Of Cabbages and Kings

Loretta's Rules for Writers

2011-10-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

Don't use words if you don't know what they mean.

Seen on the Internet today:

"She hid behind the tall flora and fauna."

When Mystery Writers Go Car Shopping

2011-03-02T16:18:00.000-08:00

Excavation Photos

2011-02-05T19:06:00.000-08:00

Found the car, now where's the driveway?

Blizzard, Day Three

2011-02-03T15:48:00.000-08:00

I found my car.

People Greeter Fail

2010-11-25T20:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, so today at work they asked me to cover the people greeter's lunch break and I'm standing by the door smiling at people, offering little kids stickers and occasionally scanning and marking things people want to return. Derek in dairy comes up to me on his own lunch break. Derek is a short, frighteningly energetic teenager who has been working dairy and frozen for a month now and who has spent the last three weeks trying desperately to get someone to let him transfer pretty much *anywhere* that isn't dairy or frozen.

So he comes up while I'm greeting and says, "I want this job! I could do this. I'm great with people. Here! Let me show you how good I am!" So he's standing next to me with his arms folded and a big, huge, scary smile and a blonde walks in, moving fast, and Derek says "Hello!" real friendly. She spins around and gives him the most hateful look, like, "you dare speak to me? DIE VERMIN!" I mean, I think I probably imagined the fangs, but I'm pretty sure she snarled at him.

So I'm laughing hysterically and Derek is all "I don't like this job anymore" in a tiny little voice, and then he sees another blonde coming so he's like, "wait! Wait! I'll get this one! Just check out THESE people skills!" She walks past, he gives her a big smile and a friendly hello . . . and she breezes past like he's not even there.

After that there were two or three groups of people and a few of them noticed him in a "better edge away from the maniacally smiling little guy there" kind of way and that bolstered his confidence. And then this big, scary guy came in. He kind of reminded me of Bluto if Bluto'd been a hunchback with a peg leg and a squint. Also, I suspect he was drunk. He comes in and Derek says "hi!" all big and friendly. The scary guy wanders around in a circle in front of the greeter's station, rattles the hand baskets like he wants one but maybe can't figure out how to pick it up, staggers into the newspaper rack, then lurches right over next to Derek, squints up at him and croaks, "baskets?"

Derek's leaning back going, "uhghgn" so I point towards the carts and say "they're over there" and the guy gives me a fishy stare, wanders over towards the baskets, then lurches back up to Derek, squints up at him again for several seconds, then staggers out around him and disappears in the direction of deli.

I'm like, "Derek, you're really good at this!" and he's like, "oh, shut up! I'll get it. Watch me now!" So a group comes through and he smiles and says hi and they pass without anyone paying any attention to him. Then a second group comes in and the same thing happens and then a third. At that point, our would-be people greeter gave it up and went back to lunch.

I think he was discouraged, but I was highly amused. :D

Cool New Blog

2010-10-25T18:11:00.000-07:00

I came across this via Bookshelves of Doom. In response to Juan Williams' comments about Muslim garb (and the insane level of hatred against Muslims in general that has been spewed by the uninformed ever since 9/11), this blogger is posting Pictures of Muslims Wearing Things.

The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.

Public Humiliation

2010-09-27T10:48:00.000-07:00

So. The Rejectionist is having one of her "uncontests" today, in honor of the beginning of banned book week. The idea is for readers to post embarrassing exerpts of their early writing on their own blog and then link to it in the commments section of her blog. Alas, I have no early writing samples. So, never being one to ~~have the sense to~~ avoid a chance for public humiliation, I thought I'd tell a story instead.

I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.

Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.

In grade school, I was in awe of her.

When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.

She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."

Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!

"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"

Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.

"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"

More nodding.

"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"

Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .

*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)

Once Upon a Time . . .

2010-07-20T22:56:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a rich and powerful king who had an uncommonly hideous daughter (but she had a wonderful personality!). The king was rather partial to his cups, which explains a lot about the queen, and didn't notice that his only offspring was less than lovely, being that he remained continually drunk until she was sixteen.

Terribly lonely and lacking suitors, the young princess hit upon a plan. First, she watered down her father's wine until he grew sober in spite of himself. He looked at his sole heiress and cried out "aaaaiiiiii!!"

When he had gotten hold of himself she sobbed to him, "Oh, Father! Help me! For I have been turned into a hideous ogre by an evil witch and only a kiss -- a really, really passionate kiss -- from a man of courage and true heart can turn me back to my own true form."

The king cried out, "oh! My poor child! We can't have this! Send out a proclamation that whomesoever can undo this curse visited upon my daughter shall have her hand in marriage and half my kingdom! Gods, I need a drink!"

So they sent out a proclamation and young men came from far and wide to try to save the princess and win her hand. None of them ever succeeded, of course, but the princess got a lot of action and eventually married a very nice, very nearsighted poet who believed that she had a beautiful soul.

The king remained cheerfully intoxicated for the rest of his life. The women of the kingdom discovered the fashion possibilities of warts and arm flaps and they all lived happily ever after.

The end!

On Second Thought, I Write Like Myself

2010-07-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted a link to a silly little meme that's supposed to analyze your writing and tell you "who you write like". Today I came across this blog post, by a blogger who analyzed it, discovered that of the forty authors included in the program there are 37 white men, three white women and no persons of color whatsoever. She politely contacted the author of the meme to point this out and the snotty answer she got is beyond belief.

I'm sorry I ever mentioned the stupid thing! From now on, I'll write like myself, thank you.

Apparently

2010-07-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

And here I was hoping for Tolkien! Dang! Seriously, I wonder how they come up with this stuff? I stole the link from GhostFolk's blog, btw. ;)

Weird Weekend

2010-06-07T14:25:00.000-07:00

It started on Friday when a couple came up to me, horrified, and said, "those people over there are biting the corn and putting it back!" I walked over to where I could watch about five or six rednecks going through the corn and when they walked away I went through the display. Sure enough, I found bitten corn.

Then, on Saturday morning, it took me half an hour to get through the construction on Mile-Long Bridge while, in front of me, a slow-motion running battle of illegal passing, cutting one another off and screaming threats and obscenities took place between two guys in white SUVs, a motorcycle gang that had cut in line, and a guy driving an "Esser's E-Z-GO" tanker truck. (Esser's provides porta-potties to construction sites.)

Later, at work, I walked around the end of an aisle in time to see a man casually pop open a container of grape tomatoes, dig out a handful, put the container back on the shelf and stroll away tossing tomatoes into his mouth. Normally I wouldn't say anything. We have security and if they choose not to act on petty shoplifting that's their call, but the guy was so brazen about it that I was shocked into speaking and I think I scared him. I hope I embarrassed him! Seriously! He could at least carry it around in his cart and pretend like he's going to buy it and then ditch the empty container in "lawn and garden" the way everyone else does!

Our night manager wasn't feeling well, so he lent me his key so I could take out the organics recyclables without him. (We keep our rotting fruits and vegetables and dairy products under strict lock and key!) When I tracked him down to return it he was in the midst of a crowd at the service desk watching four paramedics tend to a semi-conscious woman who was lying on the floor. There were two ambulances with their lights going parked outside the front door and a state trooper came in while I was there.

The story I eventually got was that two groups of about five young people each (late teens, early twenties) were following each other around the store trading insults and threats. A person from one group made a comment about a member of the other group's pants being baggy and they acted like they were going to fight. Being outside, I missed the panicked calls for help from the service desk. (I also missed seeing Mitch The Night Support Manager Who Looks Like Ben Franklin run. This is kind of like missing Haley's Comet.) Anyway, somebody called the police and the stress of their impending arrival apparently triggered one young woman's seizure.

While the paramedics were loading her on a gurney I looked over and noticed my friend Cecil The People Greeter (Cecil is a woman, btw) standing at the customer service desk, about three feet from the action, talking to one of the girls at the desk. Now, you have to understand that Cecil knows everyone and everything that goes on in Benton County. She frequently tells me about them as if she thinks I know who everyone is too. ("See that guy in the green? That's that brother of Myra Staple's husband, the one that was married to Claire that used to work in shoes until she found out he was having an affair with Carol Brooke's niece and she stripped their bank account and left him for that guy she met on the Internet who . . . .") I ran into Cecil a little later, after everyone was gone except for the state trooper, and I asked her what exactly had happened. She told me that a bunch of people were going to fight over baggy pants and I said that I knew that, but what about the girl who had the seizure?

Cecil didn't know what I was talking about. She hadn't seen any girl and hadn't noticed the paramedics who were working right by her feet. Not only hadn't she noticed them, I don't think she believed me that they even existed!

So, in the course of two days we had The Perfidious Corn Biters, Road Rage on the Mile-Long-Bridge, The Naughty Tomato Nosher, The Manager's Malaise, The Baggy Pants Fight Club, Running Rare, and The Case of the Oblivious People Greeter.

And they tell me it wasn't a full moon!

Tales From the Customer Service Desk

2010-05-29T20:36:00.001-07:00

My friend Stacy, who works at the customer service desk, has been telling me stories. Some of them are just too good not to share.

ONE

An elderly lady called the service desk and asked if we'd gotten any more corn in. Stacy assured her that we had.

Caller: That's good. You know, we looked at your corn the other day and there's something wrong with it. Did you know it's white?

Stacy: Yes, ma'am. It's white corn. It's supposed to be white.

Caller: White corn? I've never heard of such a thing. And it was so hard! I went over there and poked at it, and you know, I just don't think I could have chewed it.

Stacy: . . . you do know that you have to cook it first, right?

She didn't. She said she'd never heard of such a thing. Stacy gave her directions for boiling it. She (Stacy) said she wasn't about to try to tell her how to grill it.

TWO

A man called wanting advice about his "two stage, sit down transformer", but he didn't know what department he needed. Stacy didn't know what a two stage, sit down transformer was. He said it was "a thing". She asked him what he uses it for. He said "all kinds of stuff".

THREE

A lady called and told Stacy that she's nursing and she's developed a rash. She wanted to know if there's an anti-histimine she can take while breastfeeding. (We really need better health care in this country!)

FOUR

A teenage girl called to ask if she could re-use old earrings to get her ears pierced rather than buy a new kit. Stacy told her no, sorry, against health regulations. The girl said, "but I'm trying to do it at home and it's bleeding and it hurts!" (Heather in jewelry claims this is not an unusual request, btw.)

and FIVE

A woman called. She found a little blue pill on her bathroom floor. She didn't know what it was and wanted to know whether or not she should take it.

Like a Rocket to Heaven

2010-05-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday promising young Warsaw, Missouri, sprint car driver Jesse "The Rocket" Hockett won his third race in three days. Last Wednesday, while preparing his trailer for a busy schedule of Memorial Day weekend races, he died in a freak electrical accident. He was only 27 and had just been married a matter of months.

I didn't know Jesse, though I'm sure I've seen him hundreds of times. His mother and grandmother-in-law, however, are both friends and co-workers. I'd like to extend to both of them, and to all his friends and family members, my deepest condolences.

Things I Keep Telling People

2010-05-21T00:39:00.001-07:00

. . . in case they come in handy for anyone reading this.

1. Unlike many other fruits, strawberries do not ripen further after picking. If you buy green bananas they will last longer. If you buy green strawberries they will still be green when you either eat them or throw them away. Generally darker berries will be sweeter. You can tell that strawberries are going bad if there's mold (of course) or if they're starting to get drippy.

