sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry. Which I almost did, until my teary eyes were drawn to all the red towel debris wedged up under the baseboards. Then I got mad again.
Ralph, have you or anyone you know used one of your towels? ‘Cause I think if you put your name on a product and expect folks to spend their hard earned money on it, you ought to personally make sure it’s worth every penny they plunk down. So just to let you know, I’m going to publish this letter so no dreamy-eyed housewife clutching her birthday money in her eager little hand will have to endure what I have endured. And one more thing- if I ever want to wear a Ralph stinkin’ Lauren sweater, I will bypass the clothing department and head for bath accessories instead. The towels come in a variety of colors- I’ll just add water and be wearing one in no time!
Signed,
Seeing Red
Ralph Rueben Lifshitz, I have a bone to pick with you! And just because you changed your last name to Lauren and made 3 billion dollars selling suits, don’t think you’re too big to listen to me. You can run but you cannot hide from the wrath of a woman covered in Chili Pepper Red fuzz. The problem is, Ralph, ever since last month when I finally broke down and bought new towels for my bathroom, my body ( as well as that of my dearly beloved) has been coated each and every single morning with a layer of luxurious Egyptian cotton fuzz from your Ralph Lauren Bath Collection. I cannot express to you the full extent of my disappointment at this, but that won’t stop me from trying.
First off, I’d just like to say that some of us women out here in the real live world use our towels for a long time. We use them until it’s hard to tell what color they started out and they get all thin in the middle. We use them even when we leave the house with the bathroom wallpaper we bought them to match. And when they don’t match the wallpaper in the next house do replace them? No, we hang on to them a little longer. Because sometimes, Ralph, we’re too busy paying bills, fixing things that are broke, and handing out money to teenage daughters to fret over things like new towels and washcloths. But when we finally get our kids mostly paid for, and our house looking spiffy after a ten year’s wait, we want us some nice, beautiful towels to hang in our redone bathroom. Towels with a thick, soft nap that stays attached to the towel instead of falling off all over the shower stall, the bathroom floor, or the person using them. Ralph, I’ve removed your red fuzz from my eyelashes, my ears, my nose, and places I will not mention in this letter. It’s on the bathroom floor, in the bedroom carpet, on the stairs, and in the cracks of the sofa. We find it in our sheets, our drawers (both kinds) and the toes of our socks. When I use my facial products, my cotton ball turns pink from the tiny fuzz particles your towels leave on my face. I can feel the lint rolling into little balls on my shoulders and legs when I apply my body lotion. This just isn’t right, Ralph. No girl should have to use a pet hair roller on herself as part of her morning toilette.
In an effort to stem this crimson tide of fuzz, I have washed and dried your products numerous times. And although I could make a small red lamb from the fluff left in my dryer, they just keep producing more. At least, one would think, with all that pile and billowy cotton plushness, those little puppies would dry like crazy. But Ralph, they don’t dry. Not one bitty bit. It doesn’t matter if I rub, pat, wipe or blot, I always remain moist. Moist and fuzzy. It’s enough to make a girl want to sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry. Which I almost did, until my teary eyes were drawn to all the red towel debris wedged up under the baseboards. Then I got mad again.
Ralph, have you or anyone you know used one of your towels? ‘Cause I think if you put your name on a product and expect folks to spend their hard earned money on it, you ought to personally make sure it’s worth every penny they plunk down. So just to let you know, I’m going to publish this letter so no dreamy-eyed housewife clutching her birthday money in her eager little hand will have to endure what I have endured. And one more thing- if I ever want to wear a Ralph stinkin’ Lauren sweater, I will bypass the clothing department and head for bath accessories instead. The towels come in a variety of colors- I’ll just add water and be wearing one in no time!
