Thursdays are Lonely Without You

Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the final episode of Mad Men or you haven't seen any of it but plan to watch in rerun, don't read this post!

Last night I had that odd feeling that something was off, the feeling we get when perhaps we've forgotten to brush our teeth or lock the door or turn off the stove.

Or watch Mad Men.

Sadly, there's no Mad Men to watch. At least not until the reruns begin or summer 2008 gets here: the season ended last Thursday.

Wandering around the 'net, I've found a few brouhahas (0r might the plural also be brouhaha?) about Peggy's "surprise" pregnancy.

Surprise? Raise your hand if it hadn't crossed your mind. Uh-huh. That's what I thought.

For some, it wasn't the pregnancy but the fact that Peggy herself didn't seem to recognize she was with child.

TV Guide had a thread running on this; I don't know quite where it is now and don't really feel like looking it up, but for every two people who screamed implausible! Mad Men has already jumped the shark! was at least one who had a story like the two I'm about to tell.

In 1971 I worked with a woman who told me the story of her first pregnancy: she had no idea until she went into labor. She'd always had irregular periods and continued to spot during the pregnancy. She didn't gain much weight and hadn't begun to attribute it to a possible pregnancy. How did she account for all the wiggling in the belly? That I don't remember. She gave birth to a full-term child.

This one I can directly verify. Ten years ago last month my 14-year-old niece gave birth at home. Until the child arrived, her mother (my sister) had almost no idea, nor did anyone else in the family. C looked a little chunky (as did Peggy) but not nine months pregnant and my sister had even asked her once if she was pregnant. The girl denied it. In this case, it apparently wasn't full denial on the pregnant girl's part, but denial regarding dealing with it. C's doctor told my sister that these invisible pregnancies aren't all that uncommon when the pregnant girl/woman has a strong reason to deny that it's happening. The mind is an interesting, interesting thing. C's daughter A was full term and healthy despite no prenatal care, and today is a sassy, active ten year old.

In Peggy's case, she was living in an era when women just didn't know much about their bodies. She'd obtained birth control pills, but we all remember just how helpful her doctor was, don't we? And (going on fuzzy memory) I believe Peggy first slept with Pete within days of obtaining her pills.* (We are all assuming it's Pete's child, yes? If it's not, that would be jumping the shark.) Having been given no real information, Pegs probably thought those pills were magically protecting her, not knowing that they take some time to fully kick in. Recall her insistence that it was impossible.

More evidence that not only is Peggy's denial real but that her unknown-to-her pregnancy is not some impossible event: a nurse rather quickly says she'll call psych, as if this is a common occurrence.

Next summer seems so far off...

*Reading the episode 1 synopsis on the show's website, it appears it was the same day, although there's no mention whatsoever here of Peggy's actual visit to the gynocologist. Odd, since the synopsis is quite detailed otherwise.

In which Bitty gets a guest-starring role at her tied-for-favorite blog

The other day Waveflux (Phil) made some pertinent comments about the relationship between writing and weight-lifting, but as an aside demoted "setting and time" to the B-list of writing elements.

I got all huffy.

And Phil turned it into a blog post.

I wish I could say this was brilliant, but it's kind of like an auto mechanic knowing which wrench to use.

(The other blog with which Waveflux is tied for favorite is Shakesville, but since he's a contributor there, I guess Phil is number one.)

An integral part of the next contract for actors on Lost should be...

drivers.

The only question is, should the actors demand them or should the producers demand that the actors use them?

Fires, part 3

Marine Son is fighting the fires.

Indian Princess and Baby A remain at home, feeling secure that they're far enough away from the flames. I hope so. My greatest comfort lies in the fact that they live in military housing, and the Marine Corps will evacuate their own if it's necessary.

But Baby A is breathing polluted air through lungs that have only been operational for 34 days.

So Grandma Bitty ordered an air purifier, and after an initial delay in the UPS system, the package is back in transit, due to be delivered on Tuesday.

Get it there on Tuesday, or even sooner -- that's what I want Brown to do for me.

Tales from the Second Life: Why Opera Is Not My Thing

Today's Question of the Day at Shakesville was custom-made for me. My comment seemed to be blog-post length, so I decided to add it here, too. Three posts in one day. Am I back, do you suppose? Anyway, here's my tragic opera tale.

When I was in high school, I managed to meet one of my fondest high school goals (just about the only time I did): I made the elite chorus. I don't have that fab a voice, but I can sing on key, so there you are. The cornerstone of the chorus, I suppose. I was so excited; our chorus director was beloved by all, etc. The chorus was chosen in the spring. I couldn't wait to return in the fall, when we took our new positions.

However, over the summer the chorus director moved into administration. Administration!!!

We faced a dour, disillusioned soprano when we returned, a woman who clearly had other plans for her life, a woman who never tired of warning us not to make her raise her classically trained voice.

She had a singing partner in her other life. To this day I can't remember if he was Mr. Fish or Mr. Trout. Whichever he was, we students privately called him by the other name.

It happened in a church basement somewhere in Baltimore. Dour Soprano booked our chorus all around the area to do Christmas concerts, and one night she booked The Trout to sing along with us...without telling us. I stood front and center, right next to him. When he launched into his overblown rendition of whatever Christmas carol we had on the program, I. Lost. It.

Bent-over-double-wetting-my-pants-getting-the-hiccups lost it. I couldn't stop couldn't stop couldn't stop. I had the hysterics throughout the song, right there in front of all those little old ladies who were groovin' to "Silent Night" or something like it.

The Trout probably had a very fine voice, but I simply can't hear opera without revisiting the moment of my greatest public shame.

Alanna, I hope we can still be friends.

Postscript: I once voluntarily heard Roberta Peters in concert, so maybe I'm not completely opera-phobic.