2. When buying corn on the cob, a dry husk does not necessarily mean the corn is bad. Look for plump kernels without dimples. The cob should be filled out all the way to the end. A fat, heavy ear of corn is better than a slender, lightweight ear.

The sugar in sweet corn begins to turn to starch the instant it's picked, so the less time between picking and cooking the better. You can't always tell fresher corn by looking. The bright, pretty green ears of corn just out of the produce cooler might be every bit as old as the ones that have been sitting out on the sales floor for three days while the husk turned papery. Your best bet is to find out where the corn is from. Corn that was grown close to wherever you are will always be better than corn that has been shipped in from far away.

Finally, if you are putting ears of corn into a plastic bag, especially one of the thin ones at the supermarket, put the corn tassel side down and it will not slice a hole in the bag.

3. When buying watermelons, the rind should be firm and not have any give to it. Yellow on the melon means it remained in the field long enough for the sugars to start coming through the rind. The more yellow, the sweeter the melon will be. Don't thump it for sound while it's laying down, or on a pile of melons. It will pick up the tones from its surroundings. Pick it up and give it a solid rap with the tips of your fingers. You will not be able to tell anything by slapping it gently, as I see so many people do. What you're listening for is a good, hollow tone like a drum. I like for watermelons to sound with a medium C or B flat tone, maybe a D. It should echo. The more high-pitched the tone, the greener the melon. The deeper the tone, the riper the melon. If it just gives a dull "thud" then the melon is overripe and the flesh will be mushy. Usually, by this time, the rind is starting to go soft as well.

4. If you're buying fruit that is pre-packed in a plastic bag and if it's not cold, avoid buying fruit that has moisture droplets inside the bag. If the bag has just been brought into a warm room from a cooler, the moisture is probably just condensation. But if the bag is room temperature and there is moisture, it means something in the bag is going bad.

5. Granny Smith and Jonathon are classic baking apples; however, you can cook with almost any variety of apple except Red Delicious. It has a high water content and will turn to mush when heated.

6. If you need potassium and don't like/can't get bananas, never fear. A serving of kiwifruit (two fruits) has more potassium than a medium banana and also more vitamin C than a grapefruit.

7. When buying grapes, the rule of thumb is that darker is sweeter. Red is sweeter than white/green and black is sweeter than red.

Rubber Soul

2010-05-18T20:57:00.001-07:00

Cats are weird!

2010-05-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

Okay, so after absolutely detesting the kittens from the day they were born, Layla has suddenly decided she loves the baby kitties. Right now she's crammed herself into an empty Dr. Pepper box and is slapping playfully at Helios and Foggy through the holes. This morning she was sleeping with Persephone and a little while ago she was cuddling the mother cat (Portia) while Portia was feeding the babies.

People are weird too. I've been reading emails people sent to a Missouri ghost hunting group, sharing their stories. I keep seeing (about different places) "this was once part of the underground railroad and the tunnels used to run under all of those houses . . ." Folks, if you don't know this, the underground railroad was, for the most part, not actually underground. Also, there generally weren't real trains involved.

The crowds come back

2010-05-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

I was three when I moved from Oregon to Missouri with my parents. It was early April and several of my older siblings stayed behind with my aunt and uncle to finish out the school year. Aunt Clem was unhappy that we were moving so far away and told my brothers and sisters horror stories about Missouri - that it was an uncivilized backwoods region filled with uneducated hillbillies. She said all the houses were like Jed Clampett's shack and no one had electricity or indoor plumbing.

The stories seem ridiculous now, but apparently my youngest brother, Danny (he would have been 12) believed them implicitly. They came on in late May or early June and had only been here a day or two when he ran in the house at twilight, all excited and upset. "Dad," he said, "you'd better come outside! I don't know what's going on, but there's a whole crowd of men down on the road with little bitty flashlights!"

There are no fireflies in Oregon, of course.

I was the one drafted to catch some and prove to my disbelieving brother that there really were bugs out there whose butts light up. All these decades later I still remember that story every year when the lightning bugs return. They're back now, fourth this year after daffodils (always first), tree frogs, and early purple iris. Next will come the whippoorwills and then it will be summer for sure.

Shamelessly Stolen

2010-05-11T20:54:00.000-07:00

From Bookshelves of Doom. Read the second bullet point.

Monday Night at the Laundromat

2010-05-10T22:23:00.000-07:00

When I made my weekly foray into Clinton, to the Laundromat tonight, I wasn't expecting there to be a young man there practicing his guitar. His singing wasn't the greatest (he'd probably improve greatly with a little self-confidence and maybe some breath control lessons), but he could carry a tune and his guitar playing was fantastic. The Laundromat has two televisions, which are kept tuned to some country music cable channel, so I always look forward to Mondays with trepidation. Running into Guitar Man was a definite treat and MUCH better than Extreme Home Makeover (which, seriously! Do they just show the same episode every week? There's always some skinny guy acting insane, then they knock down a house, then they build stuff and then a bunch of people cry.)

Unfortunately, Guitar Man brought along (or perhaps simply attracted) Harmonica Old Guy. Harmonica Old Guy accompanied Guitar Man on his harmonica. Except he couldn't play it. Guitar Man is playing Stairway To Heaven and Free Bird and Harmonica Old Guy is interjecting a high-pitched screech at irregular intervals. Then Harmonica Old Guy confided in me that he can't sing and then he proceded to prove it.

And he wouldn't stop!

He couldn't carry a tune and he didn't know the words (he kept singing "a wretch like me" but not in any way that you'd recognize as being part of Amazing Grace) and he wouldn't shut up! Guitar Man put up his guitar and busied himself with his cell phone and I'm stuck there with a phony smile on my face listening to this guy mumble random lyrics in the tune of "Fingernail on chalkboard". And you know, it's times like this that I really regret that my mother didn't raise me to be someone who can look a stranger in the eye and say, "you know what? You're right! You DO suck! Now do us all a favor and shut the fuck up!"

Aaaarrghh!

I'm a Grandma!

2010-05-10T01:45:00.001-07:00

This is Mommy Portia with Fog, Helios and Persephone. Fog (the grey baby of course) and Helios, the dark gold, are tom kittens. The pale gold is Persephone.

Church and State

2010-05-10T01:30:00.000-07:00

There's been a lot of talk recently about separation of church and state. As much as I sympathize with the freedom from religion groups, I'd like to point out that a complete and total separation is never going to be possible.

You see, as long as you have politicians you're going to need some form of religion so you can say, **"Oh, my GOD! What in the hell do those damned fools think they're doing? I swear! There isn't one of them who has the sense God gave a chicken! They all claim to be on the side of the angels, but who needs demons when you've got congress? I guess all we can do is pray that the Devil takes the lot of them before they send the whole country to hell in a handbasket!"

**Please feel free to substitute the language of any other religion of your choice.

Mummified Baby Stolen

2010-05-04T20:55:00.000-07:00

I can't decide which part of this story is weirder!

CONCORD, N.H. – The mummified body of a baby, kept by a family for nearly a century before a judge ordered the remains to be buried, has been removed from a cemetery, police said Tuesday.

. . .

Thomas said the police believe the grave was disturbed over the weekend. After seeing evidence of grave-tampering, investigators got a search warrant to exhume the site and found the casket, but not the remains, he said. He said many people have been interviewed and declined to name any suspects.
. . .

Relatives had treated the mummified infant as a family member, giving it cards during holidays and a dried fish as a pet.

Dear Persephone

2010-03-21T22:38:00.000-07:00

I realize Hades is very sexy, what with that whole, powerful, Dark Lord of the Underworld thing going on. And I know you're going to miss him in the coming months and I sympathize. But a deal's a deal and it's SPRING already!

So kindly get your ass home to Mama!

Aaargh!

All day yesterday there were pale, shaky people coming into Walmart telling us how bad the roads were getting. It was snowing just INSANELY! I have a twenty mile drive over *extremely* bad roads. I'm talking three bridges, two of them under construction, and more hilly curves than I can count. The heater fan has gone out on my car so I have no heat and can barely keep a clear spot on the windshield. The Walmart truck driver came in with a horror story about a multiple fatality accident he passed in the direction I had to travel and my boss wouldn't let me leave while it was still daylight. He just said, "oh, it's not bad. The roads are fine! Just go slow, you won't have any trouble!" He finally let me go an hour early but by that time the roads were completely covered, the temperature had dropped below freezing, it was still snowing heavily and a rising fog had visibility down to zero.

After an hour and a half I finally managed to cover the fifteen miles to where I turn off the highway only to completely miss my turn and go nose-down in a deep ditch. Luckily for me, a guy I went to grade school with happened along right after and was kind enough to go home for a chain and then come back and pull me out. Another twenty minutes or so later I got to my own little dirt road and started to relax. Then I drove over a small tree that had fallen in the road and been buried by the heavy, thick, wet snow. (The trees drooping down across the road from both sides nearly made it impassable as it was.) I don't think I did any damage to my car but I really can't say for sure because I no more than got off the tree and turned into my driveway than I got stuck again. This time I was really stuck and alone, but the car is on my property so I left it and walked the rest of the way. I know it doesn't sound like much, but I have a long, steep driveway, with deep ruts I couldn't see in the dark, buried under a heavy snowfall. Plus, I was already freezing, what with the car heater not working.

I'm sure my manager meant well, but I know the roads I drive, I know my own driving skills and what my car will and will not do. And if the bosses at work won't trust my judgement when I say I need to leave, then next time I wake up to a heavy snowstorm (and may it please not be until next year!) I'm damn well calling in! I'm not going to do this again!

Seriously, Persephone! GO HOME!

Dear Sweet, Lovely, Kind Facebook Friends,

2010-02-13T20:30:00.000-08:00

Please stop sending me virtual fish. Also virtual pigs, frogs, goats, puppies, bunnies and cherry trees. I cannot handle them.

I'm a bad virtual mommy.

Facebook is a slow site for me. On the rare occasions when I make myself visit it, I can play three to five games of Free Cell while waiting for each page to load. If I go to the imaginary aquarium? Seven games, minimum. I'm not patient enough to even *go* to Facebook very often, and when I do the guilt almost overwhelms me.

I haven't fed those poor damned fish for months now!

Years ago I had a Tamaguchi. It was a pterodactyl. It took 24 hours to hatch from its egg and then, with the absolute best care you could give it, it lived for exactly seven days. I slept with it beside my bed. For a week at a time I would wake up every two hours all night to feed and care for my pterodactyl. I snuck it into work with me. I cried when it died.

I am not the sort of person that wise people give virtual animals to. I don't even have real fish because I don't have time to take care of them. And I wouldn't even have to sit around and play computer solitaire while I waited on *real fish*! They'd be right here all the time (most likely floating belly up while I wondered why the water was cloudy and what was that smell coming from the aereator).

Seriously! I'm having nightmares about those starving virtual fish. I've thought and I've thought and I've thought about what to do. I considered looking for a virtual cat, but then I felt really bad. It's not enough that I'm starving the poor things, but now I'm planning out and out fishicide? Then I thought maybe I could make a 25-mile round trip to the library on a regular basis and use their broadband connection to feed my fish, but that seemed a little extravagan. Hire someone to care for my virtual menagerie? Only if they're willing to work for virtual money! Ask a friend to care for them? Never live THAT down. So finally I came to the conclusion that my only real option is to ask for mercy.