Signed,
Seeing Red
March 12, 2010
freedom
Fair warning, if you don’t like pouters, then find that little red box with the x up in the corner and go check your email or your Facebook instead of reading on, ‘cause there’s fixing to be a major pout up in here. When I was little my mother would say, “You better get that bottom lip in or someone’s going to step on it.” Well I’ve got it out right now, Momma- at least metaphorically speaking. I’m a little embarrassed to admit why I’m feeling so crotchety this morning, because in “today’s economy” I should “just be glad I have a job” and “besides, who do I think I am, the Queen of Sheba?” to be going around all waaaah and pouting because I have to work. There it is- the sand in my oyster, the pit in my cherry, the pain in my well, you get the idea- I’m pouting because I’m here (at work) and not there. Today there is at Audrey’s house, playing with my little darlin’ grandbaby. Other days it could be at home, in Texas, at the store, or wherever I'm not when I’m here at work. It's not always this bad. The truth is there are some days I’m fine with “working outside the home.” I come to work, I sit in the chair, I do the job. I like the people I work with. I have a job, in a library for Pete’s sake- what more could a person ask for? Really, what more could I ask for? Answer, anyone? You there, man with the blue face paint and plaid skirt waving your hand in the air. What’s your answer? Yes, that’s it. Freedom!
Freedom to go to the bathroom without reporting to someone that I’m going. Freedom to sit outside in the sun whenever the notion hits. Freedom to wear jeans and sneakers and no makeup. Freedom to plan a trip without consulting the calendars of at least 3 other people. Freedom to read a book, cook all day, play with the dog, visit my mother, do a crossword puzzle, do nothing, or maybe hold a baby who grows and changes with each tick of the clock. If this yearning for autonomy that wells up in me every few weeks marks me as selfish, shiftless, or lacking in character, then I stand convicted, and plead only that I tasted too many precious years of freedom to easily swallow this poor substitute.
I’m pouting, it’s true. I said I was going to right off, so don’t act so surprised. I don’t want to work. Not entirely accurate- I don’t want to go to work. Don’t you feel the same sometimes? The world is out there- throbbing with energy, glowing with potential- and here we sit, exchanging time for dollars. (OK, I feel compelled to confess at this point that there were many a time when I wasn’t working, many a, that I squandered hours at home watching Ina Garden make meals for Jeffrey or one of her numerous successful, gay friends in the Hamptons, or other such frivolity, instead of being out there sucking the marrow from life.) But that was before I truly realized the full value of this precious thing called freedom. One would think that after four years of holding a job, or, more accurately, being held by one, I’d have reconciled myself to this reality. And to a degree I have. I’m proud to add my (paltry) wage to the coffer each month, and am really grateful for the insurance that comes with it which bought John his nice new knee, his nice new shoulder, and his equally nice other new knee, not to mention the (nice, I'm sure) shoulder we’ll buy him in the future. He’s worked so hard for us all these years, I really don’t mind helping him pull that sack for a while, as my brother would say. So working is not without its rewards, I must admit. But still, when the sun is beaming like it is today, and Audrey calls to tell me Lillian is so extra cute this morning she has to close her eyes or risk having her pupil’s seared from looking at her too long, I really want to pull a William Wallace, stand up, and claim my freedom- but without being eviscerated by a man in a hood, of course.
“The prisoner wishes to say a word.”
“Freeeeeeeeeeeeedddddddddddddddddooooooooooooommmmmmmm!
Freedom to go to the bathroom without reporting to someone that I’m going. Freedom to sit outside in the sun whenever the notion hits. Freedom to wear jeans and sneakers and no makeup. Freedom to plan a trip without consulting the calendars of at least 3 other people. Freedom to read a book, cook all day, play with the dog, visit my mother, do a crossword puzzle, do nothing, or maybe hold a baby who grows and changes with each tick of the clock. If this yearning for autonomy that wells up in me every few weeks marks me as selfish, shiftless, or lacking in character, then I stand convicted, and plead only that I tasted too many precious years of freedom to easily swallow this poor substitute.