Fires, part 2

This satellite photo, found on signonsandiego.com, the San Diego's paper's website, offers a better look (better than what I'd seen before) at where the fires are...and aren't.

Marine Son is now off fighting the fires; another map I found suggests that Alpine has not been involved in the flames (this time).

Fires

The CNN map showing the southern CA fires is grim. I'd paste it in, but rather than being a photo, it's an interactive map. In essence, Marine Son, Indian Princess, and newborn A, in Oceanside, are surrounded.

Marine Son says that within hours he'll be on the way to help with the fires in some way. Indian Princess and A are at home. Marine Son says, using his best upbeat voice, that they'll "be fine," which is the way Marine Son speaks to his mother, even in the face of disaster.

According to San Diego Fire Battalion Chief Bruce Cartelli,

It will not end ... until it reaches the ocean or the winds turn around.

I asked Marine Son what, exactly, they were being advised to do. Should all of SoCal go stand in the ocean?

Marine Son says his best friend has a boat and they'll head out in that. I don't know if he's kidding or not. If he (and presumably friend) are fighting the fire, I don't see the two wives and the newborn launching the boat from what will probably be seriously crowded boat ramps.

I've had a pen pal in Alpine (east of San Diego) since 1979. I don't have her phone number (pen pal, remember?) and the last e-mail address she gave me is no longer valid. When I was visiting there in the summer of 2005, she took me around and showed me the charred areas from the last big fire, and told me the rather dramatic story of how a neighbor saved all their homes.

I have to wonder if her lovely home still exists.

Here's the latest from CalFire on Marine Son's fire:

Rice Fire
Rice Canyon
San Diego County
This fire has burned 6,100 acres in Rice Canyon in Northern San Diego County. 500 homes have been destroyed and another 30 have been damaged. 2,500 homes are threatened. The town of Fallbrook has been evacuated. Camp Pendleton and Oceanside are threatened. 170 firefighters are assigned to this fire including 11 CAL FIRE staff.

I hope Glenn Beck is happy.

In the category of memos that don't apply to me:

"The Social Security Administration (SSA) announced yesterday that the 2008 Social Security wage base will be $102,000, an increase of $4,500 from the 2007 wage base of $97,500."

A baby is God's opinion that life should go on

Considering the awful state of affairs in this world, it's easy to understand why some people are skittish about having children.

Others are more foolish -- or more optimistic. I throw my lot with the optimists.

As does Carl Sandburg, the official poet of Bitty's Back Porch, who famously said, "A baby is God's opinion that life should go on."

As do my son and daughter-in-law, as they make their awestruck transition to parenthood.

Little A was born last night in California, a thoughtful young man who limited his birthing process to the time between late morning and 11:23 pm, allowing his parents a little sleep -- except all they wanted to do last night was keep their eyes open and gaze at this commonplace miracle.

Barry "The Man" Manilow

So here I am coming out of hiding to cheer on my long-ago crush, Barry Manilow. Whether he declined the invite or was disinvited is not that important, but Manilow did not appear on The View because he refused to be interviewed by Republican Goddess Elisabeth Hasselbeck. Directly from the "latest news" portion of Manilow's website, complete with a misspelling of Hasselbeck's name:

I wanted to let you know that I will no longer be on The View tomorrow as scheduled. I had made a request that I be interviewed by Joy, Barbara or Whoopi, but not Elisabeth Hasselback. Unfortunately, the show was not willing to accommodate this simple request so I bowed out.

It’s really too bad because I've always been a big supporter of the show, but I cannot compromise my beliefs.

When you write the songs, you don't have to suffer fools gladly.

Mini Rant: Overexposed Names Edition

Attention!

Expectant parents: think ahead. Imagine the day you gaze lovingly upon the face of your newborn daughter, poised to call her by name for the first time. If that name is Brittany (in all its spellings) or Ashley, please, please, please, please, please, please reconsider.

Experts predict that the United States will exceed its Brittany-Ashley quota by the year 2010, approximately one year after the majority of American teachers' heads are predicted to explode over the confusion caused by 75% of all young women in the classroom being known by one of the two names.

Nature Imitates Art

...or something like that. When I logged on just now, I was greeted by a graphic of Hurricane Dean, except in the instant I first saw it, I thought it was a painting by Van Gogh.

Dean

Vincent

Foregone conclusion

What Be Your Nerd Type? Your Result: Literature Nerd Does sitting by a nice cozy fire with a cup of hot tea/chocolate and a book you can read for hours even when your eyes grow red and dry and you look sort of scary sitting there with your insomniac appearance appeal to you? Then you fit this category perfectly! You love the power of the written word and its eloquence, and you may like to read/write poetry or novels. You contribute to the smart people of today's society; however, you can probably be overly-critical of works. It's okay. I understand.
Drama Nerd
Social Nerd
Artistic Nerd
Science/Math Nerd
Gamer/Computer Nerd
Musician
Anime Nerd
What Be Your Nerd Type? Quizzes for MySpace

So when I saw this quiz at Shakesville, I took it myself, even though I knew the conclusion before I read the first question. Anyway, the questions hardly touch my nerdiness level. I mean, question #26, How many books have you read in your lifetime?, offers as its extreme answer 60 plus. What kind of book nerdishness does that signify? I probably own 600 plus. Never mind all the library books I borrowed and books I've given away. And those two degrees I have in literature? Not a single question about that.

I'm not a literature nerd. I'm a literature super-nerd. And what qualifies me as one more than anything is that I'm extremely aware of just how much I haven't read and probably can't get to in a single lifetime.

And as the ultimate proof of my literature nerdiness, I completed the incomplete sentence and corrected the grammar and punctuation errors in the narrative of the quiz results before I posted it. We won't be having any of that on MY blog.