MERCY?!?

Someone Understands!

2010-02-01T10:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Janet Reid for pointing out this totally awesome blog post!

Gary Corby's a Bad Influence

2010-01-26T20:37:00.000-08:00

So, for the past couple of days I've been having fun playing in the comments section at Gary Corby's blog. Specifically, this post in which some of us have been joining him in coming up with punny songs for ancient times. For example, I Want A Girl Just Like The Girl That Married Dear Old Dad by Oedipus.

In self defense, the poor man has suggested maybe I should post some of mine here, so brace yourselves and here they are:

Lady Echidna by The Beatles: (Slightly tweaked from the version at Gary's house)

Lady Echidna
Monsters at your feet.
Don't want to think about what they eat.
Lernaean Hydra,
coiled at your breast,
wonders who you're going to feed the rest!
Heracles arrives without a suitcase.
Beware Argos, creeping like a nun.
Send Cerberus down to guard the hot place.
See how folks run!

A few more titles:
Since I Fell For You by Icarus.
Like A Rolling Stone by Sisyphus.
Rock You Like A Hurricane by Poseidon.
Homeward Bound by Odysseus.
Don't Cry For Me, Sweet Niobe
If You Think I'm Sexy by Narcissus.
and a duet by Nelson Eddy and Echo: When I'm Calling You- ooo-ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo-oo! Ooo-ooo-ooo!

And finally, the song I woke up with and have had stuck in my head all day. (I'm going to record an audio version. If I can figure out how I'll post it later. Consider yourselves warned!)

(To the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)

Ooooooooh
my! Have you read the story
of the mating of the gods?
There was Zeus and all his girlfriends.
It was really pretty odd!
Seems the big guy liked to bonk things
that were hooved and furred and clawed.
When all roads led to Rome!

Ooooooooh!
He fell in love with Io and
I swear she was a cow!
It seems that there was nothing
his mores would not allow.
Then they called him "an Olympian"
We'd call him "redneck" now!
And all roads lead to Rome!

Weeeellll,
In his pursuit of Romance,
Zeus was always very bold
He made love to Princess Danae as
a shining shower of gold
Though I always wondered how the hell
The story never told.
And all roads lead to Rome!

Soooooo,
I guess that in the old days
they were not afraid of sin.
Get caught making love to Fido?
Say, "the gods tricked me again!"
They loved wine and song and sex and
bestiality was in
When all roads led to Rome!

When we diminish one group of people

2010-01-19T08:57:00.000-08:00

it diminishes us all! Bloomsbury YA has "whitewashed" a book cover. Again. Story here.

Pass, past, passe

2010-01-18T15:38:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm probably preaching to the choir here (or talking to the wall), but I've been wandering around the Internet for the last couple of days and I keep seeing the same words misused again and again so I thought I'd point it out.

Goofing off on the Internet is a pastime, not a passed time.

Someone who has died has passed away, not past away.

"I saw something run past me," not "I saw something run passed me."

"We hung around and passed time," not, "we hung around and past time."

Is South Korea INSANE?

2009-12-30T21:14:00.000-08:00

Why haven't they capitalized on this yet? All they have to do is announce that they've demolished the imaginary wall (maybe release some pictures of something concrete being destroyed) and then sell the pieces! Imagine being able to say that you own a genuine piece of an imaginary wall! Not only is there a fortune to be made here, but wouldn't it be fun to see what North Korea would say then?

I think I've got a New Year's resolution after all

2009-12-30T11:00:00.000-08:00

Interesting article at the New York Times today. I can especially relate to this part:

. . . when people were asked to anticipate how much extra money and time they would have in the future, they realistically assumed that money would be tight, but they expected free time to magically materialize.

Hence you’re more likely to agree to a commitment next year, like giving a speech, that you would turn down if asked to find time for it in the next month. This produces what researchers call the “Yes ... Damn!” effect: when the speech comes due next year, you bitterly discover you’re still as busy as ever.

Star Trek Redux

2009-12-26T08:05:00.000-08:00

Having gotten the fangirl out of my system (at least for the moment), I wanted to go back and comment on the new Star Trek movie again in writer mode. Normally, when they make a movie from an old TV show, old enough that they're not using the original actors, it (to put it not too delicately) stinks up the theaters and quickly fades into the oblivion of the $5 DVD rack at Walmart. This, in my opinion, is why:

You get Hollywood making a movie about an old TV show, they tend to think it's all about the machinery or the special effects or the concept. So they go, "Oh, Dukes of Hazzard, it's all about the car!" or "Oh, Starsky and Hutch, it's all about the car AND, boy can we have fun ridiculing the clothes and hairdos!" or, "Oh, I Spy, it's all about the gadgets!" Then they cast Owen Wilson and a guy with a darker complexion (don't get me wrong, I *like* Owen Wilson), give them some wacky dialogue and big WOW special effects and go, "Voila!"

Then they wonder why the movie sucked.

What could have gone wrong? You've got the car! You've got stuff blowing up! You've got Owen Wilson and Eddie Murphy/Ben Stiller! What happened?

What happened is simple. It's NOT about the car! Every story -- EVERY story! -- is about the characters. Even the most iconic *things* in television history -- The General Lee, Maxwell Smart's shoe phone, even the starship Enterprise -- are only accessories for the characters. That's why the Star Trek franchise was able to blow up the original Enterprise and go on to make eight more movies (and counting).

The reason they make classic TV shows into movies in the first place is to capitalize on all the fans who still fondly remember the original show. Then, the first thing they do, is alienate them by blowing off the most important PART of that show. It's like you've been invited home for a visit and when you get there, everything's brighter and shinier than you remember, which is probably cool, but then you realize you don't know anybody. And, seriously! If they're not going to bother with the original characters, why not just go wild and shoot an entirely *original* movie? It's really not necessary to rape a classic TV show, even on the rare occasions when the bastard version is profitable (see Mission: Impossible).

That's where the new Star Trek movie got it right. They got the CHARACTERS right. If you grew up watching these people "boldly go", you can put in this movie and you will RECOGNIZE them. That's why fans are so enthused about it, and that's why it's made something like three times its operating budget.

As a writer, I think this is a strong validation of something we've all heard time and time again. In order to hold the hearts and minds of the reader, every story --EVERY STORY -- has to be character driven. Nifty concepts and shiny exposition is never enough. It takes more than Owen Wilson, charming though he is.

Star Trek

2009-12-20T23:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I finally got around to watching the new Star Trek movie and I just have one little comment to make:

THAT WAS SO TOTALLY FRICKIN' AWESOME! I LOVED IT! I LOVED THE ENDING WHEN EVERYTHING CAME TOGETHER AND EVERYONE WAS ON THE ENTERPRISE AND WHERE THEY BELONG AND IT'S LIKE THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING! I LOVED THAT THEY GOT ALL THE CHARACTERS RIGHT! SCOTTY WAS SOOO SCOTTY AND BONES WAS PERFECTLY BONES AND SULU AND CHEKOV WERE JUST PERFECT AND I LOVED CHEKOV'S AND SCOTTY'S ACCENTS AND BONES SAYING, "I'M A DOCTOR, NOT A . . . ." AND SCOTTY SAYING, "I'M GIVIN' 'ER ALL SHE'S GOT, CAPTAIN!" AND EVERYTHING WAS JUST AWESOME AND I DIDN'T EVEN MIND IT ALL BEING AU SINCE THEY EXPLAINED HOW/WHY IT WAS AU AND (it was a little bit weird about the thing with Spock and Uhura but . . . ) IT WAS AWESOME AND I LOVED IT!!!

I'm ready for the sequel now.

(We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging. /fangirl)

Holy Cow?

2009-12-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

Some people are claiming this newborn calf is a sign from God. Only, no one's sure what, exactly, it's a sign of.

Personally, I don't see a cross on it's forehead. I see a ballerina. Her hair is in a bun and she's standing on tiptoe (would that be en pointe?) on her left foot, facing the calf's right ear, with her right leg pointed back and to the right (away from the viewer). Oh, and her arms are circled around in front of her. I know there's a name for that pose, but I don't know enough about ballet to know what it is.

I have a problem

2009-12-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I finally found a refrigerator small enough to fit in my little house. It's adorable, a Frigidaire that's old enough, probably, to count as an antique. I got it at a used furniture store in Warsaw and last Friday morning, before I went to work, my nephew Joe and I took his truck over and picked it up. We brought it home, wrestled it into the house (it's really heavy!) plugged it in and then I had to run to get to work on time.

Now, I have three cats, two queens and a tom. And, because I always try to be a basically kind person, I'm not going to say Blondie, the tom, is an abject coward. Let us say, instead, that he is cautious and discrete. Discrete as in, at the first sign of anyone but me on the property, he bolts for the bed, slithers under the covers, and cowers at the foot until they are gone and it's safe to come out. So, as you might expect, while Joe and I were fighting with the refrigerator, Blondie was keeping his head down.

I wasn't surprised that the move was traumatic for him, but I was dismayed to realize, when I got home, that he was still afraid of the refrigerator! (And he still is.) Every time I go anywhere near it, he panics and hides. Finally I figured out, I think, what he's thinking. I just don't know what to do about it. See, with his head under the covers, he never saw my nephew leave.

So, how do I convince him that I'm not keeping Joe in the refrigerator, waiting to get him? :-/

Attention Detroiters and Ontarions

2009-11-19T20:16:00.000-08:00

~~Ontarioites Ontarioninos~~ people who live in Windsor, Ontario!

I bear sad news with a silver lining. Inklings Bookshop in Windsor, Ontario, very near the tunnel from Detroit, is closing. The silver lining is, the owner is having a massive book sale. A bag of books -- that's a BAG of BOOKS!!! -- is only $5! If you live in the vicinity, check it out! And if you don't, like me, and can only drool wistfully from afar, please consider passing the message on about the sale? The owner is a heck of a nice guy whose wit and wisdom you may have seen in comments on The Rejectionist's blog, where he posts as Ink. Here is the address of his shop:

Inklings Bookshop
470 Ouellette Ave.
Windsor, ON
Canada

Why I Have Trouble Getting Ready For Work

2009-11-16T15:43:00.000-08:00

So I laid out my work clothes and turned my back for a minute . . .

Sorry, Anyone Who Chances to See This

2009-11-14T21:47:00.000-08:00

Courier Gnu

The ~~devil~~ Rejectionist made me do it!

My beautiful, darling niece Sarah

2009-11-13T20:17:00.000-08:00

I have been telling Ghost Folk that two of the people in the very old picture he has at the top of his blog resemble relatives of mine. I wish I had a picture of my sister Bev to put here, as the resemblance (I think) between her and the older woman in his photo is striking. I did find (on MySpace) a picture of my niece Sarah, who I think looks a bit like the girl with the guitar. I'm posting it here so he can see what he thinks.

A Few Words About Christmas

2009-11-08T10:00:00.000-08:00

Ah, Christmas. That wonderful, humanitarian holiday that arrives every year on the last day of the third week of December. 'Tis the season to be jolly. A time to eat, drink, and be merrry. As the muppets sang in "A Muppet Christmas Carol" (which I swear is one of the most faithful to the spirit of the book of all the various movie adaptations) "it is the season of the heart" and "the summer of the soul in December". Even as a not-particularly-religious individual, it is one of my favorite times of the year for its emphasis on joy, fellowship, peace of Earth, pecan pie, peanut butter fudge . . . .