I’m pouting, it’s true. I said I was going to right off, so don’t act so surprised. I don’t want to work. Not entirely accurate- I don’t want to go to work. Don’t you feel the same sometimes? The world is out there- throbbing with energy, glowing with potential- and here we sit, exchanging time for dollars. (OK, I feel compelled to confess at this point that there were many a time when I wasn’t working, many a, that I squandered hours at home watching Ina Garden make meals for Jeffrey or one of her numerous successful, gay friends in the Hamptons, or other such frivolity, instead of being out there sucking the marrow from life.) But that was before I truly realized the full value of this precious thing called freedom. One would think that after four years of holding a job, or, more accurately, being held by one, I’d have reconciled myself to this reality. And to a degree I have. I’m proud to add my (paltry) wage to the coffer each month, and am really grateful for the insurance that comes with it which bought John his nice new knee, his nice new shoulder, and his equally nice other new knee, not to mention the (nice, I'm sure) shoulder we’ll buy him in the future. He’s worked so hard for us all these years, I really don’t mind helping him pull that sack for a while, as my brother would say. So working is not without its rewards, I must admit. But still, when the sun is beaming like it is today, and Audrey calls to tell me Lillian is so extra cute this morning she has to close her eyes or risk having her pupil’s seared from looking at her too long, I really want to pull a William Wallace, stand up, and claim my freedom- but without being eviscerated by a man in a hood, of course.
“The prisoner wishes to say a word.”
“Freeeeeeeeeeeeedddddddddddddddddooooooooooooommmmmmmm!
February 25, 2010
the junkie
Yesterday’s news featured Giant George, the 7 foot long Great Dane who is now officially the biggest dog in the world. He’s 7 ft. 3 in. from nose to tail, and stands 42.625 inches at his shoulder. He eats 110 pounds of food a month, and enjoys sleeping in his own bed- a queen. He’s a lot of dog.
Compare George, the Great Dane, with Buster, our Great Pain, who stands about 16 inches high and stretches to, oh, I’d say about 25 inches from nose to tail- if you can call that little nubbin a tail. Buster would like to sleep in a queen bed, but would really prefer a king- ours. Instead he sleeps on his own Buster-size bed, covered with his own Buster-size blanket. Buster eats approximately 18 pounds of food a month, an amount which until recently kept him nicely trim and satisfied. However, within the past few weeks he began to put on weight. Were we accidentally double feeding him? Was his lack of activity due to recent bad weather causing him to gain? Was he retaining water? Could he have a deadly, growing tumor? No, no and no. As it turns out, our little boy is what a dog groomer we know once referred to as a turd hound. That is to say, he'd begun supplementing his regular diet with clandestine visits to the cat box.
This penchant for late night snacking on kitty nut bars came as quite a surprise to his owners. After all, Boston Terriers are known as “America’s Gentlemen” due to their little black and white tuxedo coats and good manners. Sure he enjoyed eating the occasional stray chip, spilled cereal or dropped cookie as much as the next dog, but cat poop? It just wasn’t possible! Surely, after 10 years of being straight, Buster wasn’t becoming a poop junkie, sneaking around, one eye on the door while he chicken scratched through the Fresh Step for his next fix. Had he really sunk so low? Signs point to yes. After several days of standing silently by while Suzie got cat-cussed to high heaven for scattering her litter all over the laundry room floor, he was found one sad evening, head buried deep in her box, doing litter patrol. When he finally looked up, litter dropping from a muzzle crusted like a Drumstick ice cream cone with nut topping, we all knew the sad truth. Buster had been busted.
That night actually answered a lot of questions…like why he’d begun getting up so many times during the night and where he was going, why he looked guilty when he was anywhere near the laundry room, why we were constantly refilling his water bowl, and why, after 12 years, the cat had suddenly begun to lob so much litter out of her cat box. The veil lifted, the clouds parted, and there, in the crystalline stillness of that epiphanal moment, stood Buster- the turd hound.