Scribbles from the past

I found an old notebook, a small one, the kind I carry in my purse in case Something Needs to be Written Down.

Clues, such as an old Christmas shopping list that includes the name of my son's former fiancee, suggest that I started it about 3 years ago, then misplaced it for a while until I found it again last spring and used it to take notes from a lecture I attended.

It contains several lists of names, obviously students' names, but I don't remember most of these students. It sometimes distresses me how many of them simply flee my memory. In the early years I only taught a few classes at a time and over the years some students voluntarily came back to me for seconds, but a good estimate of the average number of students I've taught each year is 200. Nine years, 200 names a year -- probably I've forgotten 1600 of those 1800. This saddens me, because I tend to really like most of them.

I've found old to-do lists and notes from department meetings, and the thing that I actually wanted when I pulled out the notebook -- a folded-up handout from that spring lecture.

The oddest thing in the notebook, however, is this message to myself, in large letters, clearly intended to catch my attention:

POINT THE ARROWS TOWARD THE PATIO DOOR!

I have no idea.

I Hate When That Happens

I'm reading final papers, compiling final grades. Once that's done, I am finally free to CLEAN MY HOUSE! MOW MY LAWN! RECONNECT WITH MY FRIENDS! RECONNECT WITH MY FAMILY! GET BACK TO UNFINISHED PROJECTS! Etc.

So I took a break to have a snack and watch a little TV in my bedroom. (The living room TV has been disconnected for seven weeks; I was in mid-project when my summer semester began, and that's still the status of the project: mid.) The next thing I know, the poppies have overtaken me and I'm lying down. Ok. A half-hour snooze wouldn't hurt.

Four and a half hours later, I awaken.

Oh, this stinks.

Cool news

I made two major changes to my electrical consumption during the same week, about 6 weeks ago. I changed most of my light bulbs to compact fluorescents (the remaining light fixtures get used either rarely or briefly). And Tall Son finally rendered operational the recycled central air conditioning unit that he salvaged for me last summer.

This time last year I was cooling by using two window a/c units and keeping my spare bedroom and office doors closed, so I was only cooling a part of my house.

To add to the equation, two weeks ago I had removed the tree in front of my house that provided shade during the afternoons, so I'm sure that the a/c now has to work even harder to keep me cool.

I’ve spent one very comfortable month: I keep the temp at about 75, even at night (I sleep poorly if I’m hot).

So today I got the electric bill, and I fully expected that upon opening that bill I’d have to turn the a/c up to 80 and start living in the dark.

Wrong.

The bill is for $74.69. For a full month. In Florida.

The recycled a/c is a Trane, but it’s 10 years old, so I wasn’t sure it would be all that efficient. I suppose it is.

My electric company offers interesting statistics on the bill: the KWH total and daily average and the same info from the same month one year earlier. Last summer, same month, with partial-home a/c and incandescent bulbs, I used a daily average KWH of 29. This summer, it’s 25.

I won’t really know the impact of the bulbs alone until a/c season is over and I can compare KWH consumption during the heating months to last year’s consumption.

But for now...cool!

Where did the mud go?

Yesterday I was on the phone with my daughter, who was in her backyard, and I overheard her Littlest, age 3, approach her and ask, "Where did the mud go?"

Apparently the day before his toy had been muddy, but now it wasn't.

“Here it is,” my daughter said. “It dried up. It’s dirt now. Mud is dirt mixed with water.”

“It is?” he asked incredulously. “Mud is dirt?” Littlest has a most appealing way of emphasizing his words when he’s expressing his amazement. Like Shirley Temple, only less precious.

At age three, one finds much to be amazed by.

Like mud, whose secret identity is dirt.

Dear Netflix,

I know you’ve been worried about your movie. I’ve had it for over three weeks, and now you’re putting little notes on my queue, gently letting me know that it’s ok if something’s gone wrong with the disk; I can let you know without getting punished.

Well, Netflix, the disk is ok. I’ve just been really busy. You’ll see that other disks have come to and gone from my mailbox, but that’s because they’re episodic TV. I can fit in a 40 minute TV fix where I can’t manage a 120 minute flick.

And, oh, I don’t know. I think this disk was giving out vibes. I only vaguely knew what it was about anyway: general concept, big awards nominated and won. But I couldn’t get myself to actually put it in the DVD player.

Last night I did. Netflix, although it was tough for me to part with some films, such as Remains of the Day and Capote, you can have Adaptation back. I liked it and I hated it. I’m so confused.

(SPOILER ALERT!)

It was, at first, stunningly – almost annoyingly – clever, so not-Hollywood. I even loved the revelation of “Susan Orlean’s” secret life. Because I was rather enjoying myself, I had such a sinking feeling when the movie decidedly went Hollywood. “Susan” decides to solve her problem by becoming a homicidal maniac? What?

On the other hand, the ending might be part of the looping-around metatextual nature of the film. After all, everything changed immediately after Charlie had his one-on-one with Robert McKee, the motivational hack screenwriting coach. So, upon McKee’s advice, Charlie – the fictional and the real one – does precisely what earlier he said he wouldn’t: “I just don’t want to ruin it by making it a Hollywood thing.”

I either get it: Kaufman’s making an ironic statement about the inability to escape the Hollywood ending (and didn't Altman already cover that in The Player?).

Or I don’t get it.

Anyway, Netflix, stop worrying. The disk is in the mail.

Love,
Bitty

Mad Men

Obvious to anyone with eyes is that I haven't done much blogging lately.

I wish I could say I was having too much fun to blog, but really, I'm just too busy with the complications of life.

I've also paid little attention to television lately, so it was utterly accidental that I came across Mad Men this week. For this I must pop my head back into blog world momentarily.

Omigod.