Did I mention that this was on the LAST day of the THIRD week of DECEMBER? And NOT the FIRST day of the LAST week of OCTOBER? Or even the first day of the second week of November, which is today, and that therefore right now is NOT the season to be jolly? It is, in fact, the season to hunt down anyone singing, "fa-la-la-la-la" and beat them about the head with last year's fruitcake until they damn well STOP!

I swear! It's turning into a sort of zombie B horror movie: "THE HOLIDAY THAT ATE THE CALENDAR!"

When I was a kid my dad and I would go out sometime during the week before Christmas, sometimes even on Christmas Eve, and cut a Christmas tree. (My mom would always say, "well, if you have to bring a tree in the house, at least get a little one!". We'd come home with a monster that we had to cut three feet off of to get it in the living room and then tie to the wall with hay-baling twine and Dad would say, "you know, that looked a lot smaller in the field.") We'd decorate the tree and bake cookies and read "A Christmas Carol" and Mom would bake pies and relatives would start showing up so that, by bedtime, the living room would be wall-to-wall with spare mattresses and people in sleeping bags and people would be sleeping at both ends of all the beds. The next morning there'd be presents and stockings (our stockings always had apples, oranges, walnuts, candy canes and chocolate candy). Then us kids and the younger men would sit around and watch parades and football on TV while Mom and Dad and the women fixed a big dinner. By evening everyone would be gone except for maybe three or four of my oldest nieces and nephews, who were in my age range. We'd leave the tree up until New Year's Day and then the holiday season would be over for another 350-odd days.

When I got to college, there was a tradition called "Hanging of the Greens" on the first Friday of December, when we made wreaths for all the buildings on campus and hung them while caroling, before going to the dining hall for a big feast. It seemed a bit early to me, but then we weren't going to be there for the actual Christmas season, and everyone wanted a chance to celebrate the holiday with our school friends, so it was okay.

I don't know how long retailers have been doing the whole "Black Friday blitz" thing, but I became aware of it sometime after I got out of college. I thought, "good grief! It's only the day after Thanksgiving and they're already talking about Christmas! Can't they let us get done with one holiday before they start the next?" Then the sales and decorations started showing up before Thanksgiving. Slowly but relentlessly they supplanted the weaker holiday. I can't even remember the last time I saw an historically inaccurate and politically incorrect "Indians and Pilgrims" display or a crepe paper turkey!

Then last year Walmart started playing Christmas music the day after Halloween. The DAY after HALLOWEEN! And now this year there was Christmas merchandise in the same aisle as the Halloween merchandise the week BEFORE Halloween.

Labor Day's next! And after that it's only a matter of time before the Fourth of July gets it. As far as I can see, it's not going to end until Christmas has worked its way clear around the calendar and devoured itself.

I've got a weird one

2009-10-12T12:58:00.000-07:00

Last week I found a beautiful clock for only five dollars at a flea market. It was made of polished wood with a brass pendulum and glass covering the entire face and it plays the Westminster chimes and chimes the hour. I brought it home and hung it up in the cottage I'm working on, on a screw that was already in the wall.

The cottage is small, but Amish-built and set and very sturdy. The clock has a heavy metal hanging tab on the back with a keyhole-shaped hole in it, so it has to be lifted up before it can be taken off the screw.

Today I went in and the clock had fallen and the glass is broken out. It still works, though the chimes sound a bit like they're underwater now. The thing is, how/why did it fall? The hanging tab is still firmly attached to the back of the clock and the screw is still solidly in the wall. The door was locked and there's no sign of anyone messing around. There was a storm night before last (I wasn't in the cottage yesterday so I'm not sure when it fell) and there was a window open across the room, but nothing on the sill of the open window had been blown off and nothing else was disturbed.

So what happened?

And, by the way, anyone know where I can get a clock fixed cheap? :-/

Rude Awakening

2009-09-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my kitten, Portia, got hold of one of those plastic rings that come off of gallon water jugs. She played with it for hours, tossing it up in the air and jumping after it, pouncing on it, throwing it across the room and chasing it, etc. It was adorable.

So this morning, when I was still barely awake, I didn't think much of it when she was playing the same way on the bed. I just figured she had that plastic ring again and was having herself a ball with it. And then her toy landed on my neck.

Yes, it was a dead mouse. :-/

A Night at the Operation

2009-09-07T21:00:00.000-07:00

Jeffrey Cohen nearly made me embarrass myself at Mazzio's. (Which would have been really sad after I spent all day yesterday embarrassing myself at Casey's and Walmart!)

I'd been wanting to read his Double Features Mysteries for quite some time, but I hadn't seen any of them in local bookstores and I rarely buy online anymore. Well, today I was lucky enough to find a copy of his latest, A Night at the Operation, in Sedalia Books and Toys so I snatched it up and took it with me to read while I was eating. I made it to page six before one of his off-the-cuff one-liners caught me by surprise. I was just glancing away from the book for a second to look at my plate and I literally did a double-take. And I had a mouth full of salad, so it was almost a spit take!

I haven't finished the book yet. I'm at chapter nine and saving it for the laundromat tomorrow. It's a fun book, well-written and I'm enjoying the main character's sense of humor. It's also fun reading a book by an author I've seen often on the Dorothy L list and I enjoyed finding my own agent, the fabulously sharky Janet Reid, listed in the acknowledgements as a ~~bad influence~~ blogging buddy.

No more spit takes, but I'm warned now and enjoying this immensely. Now I'm going to have to get my hands on the rest of the series!

Unarmed and yet dangerous

2009-09-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

I think the lesson here is: never volunteer. NEV-ER VOL-UN-TEER!

About a month ago one of the managers asked me if I could work yesterday, Sunday being my regular day off. I said sure, but then all the managers got moved around and we got a new manager from another store and in all the confusion I didn't get scheduled, so I volunteered and they scheduled me. They scheduled me, in fact, at eight o'clock in the morning, which is five hours earlier than I usually work

To console myself for having to drag my sorry self out of bed at six A.M., I stopped off at Casey's for a nice cappucino and that's where it all started. One of the clerks came up behind me quietly while I was looking in the donut case and when I turned around I elbowed her in the small of the back. Hard. She said she was okay but it had to have hurt her. It hurt me!

Embarrassed and appalled, I paid for my donut and cappucino and started to leave. As I was making my exit a nicely-dressed elderly gentleman approached, so I tried to hold the door for him. The lid came off the cappucino, it hit the ground and spattered all over the poor man's pants!

All I could do was apologize and leave before I hurt anyone else. As I backed out, the clerk I'd elbowed was helping wipe English toffee spatters from the gentleman's shoes with a napkin.

Turning into the Walmart lot, I almost dropped my donut. Twice.

I finally made it work, where everyone was gathered around the front windows watching two or three young men getting arrested and having their car searched. (Nothing like being drunk and disordely on the Walmart parking lot at 8:00 Sunday morning!) Then, let's see . . . . I almost hit Shelena with the produce cart. Then I almost hit Keith with the produce cart. I dropped about a half a dozen boxes of cookies, kept sticking sell-by labels to each other instead of to the product, and paged for a manager when, as it happened, I didn't really need one. Oh, and the vending machine ate my change but kept my corn chips.

I also discovered that we got in the first shipment of cider this season, but I didn't spill any which, under the circumstances, probably counts as a minor miracle. By the time I got off work I was almost afraid to drive home, but at least I've learned my lesson.

Never. Volunteer.

Okay, be honest

2009-08-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

DO I have a sign on my forehead that says, "crazy people come talk to me!"?? Do I? I do, don't I?

Saturday it was the Angry Onion Lady, tonight it was Crazy Laundromat Man.

I was in the laundromat waiting on my laundry. Normally I'd do that sitting in my car reading, but one of my dryers sounded like it was getting ready for lift-off and I wanted to keep an eye on it for possible trajectory in case I had to chase it down with my car and retrieve my unmentionables. So here I am, sitting quietly on a bench watching the dryer vibrate, when this large, spry old man comes up and starts talking at me.

It seems he had to get insurance to get his red truck licensed so he could carry "fast freight" because he already had his CDL and someone waved their hand in his direction so he got an American flag and put that on his truck and we'll just see how they like that because he's been serving this country his whole life ever since he was just a little boy when he was a G-man decoding secret files that somebody put in a suitcase and threw off a train and because of that 50,000 people died in one day. One day! (The suitcase/train/secret documents makes me think of something I once heard or read somewhere but I have no idea what or where.)

I smiled and nodded and very carefully avoided eye contact and the minute my dryers stopped I grabbed my slightly damp clothes and made a hasty exit.

Why me? One of the managers at Walmart says I look "sympathetic" and seem "nice" and "approachable". I have GOT to stop that!

Ziss Boom Bah!

2009-08-24T11:58:00.000-07:00

Also POW, BAM, and Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Definitely Snap, Crackle, and Pop.

Yes, I finally got that pesky electricity hooked up in my new house. The smoke has cleared, there doesn't seem to be any lasting damage to the breaker box and my heart beat has returned to something approaching normal.

Next: Plumbing! :D

The Perils of Produce

2009-08-23T15:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had a run in with an Angry Onion Lady. She came up while I was scraping old PLU stickers out of a bin liner with my fingernails and announced that "we have some questions about these onions back here!"

As near as I could tell she was alone, so I must assume she was either using the royal "we" or suffering some form of multiple personality disorder. Anyway . . . .

Answering questions about all things producian being part of my job, I followed her politely in spite of her agressive manner. She stopped in front of a display of bulk yellow onions and asked what kind they were. I told her they were yellow onions and she spun around and literally snarled at me. "I can see that!"

So why did you ask . . . ?

"That's what they are," I said, trying to pacify her. "They don't have another name. They're just yellow onions."

"Are they hot?"

"No, ma'am. The yellow onions are the mildest variety."

"I hate mild onions!"

At this point, I realize in retrospect, I should have said, 'Oh, in that case, they're hot. Thanks for asking. Have a nice day.' and gone back to my PLU stickers. But no! I stick around to try to be helpful.

She goes from there to a side rack stocked with bagged yellow onions. "What are these?"

I cringe. "Yellow onions."

"Are they hot?"

Oddly enough, putting onions in mesh bags does not change the flavor. Still, I probably should have said yes.

"No, yellow onions are the mildest onion."

"I hate mild onions!" she announced, dropping the bag into her shopping cart.

So you're buying them why . . . ?

"Yellow onions are what you generally cook with," I began, trying to clear things up.

She spun towards me and howled, "NO! I cook with hot onions. They make everything else taste better too!"

"Well," I said hesitantly, "maybe you'd prefer red onions, like you put on hamburgers. They tend to have more of a bite."

Picture a mad witch queen in a fairy tale. Picture her at the point where she's just about to defeat the lovely princess, ensnare the handsome prince and enslave the kingdom. I'm not talking Disney here. I mean a real Grimm fairy tale, with blood and torture and stuff. Picture the evil witch queen leaning forward, eyes gleaming with avarice, gnarled old hands twisted into grasping claws before her face, mouth gaping in a half-grin of anticipation, strands of spittle clinging to her chin.

Can you picture her?

She looks just a little less crazy than the Angry Onion Lady did at the mention of red onions.

"Yes! You have red onions? Where are they?"

"Well, we don't have them in bags," I apologized. "Just in bulk. They're right there."

I pointed to the red onions, in the bin next to the bagged yellow onions, which were identifiable by the fact that they were, well, red.