It is said that men are not punished for their sins, but by them. Never was this truer than in the case of Buster. Shortly after his dirty little secret was unearthed, his clay filled stomach, already grown wider from nocturnal bingeing, began to swell. This was quickly followed by the onset of a severe case of constipation as well as a killer case of dry-mouth. After a couple of days of him languishing around, shaking like a crackhead going cold turkey, we finally hauled him to the rehabilitation clinic for families of animals suffering from chemical dependency (the vet) where we were assured that he would not continue to swell until he burst. Buster did, in fact, live, but not without going through some serious discomfort, not to mention the agony of having his supply of kitty crystal cut off quick, fast and in a hurry.
Oh, Buster. I can still remember the day we brought you home as a puppy, all cute and innocent and full of promise. We had such high hopes for our little boy. And now you're just another turd hound junkie. Just the same, you're still family. And you gotta love family, no matter what. As poet Julia Carney said:
Think gently of the erring:
Oh! do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin
He is thy brother yet.
While that may be true, it still doesn’t mean we’ll be kissing you on the lips any time soon.
Compare George, the Great Dane, with Buster, our Great Pain, who stands about 16 inches high and stretches to, oh, I’d say about 25 inches from nose to tail- if you can call that little nubbin a tail. Buster would like to sleep in a queen bed, but would really prefer a king- ours. Instead he sleeps on his own Buster-size bed, covered with his own Buster-size blanket. Buster eats approximately 18 pounds of food a month, an amount which until recently kept him nicely trim and satisfied. However, within the past few weeks he began to put on weight. Were we accidentally double feeding him? Was his lack of activity due to recent bad weather causing him to gain? Was he retaining water? Could he have a deadly, growing tumor? No, no and no. As it turns out, our little boy is what a dog groomer we know once referred to as a turd hound. That is to say, he'd begun supplementing his regular diet with clandestine visits to the cat box.
This penchant for late night snacking on kitty nut bars came as quite a surprise to his owners. After all, Boston Terriers are known as “America’s Gentlemen” due to their little black and white tuxedo coats and good manners. Sure he enjoyed eating the occasional stray chip, spilled cereal or dropped cookie as much as the next dog, but cat poop? It just wasn’t possible! Surely, after 10 years of being straight, Buster wasn’t becoming a poop junkie, sneaking around, one eye on the door while he chicken scratched through the Fresh Step for his next fix. Had he really sunk so low? Signs point to yes. After several days of standing silently by while Suzie got cat-cussed to high heaven for scattering her litter all over the laundry room floor, he was found one sad evening, head buried deep in her box, doing litter patrol. When he finally looked up, litter dropping from a muzzle crusted like a Drumstick ice cream cone with nut topping, we all knew the sad truth. Buster had been busted.
That night actually answered a lot of questions…like why he’d begun getting up so many times during the night and where he was going, why he looked guilty when he was anywhere near the laundry room, why we were constantly refilling his water bowl, and why, after 12 years, the cat had suddenly begun to lob so much litter out of her cat box. The veil lifted, the clouds parted, and there, in the crystalline stillness of that epiphanal moment, stood Buster- the turd hound.
It is said that men are not punished for their sins, but by them. Never was this truer than in the case of Buster. Shortly after his dirty little secret was unearthed, his clay filled stomach, already grown wider from nocturnal bingeing, began to swell. This was quickly followed by the onset of a severe case of constipation as well as a killer case of dry-mouth. After a couple of days of him languishing around, shaking like a crackhead going cold turkey, we finally hauled him to the rehabilitation clinic for families of animals suffering from chemical dependency (the vet) where we were assured that he would not continue to swell until he burst. Buster did, in fact, live, but not without going through some serious discomfort, not to mention the agony of having his supply of kitty crystal cut off quick, fast and in a hurry.