Watch this show.

AMC has a fairly heavy rerun schedule for it (click on "episode 1 encore schedule" just below the giant picture), including "The Making of Mad Men," which I have yet to see.

It's about the early 1960s...but it's not. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose!

Two scenes particularly struck me: the moment that Joan whisked the dust cover off the IBM Selectric and told Peggy not to be intimidated by the technology, and Peggy's visit to the gynecologist.

Even though I didn't learn to type until 10th grade -- later in the 60s -- that jump from manual to electric was as jarring as driving a VW Beetle and then hopping out and driving a sports car. And let's just say that I was patronized almost as much at my first gynecologist visit in 1971, although I wasn't subjected to cigarette smoke, too.

I turned 7 in 1960, and I remember it well: the fashions, the cigarette smoke, the sharply delineated lines for men and women and no one with darker skin in sight.

This show is genius.

Now back to temporary blackout.

More about getting shot down

Apparently it's not just those nutty women who are full of excuses for dumping people. Now corporate America's in on the act:

Sprint Nextel is hanging up on 1,000 of its cell-phone subscribers because, the company said, they complained too much.

Sprint Nextel ... which ranked at the top of MSN Money's Customer Service Hall of Shame in April, apparently didn't appreciate when people called their customer-service lines to voice complaints, The Wall Street Journal reported Saturday. So the company told those unhappy customers to hit the road.

"The number of inquiries you have made to us . . . has led us to determine that we are unable to meet your current wireless needs," Sprint said in its [Dear John/Jane] letter.

However, the jilted customers get a consolation prize: their balances have been zeroed out and their early termination fee has been waived.

Thanks for not charging your customers for getting dumped, Sprint Nextel!

If She Doesn't Want to Date You, She's Probably Nuts

I've logged on a dozen times today and I even though I have no time for this, I can no longer remain quiet about the first "story" that AT&T offers me on the homepage today. Here's the teaser:

Guys Reveal: 'The worst turn-down I ever got was...'
Rejection is never fun, is it? Comfort yourself with the knowledge that some of the women who dole out these turn-downs could be, well, a little bit nuts.

Shall we scan these nutty shoot-downs quite apart from the comments made by the puff piece's author or its "expert," Dr. Lillian Glass?

"I was told that I'm too neat. Neat?!" —Gary, 56, Toronto, ON

"She told me it wasn't a good idea because she was anemic and was having her period." —Joe, 54, Justin, TX

"She didn't think her father and I would get along." —Curtis, 43, Jacksonville, FL

"One woman told me I was too intelligent for her. Sure." —Ray, 37, Raleigh, NC

"A woman told me she was probably going to be too tired the night I asked her out... but she told me this two days ahead of time." —Kevin, 41, Dallas, TX

"A girl I liked said she wouldn't date people born the same month she was." —Greg, 22, Wilmington, DE

"A girl said that her car broke down and gave me a big, long story about what was wrong. Only problem? I have a car and could have driven her. Plus, I'm a mechanic." —Wally, 20, Chicago, IL

"She told me she had to go buy the donuts for her Singles with STDs group. Point taken." —Greg, 32, San Diego, CA

Ok, I'm old, so it's entirely possible I have no idea what I'm talking about, but it seems to me that even though many a woman will go after a man who interests her, males still do much of the pursuing, especially cold-call pursuing (no prior acquaintance or even across-the-room flirting).

Again, call me on this if I'm wrong....

But as old me remembers it, a lot of men just won't take no for an answer. And the more attractive the woman, the more likely she'll be pursued by an overabundance of Randy Romeos.

If no doesn't work or if the sheer volume of unwanted advances gets a gal down, what then?

Well, mentioning menstruation will make him move.

Saying "STD" sends him slinking away.

Most of the rest qualify as clever putdowns. Telling a man he's too intelligent? (rejecting him with flattery) Telling a mechanic she can't see him because she has car trouble? (signalling she has utterly no use for him) Planning to be tired in two days? (an update of the "I have to wash my hair" meme)

Dealing with unwanted advances in a less-than-forthright way might be breezily classified as passive-agressive (and Glass uses that term), but fending off an advance with sarcasm or even a tall tale is simply not the same thing as "nuts."

It's dismaying that a female psychologist and a female writer would characterize women who reject men's advances in clever form as "nuts," an "embarrassment," "insecure," "hostile," "a liar," and "evil." Yet those are Ascolese's and Glass's words. That two women, one a purported communications expert, have pronounced these women (who just want to be left alone) as evil, insecure, hostile, embarrassing, lying fruitcakes suggests how deeply the idea runs that men have the right to expect that their advances will be welcomed. Anything else from women is a display of mental illness.

No wonder the women don't just come out and say hell, no.

Author Caitlin Ascolese breathlessly leads into the putdowns with "for once, guys, it might really be them and not you!"

No, Ms. Ascolese. It's still the guys.

And you're not helping any.

Separation Anxiety

My Netflix membership has changed my life. I've given up a bad habit or two (never you mind what) to make time for the films and I reward myself with a movie at the end of the day if I've been productive. (Or need to console myself because I haven't.)

I stand staring at the movie selection in stores in wonder because I needn't buy a single one of them. I "own" them all. I just pay Netflix a few bucks a month to store and ship them to me.

But sometimes it's hard to let the movies go back. I want to tuck them on my shelf, or buy myself a copy to keep. So far I've resisted the urge.

But it was so, so hard to return Capote and The Remains of the Day. So hard.

Now you know something about me.

Where have you BEEN, Bitty?

Livin' large as an M&M, my babies. Livin' large.

You know you're a Grandma when...

you find yourself at the age of 53 having dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner.

And it's not half bad.

A nice round number

600 more days for the Bush administration.

May the republic last that long.