She followed my gaze and her face fell. She glared at me in fury and disbelief. "Pah! I don't want those red onions! I tried those things. They don't have any flavor." She looked me up and down in contempt. "Those aren't red onions. They're just red onions. When I say I want red onions I don't mean I want red onions, I mean I want red onions!"

I backed away slowly, careful not to make eye contact, and returned to my empty bin. I'd left a cart full of oranges there and I figured I could hide behind it and even use them as projectiles if it became necessary to defend myself. The last I saw of the Angry Onion Lady, she was stomping off between the apples and the citrus fruit muttering to herself. "Can't get good-tasting vegetables anymore! It's all this damned organic crap!"

Nothing she'd been anywhere near was organic, but I sure as heck wasn't going to say anything.

Know what she was like? Do you remember The Waltons? Remember how Grandma Walton was always sharp-tongued and snippy? Kind of crotchety-yet-lovable? Well, this woman was sort of like that. She was kind of crotchety-yet-not-lovable. More like crotchety-yet-a-total-bitch. She was even scarier than Cranky Mr. Cauliflower or The Evil Culligan man!

But, here's the thing. Reading this now, you're probably thinking I've exaggerated. I haven't. If anything, I've played down her attitude and speech. She really was that angry. About onions.

Chapter and Verse

2009-08-13T19:45:00.000-07:00

Mindy Tarquini keeps telling me I need to write a non-fiction book about my experiences converting an Amish-built shed into a liveable cottage (before winter!). I haven't taken too many notes, but I have started a list of chapter headings (in no particular order):

TRENCHES, and why you shouldn't dig them until you know for sure where they need to go.

Why planning is the second thing you should do.

TOOLS and how to lose them.

Why you should respect electricity and what happens when you don't.

The unfitness of wasps as subcontractors.

Why it is important to measure FIRST, cut SECOND.

101 ways to hurt yourself without even trying.

Slip-sliding away, or What happens when you try to install a submersible pump without having a clue what you're doing. (I haven't actually gotten to that part yet, so consider this a prophecy.)

How many times do I have to give up before I can actually stop trying?

Why it is better to have a first-aid kit in advance, than wish you'd had one in retrospect.

The importance of clear-cut guidelines and why I wish I'd used some.

The folly of shopping for electrical supplies without knowing exactly what you need.

How to pretend it's someone else's fault when you're exchanging electrical supplies. ("I told the dog I thought I'd need a 100 amp breaker box, but he was just sure . . . .")

What to say when your friends laugh at you.

What to say when your cats laugh at you.

(Image from here.)

1001 excuses you can use for still not having the electricity hooked up.
Power tools and how not to use them.

And, finally, a handy glossary of swear words.

So, how's the project going? Uh, kind of like the search for Bin Laden. Nothing yet, but I keep hoping. :-/

Random Weirdness

2009-06-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

I need to write Miss Manners and ask her how you can ask someone if they're an idiot without being rude. Walking down the Walmart lot to go to work last week I passed a truck with a logo which read "Signs Excetera". Seriously. Excetera. So, how far does one trust a sign company that can't spell its own name? But it occurred to me, wanting to give them the benefit of the doubt, that maybe in some way that I can't figure, it's not a misspelling but rather a clever play on words. Maybe the owner's name is Excet? Or something. I'd ask, but I just don't know how to phrase the question.

In a book of ghost stories I came across a description of Block Island (extra points if you know what famous ghost story is connected with Block Island!) as looking like "an inverted pork chop". There's a right way up and a wrong way up for a pork chop?

I'm still working on getting my little cabin ready to move into. My various nephews' promised assistance has not materialized and I'm pretty much doing it all by myself. I am slowly accumulating things I need, though (got a good, slightly-used submersible pump last week!) and I figure every little bit of progress counts. I'm almost ready to finally look up the electricity. Little worried, though. My friend Chris explained exactly what I need to do and it sounds easy enough. But then he immediately launched into a story about how he almost electrocuted himself with a welder and a brush hog. :-[

This is the same guy who impaled himself on a tractor, took out the inseam of his jeans with a chainsaw, ran over his car with a skid loader and sank his truck. I swear I could write a book about the guys I work with! I'd call it, Fools Rush In With Power Tools Where Angels Fear To Tread.

Daddy

2009-06-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

Sometime about 1959 or '60 my mother was living in Eugene, Oregon with her older half-brother. After twenty years of marriage, she'd finally left her abusive prick of a husband down in the Deep South, taken their eight children and moved away. Two decades of physical and emotional abuse had left her disillusioned with marriage and with men in general and she had determined that she was finished with the whole mess.

My uncle (whom I never met) was working as a mechanic at a shop that serviced the big logging trucks and one day he told her, "that logger I told you about, the one with the great big hands, lost his wife and now he's raising all those kids alone." Mom didn't remember him ever mentioning a logger with big hands, but she recalled this conversation later.

Some time after that (I'm not too clear on the timeline) Mom had moved into a house of her own. A couple named Harold and Margie lived up the street from her. Harold's sister had died of cancer and they kept her kids a lot while their father was working. Margie constantly sang the praises of her widowered brother-in-law, but Mom wasn't buying. Still, after a while she got curious enough to want to meet him. One day when she saw his car parked in front of their house she took a cup of sugar she'd never borrowed over to "return it" to Margie. That was the day my parents met.

Daddy was a big man, in every way: Physically big, big-hearted, great of spirit. Standing six foot two, he had to turn his shoulders to go through an ordinary doorway. You could drop a quarter through his wedding ring. And he was the kindest person I've ever met.

Children and animals adored him. Most of the pictures we have of him show him with a baby in his arms, a child on his lap, a cat on his shoulders and/or a dog at his feet. At one point we acquired a Shetland mare who'd come to us from an abusive home and had lost one eye. Dad was the only person who was ever able to approach her.

Though he'd never gone beyond the eighth grade, he was an intelligent person with a quick wit and an unexpectedly sharp sense of humor. (My mother told him once she was going to town to get bread. He replied, "okay, but don't hang my name on it.") He loved Louis L'Amour books and John Wayne movies (people have told me John Wayne reminds them of Dad), and hated cruelty, bigotry and injustice. He appreciated good comedy and was sucker for a happy ending, where the good guy gets the girl and the bad guy gets what's coming to him. I can still see him in his late seventies, when he was in the thrall of his last illness, sitting in his old recliner, bright eyes faded to a watery China blue, chuckling his deep, gentle chuckle at the end of some movie and surreptitiously wiping away tears.

If it sounds like I'm describing a saint, that's because in my mind, I am. I know he had flaws; that he wasn't perfect. He was human and never claimed to be anything else. But, whatever there was to detract from his sterling character, I cannot call it to mind, nor do I want to. In my memories he was all the best that a person can be: Kind, gentle, warm, wise, strong, safe, funny. Good. He died in April, 1991, after a lingering illness, at the age of 78.

I miss him still.

Time for the annual Cider Story

2008-10-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

Cider is evil. Did you know that? Sure, it looks innocent, a rich, brown nectar sitting there on the shelf in clear plastic jugs, beckoning the unwary. But deep in its dark soul lurks dastardly and terrifying plots!

Okay, maybe not. But I am paranoid about cider, as everyone who works with me comes to find out each fall when the yearly pallet of Louisburg Apple Cider arrives in the store. But there is a reason for my paranoia, and it is this:

The first autumn I worked at Walmart I spilled 47 gallons of apple cider.

Actually, I didn't spill it. It spilled itself at me. I just got to clean it up. In the Walmart "spills and hazardous waste training module" it says that "spill in excess of 10 gallons are considered too big to be cleaned up by store employees". Don't you believe it! See, it happened like this:

We have a walk-in produce cooler that's about eight feet wide and about twelve feet deep, with wide steel shelving lining both sides. When the shelves are full, the excess is stored on wooden pallets down the center of the cooler, and there is almost always at least one pallet full of freight in the cooler. (Sometimes there are as many as three. If we get slammed with more than that we have to take over the meat prep room which is unpleasant because then we have to kidnap Glen, who bitches about it, and tie him up in the Culligan water softener cage. We'd take over the deli cooler, but those deli girls are just scary!)

Well, the first fall I worked produce we had a pallet full of cider against the back wall. The cider was stacked seven cases high with four one-gallon plastic jugs per case and we were down to two rows of cider with other things on the front of the pallet. None of us were aware that the bottom cases had gotten wet and that the only thing holding up the cider stacked against the wall on the left side was the stack in front of it. I took the cider from that stack out to fill the floor display, came back and the entire stack had collapsed. The cooler floor was littered with busted jugs, sopping cardboard and approximately 24 gallons of apple cider.

Obviously, I couldn't clean up the mess with the pallet in the way. I got a pallet jack (sort of a manual fork lift) and very carefully pulled the pallet out into the produce area in front of the door. I successfully maneuvered it past the floor drain right outside the cooler, swivelled it slowly and set it down ever so gently.

And POW! Another stack of cider went over!

That's how I spilled 47 gallons of apple cider. Two years have passed since then with no other major mishaps (we did have a couple of jugs explode last year, but that's only to be expected). I still don't trust the stuff, though. I know it's just sitting there . . . watching . . . biding its time . . . .

Obama, in St. Louis, speaks before historic building

2008-10-18T21:47:00.000-07:00

Today, presidential candidate Barack Obama spoke before massive crowds (estimated at 100,000 people) on the lawn of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, MO. In the background and, so far as I have seen in news stories, unremarked, the Old Courthouse watched history unfold yet again.

In the background of the picture at the top of this news story: http://tinyurl.com/5e8mu6 look for a white building with a patinaed copper dome. This is the Old Courthouse. It is a white, Federalist-style building with two wings flanking a rotunda capped with a copper dome based on the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome. Built in 1827, it served as a center for law and order in what was then known (to some) as the last civilized city in the west. In 1947 the County of St. Louis deeded it to the Federal Government and it is now listed on the National Historic Registry and is home to a museum.

It is uniquely fitting that this building should bear witness to Obama's historic run for the presidency, for it was here, in 1847, that the Dred Scott anti-slavery case was first heard. After a series of appeals and counter-suits, in 1857 the Supreme Court ruled against Dred Scott and his wife, who had sued for their freedom. The case was a landmark because it established that no one of African descent was considered a citizen of the United States and that, not being citizens, they were not entitled to bring action in a court of law. It also struck down the Missouri Compromise, which made northern parts of the Louisiana Purchase "free territories", by ruling slaves to be property which could not be taken from their owners without due process, even if their owners travelled to places where slavery was illegal.

This ruling angered northern politicians and abolitionists, polarizing the opposing factions on the question of slavery and quite possibly hastening the onset of the Civil War. Ironically, the Scotts' owner, a widow, had re-married to a congressman who was an abolitionist and he arranged for them to be freed shortly after the Supreme Court ruling was handed down. Sadly, Dred Scott had but scant time to enjoy his freedom. Just nine months later he died of tuberculosis.

And today, within sight of where Dred Scott and his wife were first found by the law to be property subject to the fifth amendment, 100,000 people of all races turned out to hear a charismatic black man speak of his very real aspirations for the presidency. I'd like to say here that I, personally, support Barack Obama, not because he is black (or in spite of the fact that he is black), but because I am impressed by his intellect and his achievements and I believe he is the best person to guide our nation through these troubled times. But it is nice to look across this massive crowd to the green copper dome of the Old Courthouse and reflect on how far we've come in 161 years.