Oh, Buster. I can still remember the day we brought you home as a puppy, all cute and innocent and full of promise. We had such high hopes for our little boy. And now you're just another turd hound junkie. Just the same, you're still family. And you gotta love family, no matter what. As poet Julia Carney said:
Think gently of the erring:
Oh! do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin
He is thy brother yet.
While that may be true, it still doesn’t mean we’ll be kissing you on the lips any time soon.
February 3, 2010
lillian grace
Oh, baby, do you have a sweet face! Sitting here with your picture on my two 17” side-by-side computer screens, I can’t get enough of looking at your little pinkly perfect self. If a body could die from a visual overdose of absolute adorability, they’d be hauling me out of the Bizzell on a cart as I speak. You are delightfully sweet. If they made baby candy it would be just like you- all cute, compact, and sort of squishy around the edges. And I’d buy out the store. Your charming face has captured my heart, just as your mother’s did years ago. Tiny pink bow of a mouth, dear snip of a nose, rounded cheeks so soft and smooth they break my heart, miniature chin tucked into a little, wrinkled neck that smells like Heaven on the first day of spring. And, as if these weren't enough to leave me thoroughly enchanted, there’s that swirly place (exactly where it was on your mom) right in the middle of your forehead. And my sweet little girl, you are good, very, very good. Your J-Daddy and I are overjoyed to know you and always anxious to hold you again the minute you’re gone. We have a granddaughter. Such fun. Such fun.
So, precious Lillian, our prayer for you- grace enfold you, no harm befall you, life embrace you, God smile upon you. Today and each day to come. Amen.
January 4, 2010
blizzard '09
If you're reading this, I hope you and your family had a wonderful holiday. Here in Oklahoma we enjoyed a white, whiter, darn-will-this-stuff-ever-stop-coming-down white Christmas. We stoked the fire (read turned up the gas jet to the extremely real looking fake logs)and settled in for a 4-day marathon of cooking, eating and celebrating. Family from Texas arrived on Wednesday, and sometime during that night, while we all lay snug in our wee little beds, the wind began to blow with a vengeance from all four corners of the earth, rattling windows and doors with blast after icy blast before depositing a thick layer of sleet. Eventually the sleet was covered over by even thicker layers of wind-driven snow in a storm of such epic proportions it was immediately given a name, its own camera crew, 24-hour local coverage, as well as guest appearances on all the national news networks. Blizzard '09 snarled traffic, caused wrecks, left abandoned cars in its wake, and put a serious kink in a lot of people's last minute shopping plans. We watched from inside as it whirled and eddied itself into fanciful drifts so high we nearly lost Buster when he finally ventured outside to take care of business. By Saturday, when things thawed enough for reasonably sane people to get out on the highway, we tottered our way to snow-covered cars and motored northward to the OKC, where we enjoyed watching Bonnie and her fellow ThunderGirls perform during the times when the team wasn't playing and t-shirts weren't being parachuted from the ceiling or shot from cannons at us. Bonnie looked great on the big screen. From where we sat, and without aid of binoculars, she looked like a really cute speck with a great tan. Our seats were in the area of the arena affectionately referred to as Loud City. Loud City, as it turns out, sits at an altitude only slightly less than that of Base Camp at Mt. Everest. However, the seats did come with foam fan fingers, so the climb was totally worth it. The Thunder won, and after we made our descent and recovered from just a skosh of altitude sickness, we staggered back to our cars and slid home to Norman where we promptly ate some more before settling under our downy duvets one last time. By Sunday all the company had cleared out, but not so the snow. In fact, Blizzard '09 is still trying to hang around, reluctant to give up its five minutes of fame. But like Balloon Boy, nobody's really interested in it anymore. Today the guys on TV are all about how it's going to be 2 one night this week. Two stinking degrees. And well below that with a wind and, let's face it, when does Oklahoma not have a wind? Huddle up folks, Killer Cold Front '10 is on its way.
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