Gone

I'll be doing even lighter than my usual light posting for the next few weeks. I'm in one or another of the Carolinas, watching my small grandsons for a few weeks while my daughter jets off to see Europe. Or at least some parts in Germany and Ireland.

You should be lucky enough to have such a mother.

Post Office Standard Time, or 5:03 is the new 5:30

I had to go into the office today and was gone much longer than I planned. This meant I had to make a beeline to the post office to get my bills sent out before I leave town in the morning. Not to fear, though. I know EXACTLY when the boxes outside my post office are picked up: M-F 5:30 and S 4:30. This is emblazoned somewhere on the side of my brain. I sometimes plan whole days around these times.

Imagine my surprise, then, to pull up to the boxes at 5:03 today, a Monday, and find a post office employee cleaning out the boxes. Seven of us in line jumped out of our cars and RAN to him, frantically waving our mail. I told him that I thought the box was picked up at 5:30. He said something that made no sense (he was finished inside?), but I didn't argue with him because I wanted to make sure my bills got in that bin of his.

Maybe since all three numbers are the same -- 5, 3, and 0 -- 5:03 is just as valid a pickup time as 5:30.

This shouldn't be optional, though. If the posted time on the boxes is 5:30, we the patrons should have until 5:30 to get our little letters in those boxes.

(EDIT: My skeptical mind asked if the guy might be an impostor, but if he is, he's both well-prepared and impudent. He was wearing a post office uniform, driving a post office car, and he had the keys to the post office box. After he finished collecting the mail, he drove to the back of the post office. I sat and watched to make sure.)

Yards of work

When I first came out to work, the resident bunny ran out from under this chair and streaked across the yard. I have yet to catch a good photo of the bunny. But I continue to try.

While school was in session, I didn't have time to do things properly, including yard work. We've had so little rain that it almost doesn't matter that the leaves still cover the ground and the grass remains uncut. (Except for a small patch of weeds, the ground cover has barely grown.)

So today I MUST do the worst of it, since I'm leaving town for three and a half weeks the day after tomorrow.

Under normal circumstances it wouldn't be possible to do this kind of work in the middle of the day on May 20. According to weather.com, it's 81 degrees, but it's the insanely low humidity -- 46% -- that makes yard work in mid-day not only possible, but pleasant. I would be enjoying it but for the knowledge that this is not normal and suggests something scary about our climate.

The Cavemen are Coming!

The cast of ABC's "Cavemen," a comedy adapted from Geico insurance commercials

ABC has placed Cavemen on its fall schedule, a spin-off from those clever GEICO ads. You can keep the Gecko; I'm half in love with the long-suffering C'man who scoffs at the insensitive GEICO ads and struggles through sessions with a therapist who, from her position of privilege, just doesn't "get" the prejudice faced by a caveman.

The ad's guy doesn't seem to be one of the series' cavemen, however. I suppose he isn't/can't be available since he's already the very public face of GEICO. Too darn bad.

ABC/Cavemen producers: don't screw this one up.

Happy Mother's Day!

I wanted to post some flowers for all the mothers -- my mother, your mother, you, you who want to be mothers but aren't yet, and especially those who want to be mothers but can't be.

We all mother in our way.

I wanted to post a photo of flowers, but my parched yard doesn't have any, and I didn't want to pinch a copyrighted photo. Then I noticed the tiny basket of shell flowers that Grammie gave me years ago.

It seems appropriate.

Happy Mother's Day!

Justice for Pfc. LaVena Johnson

Go here.
(I'm keeping this post at the top.)

Not all Army work is destructive

Source: Edgewood Chemical Biological Center

By now, those of us paying attention have heard of the Case of the Mysterious Missing Honeybees:

In 24 states throughout the country, beekeepers have gone through [...] shocks as their bees have been disappearing inexplicably at an alarming rate, threatening not only their livelihoods but also the production of numerous crops, including California almonds, one of the nation’s most profitable.

“I have never seen anything like it,” Mr. Bradshaw, 50, said from an almond orchard here beginning to bloom. “Box after box after box are just empty. There’s nobody home.”

The sudden mysterious losses are highlighting the critical link that honeybees play in the long chain that gets fruit and vegetables to supermarkets and dinner tables across the country.

Beekeepers have fought regional bee crises before, but this is the first national affliction.

Now, in a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie, bees are flying off in search of pollen and nectar and simply never returning to their colonies. And nobody knows why. Researchers say the bees are presumably dying in the fields, perhaps becoming exhausted or simply disoriented and eventually falling victim to the cold.

As researchers scramble to find answers to the syndrome they have decided to call “colony collapse disorder,” growers are becoming openly nervous about the capability of the commercial bee industry to meet the growing demand for bees to pollinate dozens of crops, from almonds to avocados to kiwis.

Along with recent stresses on the bees themselves, as well as on an industry increasingly under consolidation, some fear this disorder may force a breaking point for even large beekeepers.

A Cornell University study has estimated that honeybees annually pollinate more than $14 billion worth of seeds and crops in the United States, mostly fruits, vegetables and nuts. “Every third bite we consume in our diet is dependent on a honeybee to pollinate that food,” said Zac Browning, vice president of the American Beekeeping Federation. (emphasis mine)

However, the Army's Edgewood Chemical Biological Center may have solved the mystery:

Researchers have identified potential culprits behind the wide-spread catastrophic death of honey bees around North America and Europe. A team of scientists from Edgewood Chemical Biological Center and University of California San Francisco identified both a virus and a parasite that are likely behind the recent sudden die-off of honey-bee colonies.