Incidentally, I have to confess that I didn't notice the Old Courthouse in the background because I am a super-savvy historian (alas!). The Old Courthouse is one of the locations that appears in my as-yet-unpublished murder mystery, The Reenactment.

Dear Mr. Hillerman

2008-07-22T21:06:00.000-07:00

First, allow me to say how much I enjoy your Navajo mysteries. Please write more. Now.

I do have one question for you, though. You have said more than once that Sergeant Jim Chee believes that having a cat as a pet is like having a human slave. While I can't help but agree that this is an apt analogy, I wonder. Does Chee realize that the human is not the master in this relationship?

My cat Layla prefers me to sleep on my left side with my left arm under her head and my right arm cuddled over her back. If I try to sleep on my right side, she slaps me until I roll over.

Slavery indeed!

Stolen Items

2008-06-29T12:44:00.000-07:00

I've been debating for three days whether to write about this, the decision postponed by rampant paranoia and sleep deprivation, but today I decided to set it out in visible form. Late Thursday night (or, rather, early Friday morning) I got home from work and my house had been burgled.

The first thing I noticed was the front door, which was not quite closed. That puzzled me, as I'm very careful about checking the door each time I leave, but I only thought I must have slipped up. Then, coming into the living room, I saw that things were in disarray. Okay, I have cats. Things are often in disarray. Even when I found an old CD clock radio sitting in my desk chair, my initial reaction was to try to think where it could have been that the cats might have knocked it down.

Then I saw the empty shelves around the computer where I kept all my favorite DVDs. After searching frantically for them, in defiance of the obvious fact that they had been stolen (maybe I put them in the filing cabinet and forgot about it! Maybe they got knocked off and they're all on the floor under the sewing maching! Maybe . . . ), I ran out to the car, got my purse and my cell phone and locked the car. Then I came back in and called the sheriff's department. As I was talking to the dispatcher I heard a loud thump and the dogs all started barking. At the time I was certain that it was someone going out the upstairs window and being chased down the hill by the dogs. On reflection, I think perhaps it was something or someone who was already outside.

I really want to believe that it was something outside! It was after one in the morning and I live alone in the middle of nowhere.

In any case, the person was gone by the time the deputy arrived and there was nothing for him to do but take a report and give me a hug. (The hug is not normally part of the emergency services bit, I don't think, but in this case the deputy who responded was one of my nephews.) After that, well, I called in to work and sat up all night, listening for strange noises. About six in the morning the dogs started barking frantically again and I called out another deputy, but she didn't find anything either.

The thieves got away with a random assortment of DVDs including most of my collection of old TV shows. Of all the things they stole, what hurts most is my four boxed sets of Emergency! DVDs. It was my favorite show and I bought each one as it was released and watched them often. They also took a carrying case with almost every CD I owned (I only had a few -- maybe twenty?), a brand new mp3 player that was still in the box, my Word 2000 disc that I've misplaced the authentication code for (I'll probably find it now), and my desk calendar. I had also just gotten a new computer -- a low-cost emachines that came without a monitor. When I set it up, I just took out the tower and left the rest in the box, because I already had a mouse, keyboard, etc. They took that, box and all, probably using that box to carry my other stuff.

In monetary terms my losses weren't huge. Maybe $500 to replace everything? And, yes, it could have been much worse. But, for me, it was a lot. I don't make enough money to splurge very often on things like DVDs and it had taken me years to accumulate even the modest collection I had. And, besides all that, it was mine damnit! The injustice of someone else profiting from it makes me seethe.

I've told this story about fifty times now and people always ask the same questions, so I'll go ahead and answer them now.

Was the door locked? No. I've lived on this hill since I was three and we've never even had a lock on our front door. There's a lock on it now.

Do you have a gun? Nope. I've never even fired a gun, barely even touched one. I've been offered a couple in the past few days and had people try to sell me pistols. I will admit that, in light of these events, it has been tempting. I doubt I will get one, though. They say that if you have a gun, you have to be prepared to use it. I'm not certain that I could.

Where were your dogs? Probably hiding. They bark ferociously at anyone coming up here, but they won't confront strangers unless I'm here. Once someone starts to leave, now, they're fair game, and anyone who runs from them is asking to be attacked. Also, if I'm out in the yard and a stranger comes around, SallyJane (my rotti) stays right next to me and is extremely protective. She even growled at Joe (another of my nephews) the whole time he was putting the new lock on the front door, and Sally knows Joe.

What are you going to do now? What can I do? This is my home. I'm not going to be chased away. I'll lock the doors now, lock up my car when I park it in the yard, leave more lights on. I've given the police as detailed a list as I could come up with of what was taken and I've been calling all the pawn and second-hand shops, asking them to be on the lookout for my stuff.

I'm sure that, in time, the nerves will ease up and things will gradually get back to normal. But I look around. The dogs are on edge, barking at any strange sound and every passing car. The cats sit in hunched bundles, staring out the windows and flicking their tails with tension. As for me, I have taken to sleeping fully clothed with the car keys in my pocket and my purse and cellphone beside the pillow. And it occurs to me that there's something I left off that list of stolen items.

Peace of mind.

R.I.P. Rufus!

2008-06-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

How do you mark the passing of a great comic when one of his most famous routines was on the euphemisms we use for death? George Carlin went into the hospital yesterday afternoon complaining of chest pains, experienced a terminal episode and expired last night.

The world is a less funny place today. Story here: http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5ina7M8zC1QQGSxe-e-PxBrf9kl0gD91FSLO80

Questions! I get questions!

2008-05-17T21:49:00.001-07:00

A few days ago one of our new associates, a young man who works as a cart pusher, asked me shyly if he could bother me for a second. Silly question! I'm working. He can bother me for HOURS!

Anyway, he had a problem. He needed a zucchini for class the next day (I'm hoping cooking class and not, say, sex education, but I didn't ask). What's a zucchini? I know he felt silly having to have a common vegetable pointed out to him, but he really shouldn't have. That is FAR from the silliest question I've heard or heard of since I started working retail.

One of my friends came to Warsaw from Warrensburg, where she worked in the Walmart fabric and crafts department. One time someone asked her if they had any more of a certain kind of fabric and she told them brightly, "I'm sorry! I don't think the elves are making any more of that kind today." They stared at her in dismay and said, "well, can you go ask them?"

A few weeks ago my friend Matt answered a call that came to the deli. The caller wanted to know if the bakery had any fresh brownies. Matt told them that our store doesn't have a bakery to which they replied, "well, can you go look?"

Some years ago my friend Mitch was working in a large grocery store produce department somewhere in the city. He was at a counter coring pineapples and had a large stock of pineapples next to him, a coring machine in front of him and a goodly supply of packaged, labelled, cored pineapples on his other side. A customer came up and asked, "do you guys carry cored pineapple?" Mitch, incorrectly assuming the man was joking, said, "no, I'm sorry. We don't have any pineapple." The customer turned away in disgust, speaking into his cell phone. "We're just gonna have to go somewhere else, Mable. They don't carry it here!"

And just a few weeks ago a trio of teenaged boys, looking lost and confused* as teenaged boys often do, came up and asked me if we had any plums. I pointed them towards the plums and in a few minutes they were back with a bag of fruit.

"Are these peaches or pears?"
"They're nectarines. I thought you wanted plums."
"Yeah . . . these aren't plums?"

I guess I can't blame it all on retail madness, though. After all, my crazy uncle Lawrence did once call my mother up to ask her what her phone number was.

*Drunk and/or high

Horoscope

2008-05-11T14:05:00.000-07:00

I didn't read my horoscope for yesterday, but I figure, if it wanted to be accurate, this is what it should have said:

Saturday, May 10 -- One star (at best)

This is going to be an annoying day. You will be inconvenienced by another's lack of consideration.

Woman I barely know sends me a little email newsletter thingie with not one, not two, not three, but four ENORMOUS JPEG attachments. It took an hour to download via my dialup (only thing available here) and completely wiped out my morning online time. I think, from glancing at the letter, they were pictures of baby goats. They were so big you had to scroll to see them in the OE preview screen and mostly they seemed to be trees and sky. I didn't take time to open them -- by the time they downloaded I was running late for work. I almost cancelled the download and skipped the mail for the morning, but it could have been Janet sending me a book contract, you know. If it had been, say, a FIVE star day instead of a ONE star day . . . .

You will find what you need is out of reach and will be stymied by modern technology.

Walmart, in their infinite wisdom, has switched to a cheaper toilet paper that is roughly the same consistency as fog. As long as the roll is more than half full it is impossible to pull any off, because the weight of the roll is greater than the tensile strength of the paper. The result, of course, is that people both use more and waste more. If you try to pull some from a full roll, all you get is a little swatch the size of your fingertips (this is why the restrooms now are littered with little piles of paper snow under all the dispensers). The only way to get any is to spin the roll with one hand while pulling on the paper with the other, an awkward prospect at best.

Also, several years ago Walmart switched to automatic-flush toilets. There is a special place in Hell for the person who invented automatic-flush toilets. If you're lucky enough to be unfamiliar with these fiendish devices, they are electric-eye operated toilets that flush themselves, basically, whenever the hell they feel like it. They're supposed to flush when you stand up. Often they flush when you sit down. They flush if you move slightly, if you sneeze or -- and this is the really obnoxious bit -- if you reach for toilet paper.

Also, the genius who designed our particular Walmart built it with just one stall in the front women's restroom. This means that there is almost always a line, especially on busy holiday weekends.

So this is me yesterday using the facility. The closest roll of toilet paper was empty, but the holder holds two rolls so there was another, almost full one at the point where I could just barely reach it.

Roll. Rip. Damn! Flush. Little girl hopping up and down outside the stall. "Mommy! I have to go pee!" Roll. Rip. Damn! Flush. "Mommy! I have to go pee now!" Roll. Rip. Damn! Flush. "Why is the lady taking so long?"

A lack of attention to detail will set ill with you.

On lunch, in a hurry, I grabbed a cheap package of instant noodles without reading the ingredient label. Ate more than half of it before I decided to look and see why it tasted weird. Chicken fat and chicken broth. It's making me sick just thinking about it. I've been a vegetarian for 28 years.

I didn't throw up, but it was a near thing for several hours.

Your judgement is poor today; You're all wet.

I sat on the bench under the overhang for about ten minutes waiting for the rain to let up before heading to my car which, being as I work there, was parked all the way at the far end of the lot (uphill, of course). I timed it just perfectly to get caught half way in an enormous downpour. Good thing I have an umbrella. Too bad I left it in my car. I got there dripping wet, rain running down my back from my hair, my clothes soaked, heavy breathing steaming up the car windows (which is really no fun when you're alone!). Within two minutes the rain quit completely and didn't start again so far as I know.

Tonight: Back to nature.

The road from Warsaw to my house is a narrow, twenty-mile long ribbon of hilly, twisty pavement that is unwise to travel too fast on windy, foggy nights. It is also a road which, at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, has not a single open business with a public restroom. Fortunately, the last few miles run down gravel and dirt roads bordered by cow pastures. Cows are curious creatures with no manners about staring, but at least the bushes don't try to flush themselves and I think the less said about that, the better!

What a deal!