Using a new technology called the Integrated Virus Detection System (IVDS), which was designed for military use to rapidly screen samples for pathogens, ECBC scientists last week isolated the presence of viral and parasitic pathogens that may be contributing to the honeybee loss. Confirmation testing was conducted over the weekend by scientists at the University of California San Francisco. ECBC scientists presented the results of their studies yesterday to a United States Department of Agriculture working group, hastily convened to determine next steps.

For the past year, experts have observed a marked decline in the honey bee population, with entire colonies collapsing without warning. Approximately 50 percent of hives have disappeared and researchers around the country are scrambling to find out why. Scientists have termed this phenomenon "Colony Collapse Disorder" and fear that without honey bees to pollinate crops like fruits, vegetables, and almonds the loss of honey bees could have an enormous horticultural and economic impact around the world.

ECBC is one of many academic, commercial and government concerns studying the honey bee population decline. ECBC’s role will be to identify the extent of the problem and conduct ongoing detection activities.

One summer when I was in high school and both ECBC and I had different names -- its was Edgewood Arsenal -- I worked there. So did my pal Vintage Flowerchild. Sixteen years old and I had a security clearance. Yes, I used to work for Uncle Sam, just like George Bush does. (clears throat)

Anyway, it's nice to see that all that military whiz-bang genius designed to save soldiers from chemical attack might also help us save our food supply, especially since the news from China is so frightening.

Woman Survives Being Pushed over a Bridge, or, Damn Those Hummers!

This is either Arlene Payan's worst day ever, or her best:

JACKSONVILLE, FL -- Her hands still trembling, her clothes and hair still damp, Arlene Payan found the strength to talk about the drop that could've taken her life.

"It's scary, it's nothing fun," she said.

A blown tire forced her to stop on the bridge.

"There was a huge rock on the bridge," said Arlene. And I got off the passenger side to check it out. And that's when I heard the screeching when the other car, a Hummer, hit the side of my car."

The H2 Hummer smashed into her little Toyota.

The force sent Arlene's car into her.

She sailed over the railing.

"After that, I just remember when I was flying over the bridge," she recalled. "I don't know how the car hit me or anything."

She popped up like a cork, twenty feet below, unhurt.

"I just started swimming, I had to. I just started swimming and just hoped everything was going to be OK."

A Jacksonville Sheriff's Officer leapt from a helicopter hovering over the river and hauled her to a boat.

"It was wonderful. I'm glad they were there."

Back on dry land, Arlene refused a ride to the hospital and came back to check on her car.

She works as a manager at a pharmacy in Jacksonville Beach. Her boss gave her the day off.

Pavlov's Bitty

In my current job, I rarely use the phone. By contrast, during the 12 years I worked as a real estate secretary, I spent half my time on Mr. Bell’s invention.

But it’s the end of the semester, when everything changes. Students suddenly discover that they want information from me, want feedback. Students are dropping by the office; students are calling.

Perhaps it was because I was distracted: I had one student in the office and we were in mid-conversation when the phone rang. But how surprised was I when, in automatic response to that ring, I almost said into the receiver, “Mr. C’s office”?

I haven’t worked for Mr. C for nine years.

Let there be LIGHT!

Recently our school installed motion detectors in offices and bathrooms to control the lights. (But not classrooms yet...are they afraid that everyone will go utterly still and the lights will go out? Sometimes students are sluggish, but not THAT sluggish).

In my building, when we go into the ladies' room, there's a little anteroom that we enter before we go into the stall/sink area. Each of these two rooms has its own motion detector. When no one has been in those rooms for a while, the lights turn off.

When I walk into darkness, I stand in the anteroom and wait until the outer door closes (so no one sees me acting like an idiot), then I walk into the stall/sink area, thrusting my arms upward as I enter as if I'm invoking my magical powers. Lo, this movement turns on the lights. I can't do this in my office because the movement of the door swinging in turns on the lights. And someone might see me.

It's a heady, catharctic feeling, having power over power.

It's (going to be) a Boy!

Marine Son just called. The latest sonogram shows that grandchild #4 will also be grandson #4.

I get to meet him in September.

:)

Edit: with some sadness, I just realized I won't be meeting him in September. New Little One will be born in California, a world away from me.

Time to buy webcams.

Southern Living, indeed: Garden & Gun

Just when I think I've seen it all, I see more.

Grocery shopping today brought me face-to-face with the premiere issue of a new mag dedicated to modern genteel Southern living: Garden & Gun.
You read that right.

Garden & Gun.

Gracing the cover is uber-Southern man Pat Conroy.

I was in a hurry so I didn't open it and thumb through, but Lia Miller of the New York Times, in her article "Garden & Gun Magazine Has an Awkward Debut", has the skinny:

Garden & Gun, a glossy new lifestyle magazine from Charleston, S.C., says it is for those who love “an adventure-bound, art-loving, skeet-shooting lifestyle.” In reality, the magazine is less about guns than it is about gardens, “Southern tradition” and land conservation. The gun part of the title, said Rebecca Darwin, the magazine’s publisher, is a metaphor for “the sporting life.”

It is also an inside reference to a popular ’70s Charleston disco called the Garden and Gun Club.

The name might not have raised an eyebrow had not the premiere issue arrived on newsstands just days before the shootings at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Va., on April 16. Ms. Darwin said only one critical e-mail message was received, among many positive ones, but others in the magazine industry noted the unfortunate timing.

Ms. Darwin, a former publisher of The New Yorker and Mirabella, said that there were no guns in the first issue. The “sporting life” piece is an article by George Black on trout fishing in Georgia.

Garden & Gun, which is published by the Evening Post Publishing Company, has an initial distribution of 150,000 and plans to publish five issues this year and 10 in 2008.

Samir Husni, the head of the University of Mississippi’s journalism department, said that he winced when he saw the name. “In this day and age, any title that you have to explain, you know it’s not the right title.”

But Ms. Darwin, who had 20 years of publishing experience in New York before returning to her South Carolina roots, said she was confident of the magazine’s appeal. “There are 40 million people that enjoy hunting and fishing; when you get outside of New York City, there is a whole other world out there.”

Oh, well if they're only metaphoric guns...

When my aunt and uncle, who live in Illinois, visited a few weeks ago, they were startled by the occasional gunshot in the not-so-far-off distance. I remained unruffled. I don't know who's shooting, or at what, but the occasional KERPLOW!! has been a fact of daily life for all of the thirty-one years I've lived in this house. I live in a subdivision that backs up to a woodsy, trailer-occupied area. KERPLOW!! is a sound as mundane as the crackle and whoosh of the squirrels who chase each other through the dry leaves of my backyard.

Gardens.

And guns.

New South, same as the Old South.

I am not 250 years old!

I almost never look at my profile. Today I did and discovered that somehow I was listed as 250 years old.

Fixed.

I feel really young now.

Not a conservative molecule in my whole body

I am: 0% Republican.

"You're a complete liberal, utterly without a trace of Republicanism. Your strength is as the strength of ten because your heart is pure. (You hope.)"

Are You A Republican?

Put on the trail of this quiz by konagod.

The kind of momentous event for which blogs were invented....

I've completely used up the ink in a ballpoint pen.

That never happens; I always lose them first.

Mark this day.

Laugh of the Day

A student came to my office to discuss her paper. While she was here, she insisted on giving me a doctor's note for her most recent absence. I require no notes; students get X absences, then no more.

She left the note on the desk hours ago, and I only just looked at it.

Student J's illness was confirmed...by a plastic surgeon.

Instantaneous (Lack of) Gratification

At 4:50 a student e-mailed everyone in the class (including me) to see if she could borrow a book to read tomorrow’s assignment.

At 4:57 she wrote to me to complain that no one had answered her e-mail and what was she to do? By the way, I already had responded, offering my book. I wrote back and offered the book a second time.

I’m trying not to laugh. It's 5:02. Why hasn't she responded to my twice-made offer yet???

When we don’t get what we want, it should fail to come immediately, yes?

(Edit: over an hour later, she still hasn't responded to my two e-mails. Imagine that.)

Out of Excuses, or, Not All Fluorescent Bulbs Are Created Equal

About a year ago, I bought a few fluorescent bulbs to replace incandescent bulbs, but I hated the color the light put off: so yellow that everything, including people, looked jaundiced. I even tried searching for info on a bulb with more "natural" light, but I guess I kept using the wrong keywords. Until now.

Apparently the thing to look for is the CRI, or "Color Rendering Index":

Color-rendering Index (CRI): Refers to how well the light from the bulb reflects true colors.

The CRI scale tops out at 100, the equivalent to natural sunlight or soft white incandescent bulbs. The CRI for fluorescent bulbs typically ranges from 50 for a basic bulb to 90 for a plant and aquarium bulb.

I presume this number is on the bulbs' packaging.

Time to go shopping.

Karl Rove Revokes Sheryl Crow's Citizenship

Or something like that.

Karl Rove's debate with singer Sheryl Crow and producer Laurie David about global warming heated the atmosphere at a black-tie Washington dinner.

On the eve of Earth Day, Crow and "Inconvenient Truth" producer David walked over to the presidential adviser's table at the White House Correspondents' Association dinner Saturday night at the Washington Hilton.

Their differences on global warming quickly bubbled over, the Washington Post reported Sunday.

"I am floored by what I just experienced with Karl Rove," David said later. "I went over to him and said, I urge you to take a new look at global warming. He went zero to 100 with me. ... I've never had anyone be so rude."

Rove said: "She came over to insult me and she succeeded."

As the debate intensified, Crow tried to calm things down but was drawn into the debate with Rove instead.

"You work for me," she told Rove, according to the Post column "The Reliable Source."

"No," was his response. "I work for the American people."

Heather Lylis, a spokeswoman for Crow and David's global warming tour, said Sunday that Crow's response for Rove was: "Yes, and I'm an American citizen."

It's not news that this administration has a hard time with the concept (one I learned in grade school) that government officials work for us and not the other way around (and that would be all of us, not just those who agree with them). But hey, don't go messin' with Sheryl Crow.

Sheryl Crow and Laurie David at said dinner. You know what Rove looks like.

Earth Day 2007

We only have the one planet. Without it, what happens with Don Imus, or on American Idol, or even in Iraq is rather irrelevant.

Let's get our priorities straight. Let's take care of the earth.

Earth Day 2007.

Bad News

For a few minutes today, in a very small way, I knew what the families of the VT students felt when the news of the shooting there first broke and little was clear, because Marine Son lives in a military housing area just about a mile from where a Blue Angel crashed this afternoon during an air show. The initial reports only indicated that the plane went down in “a residential area.”

I was away from home and heard the story on the radio. I know my son well enough to know that if an air show was in town, he was there…and not in his home. But then he didn’t answer his cell phone when I called to check. Fortunately for me, I suppose, I’m not an overreactor.

He was indeed at the air show and he and his family are fine. We now know that apparently only the pilot died.

But for those few minutes, the horrible thing was possible. And for one family, the pilot’s family, that horror is real.

When I'm Wrong, I'm Wrong, or, Gov. Crist, Are You Sure You're a Republican?

First Charlie says he wants to get rid of paperless voting machines, potentially restoring confidence in the integrity of Florida's voting process to skeptics like me.

Then Charlie says he's going to restore the voting rights of felons who have fully "paid their debt" to society.

Now, at a RALLY AGAINST GLOBAL WARMING (my poor abused mind is still trying to wrap itself around that one), Charlie announces that he has legal staff looking at the possibility of a posthumous pardon for Jim Morrison, who was appealing his conviction in Florida for indecent exposure at the time of his death.