2008-05-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my eyesight's getting bad these days and maybe I was hallucinating, but I could swear I saw a sign last night advertising a new release of the Indiana Jones movies that said, "special packaging with purchase!" OH MY GOD! They're kidding! You mean, if we buy the DVD, we get the box TOO?!!!?

Bad Luck and Trouble (Not the Lee Child novel)

2008-04-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

Did you hear about the woman who got struck by lightning and blown into the path of a semi while diving to get out from under a meteorite that had been chasing her for three blocks? In the rain?

No?

Well, if you do, it'll probably be me.

My car broke down.

Again.

This time it went belly-up in the middle of Mile Long Bridge. Just before midday. In a construction zone. I finally got it started again but it died twice more. The last time I couldn't get it going so I pushed it into a ditch and walked the rest of the way to work, getting there only ten minutes late.

I'd started an hour early so I could eat breakfast.

That was Tuesday. It's still sitting where it finally ended up (on the Walmart lot, fortunately, after I got a call from the Sheriff's Department!) waiting for my nephews to be free to either fix it or help me haul it to a shop (the water pump has apparently come out of the closet and realized its lifelong ambition to be a fountain instead). They were going to help me this morning, but last night their step-father had a stroke.

The curse affects everyone around me!

My brother-in-law is going to be okay, fortunately, and tomorrow the boys are going to help me fix my car, barring unforseen complications (which, frankly, I foresee). Actually, fixing the car is my second choice. My first plan, which I'm still rooting for, is for one of the jets flying training missions out of Whiteman to accidentally drop something big and heavy on it and then for the government to buy me a new car.

Of course, with my luck if they DID drop something, they'd probably miss the car and hit *me*.

Sigh.

I'm Drunk

2008-04-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

"I taste a liquor never brewed" as Emily Dickensen had it. After a long dry spell, I'm writing again. Yesterday I finished the second chapter of the book I'm working on and today I think it's quite likely that I'll write the third. I can see at least the first third of the book with a clarity that had been eluding me. Words flow again. I'm getting scenes and passages that don't feel forced and emotions that ring true.

I've also started a short story featuring one of my characters and several of my older short stories are demanding a good edit and airing. I have two other books in my head with complete plots and breathing characters and I'm getting a glimmer of a plot for the third book in the series I'm actually working on.

Oh, to have four more hands and two more keyboards! And time!

Writing is a glorious thing!

The "F" Word

2008-04-15T10:13:00.000-07:00

Last week Janet Reid had a post about a writer whose publisher dropped him because they got tired of him sending them "F-you" emails. Naturally, all her good little clients got on the comment board to reassure her that we would never do something like that, and for the most part I suspect we were all telling the truth.

It occurs to me, on reflection, though, that there was one time in my life when I did actually swear at someone. It happened like this:

Many, many yahrens* ago when I was a junior in college, an administrative error left a couple hundred of us without housing. After a couple of months in a temporary dorm where nothing got fixed, it wasn't a good idea to unpack because you didn't know how long you'd be there, and my roommate kept locking me out so she could have sex with her boyfriend, I wound up sharing a tiny apartment with three women I barely knew. Sherri and Monee I got along with fine (though they couldn't stand one another), but Lillian and I hit it off like bleach and ammonia.

Lillian was deeply-repressed fundamentalist Christian and a rabid conservative. The first thing we clashed over was homosexuality. She told me one day, very sanctimoniously, that she didn't believe gays were actually evil, they were just sick and needed to be cured. I have a half-brother and some very good friends who are gay and so I took exception on their behalf. She thought that I was probably a lesbian myself but wouldn't admit it to her. I thought she was probably a lesbian but wouldn't admit it to herself. She thought I was a dangerous, bleeding-heart liberal. I thought she was insane.

So, anyway . . . . After we'd been living together awhile a problem came up regarding the food we each brought in the house. Sherri and Lillian were both relatively well-off, going to school and living on money from home. Monee and I were poor as the proverbial church mouse, relying on scholarships, Pell grants and student loans to pay our tuition and scraping by on what we could make by working when we weren't in class. In Sherri and Lillian's eyes, anything in the kitchen was fair game, so that Monee and I, who could least afford it, kept coming home to suppers that were no longer there.

Finally we sat down and discussed it with them. At first they were both indignant. After all, they bought food too and they weren't telling us we couldn't eat it. Since we lived together we should be like a family? And, considering there were four of us and each of us despised one of the other three, they may have had something there. Still, that wasn't a solution either Monee or I was comfortable with. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think it may have been, at least in part, the fierce pride of the very poor. We were struggling mightily, but we were supporting ourselves. I don't need your food, thank you. I am able to buy my own. And for me, there was another complication. I'm a vegetarian, so if someone ate what I'd bought for dinner, there wasn't necessarily going to be anything among their groceries to replace it.

After a long discussion they agreed that we would each treat our groceries as our own and not take anything that didn't belong to us without at least asking. Sherri conceded gracefully, Lillian, less so. How much less so I was to discover a couple of nights later.

At the time she and I were the only ones home. I had been in class all morning, then worked all day, and I was trying to catch up with my homework so I could get up the next morning and do it all over. Lillian, puttering around in the tiny kitchen, decided to make popcorn.

"I think I'll make some popcorn, Loretta. Is this your popcorn, Loretta? Do you mind if I make some popcorn?"

I sighed. "No, it's not my popcorn. Do whatever you want."

"Of course, I'll want some butter for the popcorn. Is this your butter, Loretta? Can I use some of this butter, Loretta?"

"Yes, that's fine." I had transferred in from a junior college with an associate's degree that counted as the core work for my major, but my 8 AM art history lecture assumed that I had taken prerequisites that I had, in fact, not.

"Oh, and salt! Is this your salt, Loretta? Do you mind if I use a little salt, Loretta?"

"I don't know whose salt it is. Go ahead."

"I'm going to need a pan to melt the butter. Is this your pan, Loretta? Can I use this pan?"

"That's fine."

"Oh, and a fork to stir the butter too. Is this your fork, Loretta? Can I use your fork."

"Whatever."

"And this is your popcorn popper too, isn't it, Loretta? Can I use that? Is that all right? Do you mind if I use your popcorn popper?"

At this point I put down my pen and said, "Lillian, I do not give a damn if you use the fucking popcorn popper."

She went to bed.

Turned everything off, went into her darkened room without a word and climbed under the covers with her clothes still on.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

MAJOR guilt.

I was always taught to be kind to others. Don't hurt people's feelings. If you can't say something nice about someone . . . . And PROFANITY! Ladies don't swear! They certainly don't say the "F-word"! Strong language is the refuge of those who aren't intelligent enough to think of a better way to express themselves.

Finally I got up, went into her room and said, "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you."

In the glow coming in the window from the streetlights I could see her give me a smug, self-satisfied little smile. "I forgive you," she said very sweetly.

And at that point I very nearly cussed her out again, but I decided it wasn't worth the aggravation so I just turned around and went back to my books.

*For those of you who recognize the term "yahrens" I'd just like to be clear that this is a reference to the original BG and not to the popular but hopelessly bastardized modern version, which I refuse to even look at on the grounds that Starbuck's not a woman, dammit! He's a GUY! A really cute GUY! And when I was twelve I had a crush on him and a dog named after him and everything! So he's NOT a chick! Sheesh!

Mea Culpa

2008-04-13T15:37:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the rotten weather, everybody. It's my fault. I took vacation days.

What was I thinking?

See, I was supposed to go to Scene of the Crime Conference in Kansas so I asked for time off. But the main reason I was going was to meet my agent in person, so when she changed her plans I decided not to spend the money. Since I already had the time off work, I figured I'd just relax and enjoy it.

After all, it's April in Missouri. It's spring! It's time for singing birds and blooming flowers and balmy breezes before the summer sauna sets in.

It snowed yesterday.

Don't mind me, lurking here by the fire pouting and being gloomy. I complain, but actually, I'm just glad that none of the tornadoes hit me personally.

Yet.

Reasons why I am . . .

2008-04-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

SOOO not as psycho as Christopher McMannana.

Okay, so a while back I was telling my friend and co-worker, Christopher, about the time I drowned my sister. It happened like this: I had gotten into a fight with my sister Dorothy because she was trying to force me to get a haircut that I neither wanted nor could afford. I was working as a substitute teacher at the time (I realized I was not cut out for teaching when I found myself standing over a bleeding five-year-old with my hands on my hips saying, "what made that seem like a good idea?"). The next day I was supposed to sub in her granddaughter's class and Dorothy was afraid I was going to embarrass the little darling because I didn't look "cool" enough. When I tried to politely decline a trip to the beauty parlor she got hateful and insulting and told me that I dressed like an old woman. She said that long hair was completely out. I pointed out that she herself had long hair and she said, "yes, but when I go out I put it up!"

"I put mine up!" I objected. "It's up right now!"

She glared at me. "Yes, but you put it up wrong."

Anyway, by the time I got home I was steaming mad. Now, I don't know if you've ever played Roller Coaster Tycoon, but if not, it's a computer game where you build amusement parks and have to attract guests and make a profit. You get an operating budget and you can build rides and attractions and hire little guys who all look alike to be handymen, maintenance workers, security guards, or panda-suited entertainers. The main goal is to attract guests, which are also a bunch of little guys who all look alike (but wear different colored clothes). If you let the program name the guests it will give some of them women's names, but they all look like little guys. Now, I had discovered early on that it's possible to kill these little guys. I accidentally dropped Handyman 14 in the lake. He floundered around for a few seconds, then sank out of sight and a little alarm sounded and a message flashed across the screen that said "Handyman 14 just drowned!"

I was very sad for him.

In this instance, though, a good drowning was just what the doctor ordered. I went home, opened the game, found a really cranky little guy and named him Dorothy. It was a desert-themed game so I had to build a moat, then I dropped him in. He floundered around for a few seconds and sank out of sight. A little alarm sounded and a message flashed across the screen that said, "Dorothy just drowned!" and I pumped my fist in the air and said, "YES!"

(And then I put a swinging ship ride in the moat and named it the Dead Dorothy.)

Anyway, I was telling Christopher this story and he shook his head and said, "sheesh! And you call ME psycho!" Clearly this suggests that he thinks I am more psycho than he is, but I am not and so I'd like to take this opportunity to defend my non-psychoness.

Reasons I am NOT as psycho as Christopher McMannana:

1. I do not have a plan for turning everyone in Warsaw, Missouri, into a zombie "with just one drop of zombie serum . . ."

2. Nor a contingency plan in case someone else manages to turn them into zombies first.

3. I do not know how to film an exploding head.

4. I have never sighed and said, "you know, sometimes I really wish my [spouse] was a zombie!" (Granted I don't *have* a spouse, but even if I did that statement would still be true.)

5. I have never asked my teenaged son to let me shave off all his hair and eyebrows and paint his head white. (Christopher makes homemade horror movies, if you hadn't guessed.)

6. I have never plotted to kill ~~Frozen Jason~~ the Jason formerly known as Frozen. (Okay, so maybe I have -- who hasn't? -- but I was never serious!

7. I have never cut my kneecap in half with a chainsaw without noticing!.

8. I have never impaled myself on a tractor.

9. I have never cut the crotch out of the pants I was wearing with a chainsaw!!! (And keep in mind that Christopher is a guy. That adds extra exclamation marks to that statement.)

10. And finally and most conclusively, I have NEVER eaten a stale popcorn and Miracle Whip sandwich!

And on that note I rest my case!

Monkee Business . . .

2008-03-10T00:07:00.001-07:00

. . . on the Wal-Mart Radio Network!

On the off chance that there's anyone in North America besides Janet Reid who's never been in a Wal-Mart, allow me to explain. The gigantic Wal-mart corporation, which owns a huge chain of retail outlets under the Wal-Mart name and a huge chain of wholesale outlets under the Sam's Club name and a growing chain of grocery stores under the Neighborhood Market name also runs three communication networks to connect them all. There is a company intranet called The Wire*, The Wal-Mart Television Network, which supplies content (heavy on the advertising) for the televisions located throughout the stores, and the Wal-Mart Radio Network, which supplies the music and ads you can hear anytime you are out of range of one of the TVs.

Wal-Mart radio is arguably the strangest radio station in the world.

It is perfectly normal to hear a sequence of music such as this: Buddy Holly, Rod Stewart, Garth Brooks, Boy George, Jose Feliciano, Uncle Cracker, Sons of the Pioneers, Johnny Cash, Def Leppard and Judy Garland.

Lately, however, I've noticed a new trend. Somewhere in the animal cages that hold the radio programmers, there is a Monkees fan. I'm something of a Monkees fan myself from back in the day**, otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed. But for the past several weeks, almost every day I work, I hear at least one obscure Monkees song. I'm not talking Daydream Believer, Pleasant Valley Sunday or Last Train to Clarksville here. Yesterday I heard Mary, Mary. The day before that (well, the last day I worked before that) it was Sweet Young Thing and the day before that was Take a Giant Step Outside Your Mind. In the past couple of months I've heard She, Valerie, On The Day We Fall In Love, Auntie Grizzelda and I'm Gonna Buy Me A Dog.

It's so weird being at work and suddenly hearing these old songs, like a blast from the past. Some of them I haven't heard, I don't think, since I wore out the last of my Monkees cassette tapes twenty years ago! I'm not complaining! I still like the Monkees and I'm enjoying the novelty of hearing them again, and the variety. (Wal-Mart television is mind-bogglingly repetitive! You get the same segments about every three minutes. I can now talk like Paula Deen. This is not something I learned voluntarily!) The only bad thing is that every time I hear one (I'm still waiting for Zam and Zor, Going Down, Shades of Grey and Western Union) I want to run and tell someone.

And nobody ever understands.

*Janet Reid says I should watch The Wire for some great writing, but so far all I'm seeing is cleaning guides and official dress codes.

**Back in the day being the late 1980s, when The Monkees was on Nick at Nite in reruns, not in the mid 1960s. Contrary to what my nephews think, I'm not that old!

The Serpentine's Bite

2008-03-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

Well, $60 something in lost wages plus $60 in car parts equals . . . erg. Math is bad.

I started to work at my normal time this morning, got as far as the bottom of my driveway and my serpentine belt fell off. I shouldn't complain. As it is, I was close enough to muscle the car back up the hill. If it had waited a few more miles I could have easily wound up stranded in the middle of nowhere.

The first thing I had to do was call in, which is something I hate. Funny thing, though. Today my manager didn't seem to give a damn. That worries me a little. I suspect it has nothing do with me, though. The rumor mill says that he's in for some serious trouble over something that I'm not involved with, so maybe he was just curt over the phone because I interrupted him in the middle of getting fired or something.

Anyway, with that taken care of I still had the little problem of getting my car fixed. I called around and finally caught two of my nephews just as they got off work. They drove out, looked it over, made "tut tut" sounds (you know? The ones that mean "this is going to cost you a lot more than you thought it would") and then started taking my car apart. It wasn't the belt: The belt wasn't that bad, although as long as we have it off we'd ought to go ahead and replace it now. What was bad was the tensioner pulley, a little thingie way down at the bottom of the engine. Taking it off involved removing the antifreeze overflow thingie (thingie is a technical term), pulling the right front tire, using six different wrenches from above and below, complaining about front-wheel-drive cars, and swearing a lot.

Once the bad part was off we had to go into Clinton to get a new one. The boys thought it was really funny watching me try to hoist myself into Joe's enormous truck. They actually called me old! I'm only three years older than Joe is! I wasn't having trouble because I'm "old"!

I was having trouble because I'm short.

Anyway, by the time we had the new part it was too dark to put it on, so Mark's coming out in the morning to do it so I can go to work and find out if anybody missed me while I was gone.

If they didn't, I might have to cry. If they did, I'll just wait and cry come next payday.

Miscommunicado

2008-03-07T08:45:00.000-08:00

In today's world it's very important to be careful not only of what you say but of how you say it. One misplaced syllable or unguarded inflection and the most innocent comment can be completely misconstrued. Take yesterday at work, for example.

I was just wandering around the produce department with my little cart, stocking the fruit displays when a man whom I know only very slightly came in and just such a misunderstanding occurred. What I said was, "hi, how are you?"

What he apparently heard was, "tell me all about your wife's explosive diarreah."

People, trust me. This is not something I am ever, ever, ever going to ask.

Ever.

I am not unsympathetic. If you or one of your loved ones is sick, then naturally I wish you well. I just don't need the details! Now, I could understand what was going on. Here was a man who is used to being cared for and cossetted by his wife and suddenly he found himself in the position of caretaker. Not only that, but the role had led him out of the safe confines of his living room into the scary wilds of a great big, huge, gigantic, incredibly-small-town Wal-Mart almost-but-not-quite Supercenter. He wanted recognition of this fact. He wanted to be patted on the head and told that he's a Good Boy. I can do that! The conversation goes like this:

Me: Hi, how are you?
Him: I'm good, but my wife's sick.
Me: Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.
Him: Well, I'm taking care of her. I came to get her some medicine and things.
Me: Aren't you a nice husband!
Him: Yeah. What aisle's the chicken soup in?

And then I tell him and he finishes his shopping and I stock my fruit and that's IT! If he absolutely can't help himself he can ask me for directions to Pepto Bismal instead of chicken soup or even, if he MUST, Immodium AD.

I'd really rather he not ask about the Immodium AD, but doing so won't make me be mean to him in my blog. But that is the very LIMIT to what I am willing to be told about any infirmities suffered by himself or his family or anyone whose existence he is aware of.

I do not need to hear that she is "spewing out both ends like a volcano"! I do not need to know about the plastic trash bag she has to carry with her or that she "can't get off the pot without leaving a trail to help her find her way back"!

The banana girl does not want to know!

I do not discuss such things with my nearest and dearest*. If you are a relative stranger to me** then not only do we not need to talk about this, but the term "spewing like a volcano" should not ever, under any circumstances, enter any conversation we might ever have with the sole exception of if we are in fact talking about an honest-to-God actual volcano.

Is all that perfectly clear?

*The small handful of people I can stand.
**Even stranger than my relatives.

Why I avoid politics

2008-02-27T08:08:00.000-08:00

I was spoiled for political scandals at an early age, for I was a child of the Watergate era. I was seven when the congressional hearings blanketed the evening news and dominated the adults' conversations. A precocious reader, I had already progressed to adult novels such as The Haunting of Hill House and Sea Wolf. My tastes ran to mystery, even then, and I was familiar with Rex Stout, Erle Stanley Gardner and Ellery Queen.

Hearing the grown ups speak of "Watergate" in hushed and scandalized tones, I was fascinated. Surely here was a mystery of the first order!

I already knew what a watergate was. My second-grade class had studied the Panama Canal and seen pictures of the big locks raising and lowering enormous boats. Of the scandal itself I was ignorant, but I could -- and DID -- imagine. I pictured sinister men meeting in the shadows of a derelict barge, knives glinting in the muted glow of a tiny flashlight. I imagined blood spilled on the towpath at midnight and shallow graves dug in the black earth by the dark of the moon.

Anxious to learn (as Paul Harvey said every day on my parents' old kitchen radio) "The Rest Of The Story", I began approaching the various adults in my life and asking them to tell me about Watergate.

"Well," they'd begin, "there was a big hotel and someone left a door open . . . ."

As lurid beginnings go, this leaves a lot to be desired. Still, if everyone was talking about it there had to be something interesting going on. So I'd sit quietly, eyes glazing over, and listen to endless recitations about burglaries and lying politicians, about G. Gordon Liddy and Deep Throat and what the president might have known when. Eventually they would wind down and I would finally get to ask the all-important question that had inspired this conversation in the first place.

"But what happened at the canal?!?"

I got told to go play somewhere else a lot. And I came to the conclusion, by the time I reached my eighth birthday (two days after Nixon gave in and resigned) that political scandals were largely boring and fiction is a lot more fun.

Since then I have, for the most part, avoided being drawn into the various scandals. There's almost never a body and I have yet to hear a legislator say, on the floor of the senate, "you're probably wondering why I called you all here together tonight." And when something unavoidable erupts, I still seem to look at it from a completely different angle than the rest of the world.

With this current flap over Senator McCain, the first thing that struck me was the way they responded by slamming the New York Times. I read the article in question and while the suggestion of sexual misconduct may have been flimsy, the bulk of the story recounted instances of questionable ethics on the senator's part that seem to be a matter of record. I am reminded of A Christmas Carol, when the Ghost of Christmas Past tells Scrooge, "these are but the shadows of things that have been. That they are what they are, do not blame me."

The second thing that struck me was the wording of the McCain campaign's initial reply to the Times, which concluded, "there is nothing in this story that suggests the senator [misbehaved -- I can't find the exact quote right now. Sorry!] Anyway, if there's nothing in the story that suggests the senator did something wrong, what are they getting all upset about?

But the main thing that struck me about the whole business was a comment that a poster left at the end of a news story firmly declaring that the whole thing was a "temptress in a teapot".

A temptress in a teapot? Really. Surely he/she meant "tempest" in a teapot? Because a temptress in a teapot would be a whole 'nother scandal altogether, and probably a far more interesting one too. Certainly I would expect it to include blood spilled on the towpath at midnight and shallow graves dug in black earth by the dark of the moon.

Blame it on Mindy and the weather

2008-02-21T16:53:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks, every time I write my friend Mindy Tarquini a rude letter she responds that I need a blog. I've largely resisted the whole blogging trend on the twin grounds that (a) there are more than enough blogs in the world already and (b) I'm apt to get myself shot. An ice storm across west central Missouri kept me home today, however, and having a little extra time on my hands I have now given in and become a blogger. Since this is my first post, perhaps I should introduce myself.

Hi, I'm Loretta. Pleased to meet you!

I'm the evening produce stocker at the Warsaw, Missouri, Walmart. I'm also a writer. My first book is a murder mystery called The Reenactment, about a serial killer who is recreating nineteenth century homicides. The Reenactment is now in the hands of my agent and I'm working on the sequel.

When I'm not stocking bananas, of course.

I'm afraid I've also been decimating the local law enforcement agencies. Last year I asked a retired Kansas City cop, "if you find a body and it's obviously dead, can you say it's dead or do you have to try to revive it anyway until the coroner arrives?" (I had this kind of an image in my head of a police report reading, "efforts to revive the victim did not succeed, as we were unable to locate his head . . .") The officer in question kind of stammered out an answer and then moved to Arkansas.

Here recently I asked a Benton County Deputy, "if you're arresting a guy who's been shot in the nuts with a nail gun, do you read him his rights before or after they get him loose from the floor?" He kind of stammered out an answer and then moved to Utah.

Now I have another question. Anybody know a cop you want to get rid of?