Gov. Charlie Crist said he was seriously considering pardoning music icon Jim Morrison's 1970 indecent exposure and profanity convictions stemming from a Miami concert the year before.

"He died when he was 27. That's really a kid, when you think about it, and obviously he was having some challenges," Crist said Monday, after attending a rally against global warming with rock star Sheryl Crow. "There's some dispute about how solid the case was."

Morrison's arrest generated a lot of attention at the time and is still a part of the Morrison legend. He was drunk at the concert and police said he exposed himself, which Morrison denied.

Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek said Tuesday that he never saw Morrison expose himself and none of the more than 100 photos entered into evidence showed Morrison's genitals.

"He taunted the audience. 'I'm going to show you! I'm going to show it to you!' Then he took his shirt off, held it in front of him like a bullfighter's cape, wiggled it around as if there was something going on behind it," Manzarek said.

Morrison appealed the convictions, but was found dead in a Paris bathtub before it could be heard.

"Trying to clear his name and then he dies. If you have a heart pounding in your chest, that has to tug at you a little bit. It should," Crist said. "To have that much talent and to have it sucked out, even if there was some self-involvement ... that's very sad and very tragic."

Crist is the man who ran to the other end of the state during the last moments of the gubernatorial campaign to avoid being seen with George W. Bush, which now no longer looks so much like a political stunt as it does a metaphor for his political worldview.

Salon reports that Crist has a 73% approval rating in Florida. Me? I'm leaning against the wall in the corner, arms crossed, watching with interest to see what Charlie will do next.

Rock and roll, Charlie. Rock and roll.

4-20 edit: I discovered tonight that a friend attended the Crow concert and heard Crist speak. She reported he is indeed passionate about doing something about global climate change.

The difference a day makes

Our classroom's door is usually kept locked and students can't get in until I arrive with the key. That's fine, but it stays locked from the outside and becomes a nuisance after class begins and the stragglers start knocking on the door and jiggling the doorknob. Either I stop what I'm doing and open the door -- over and over -- or the student nearest the door patiently gets up -- over and over -- and lets in Mr. or Ms. Tardy.

Today I sat at the back of the room during my first class and watched students make presentations, and because I was in the back, I was facing that door, that heavy, solid wooden door with the strong lock.

Last week a classroom not easily entered was our curse, but today it feels like our blessing: a snug, safe haven.

May the Virginia Tech community find peace.

My life is just like that

I dropped in on Sarah Sometimes tonight and read a post that, if not in the details, in the spirit, perfectly captures MY life. It's nice to have someone else do the work for me.

Somehow it is the end 0f March and I see I have written not a word here. I do feel as if I have been running a marathon--work, teaching, grading, preparing, uh-oh, have to write a paper for a conference, uh-oh, have to get to the airport, too much traffic, am I going to make the flight? yes, I made it! uh-oh, am I going to finish the paper in time to deliver it at 3:30 the next day? yes! it's done, sort of, well, I can always ad lib, it's just like teaching, isn't it? Conference is over, race home, see my family for a birthday gathering, uh-oh, it's Sunday night, am I ready to work and teach tomorrow night? Okay, I can do it, I did it, but, now it's Wednesday night, help, I'm being observed in class! Now it's Thursday, I'm going to work, I'm seeing the tax person after work (too late, though, she'll have to file an extension), after the tax person I take the bus crosstown, back to the school where I teach, meet with the observer, whew, she liked the class!

Home, collapse, take nap, watch Grey's Anatomy, whoops, it's a rerun, I'll watch it anyway.

I read a handful of teachers' blogs because it's so, so, so reassuring to know that all over the country brilliant people -- not just me -- are walking into classrooms partially prepared for class, partially rested, partially going mad.

A Very Small Play, in One Act

The play takes place in Bitty's blog, a murky place with dusky blue walls and furniture that looks, oddly, just a little out of focus.

(Door opens, stage right. Bitty fumbles for the light switch, walks in cautiously, looks around.)

BITTY: It's cold in here. (Runs finger along bookshelf.) Dusty, too.

(Bitty reaches into an overhead cabinet and pulls out a long-handled Swiffer duster and begins dusting the shelves, the ceiling fan. She moves to the ceiling corner.)

BITTY (with feeling): UGH! Spiders! (Shoves Swiffer duster back in the cabinet and slams the door.)

(Bitty sits at her desk, picks up a photo of Molly, an elegant black and white cat, sighs. Puts it back down. Her fingers hover over the computer's keyboard momentarily, then she sighs again and drops her hands to her lap.)

BITTY: Not yet...but soon.

(Bitty stares into the distance, stage left [of course], still and silent for just that length of time necessary to bring the audience to the verge of impatience but not quite take it over the edge.)

BITTY: Maybe next week. (She touches the photo of Molly, then exits through the door, flipping the light off as she goes. We hear the click of the key in the lock. )

Curtain falls.

Dispatches from Bizarro World: Choosy People Don't Choose Evolution

The nuts in the peanut butter nicely complement the nuts in the video.

It is not satire.

(Hat tip to Misty at Shakespeare's Sister.)

60 Minutes interview with Elizabeth and John Edwards

60 Minutes interview with Elizabeth and John Edwards:

We choose to live our lives fully and with strength and optimism. We get to make that choice.

666

According to the "Official George W. Bush Days Left in Office Countdown," Sunday, March 25 marks 666 days until the (p)Resident leaves the White House. Do with that what you will.

The "right" kind of ketchup

For a few months prior to the 2004 election, my daughter and her children lived with her inlaws. Her Navy husband had had to go on ahead, and Daughter and the kids followed once housing was available.

One day while she was still living here, Daughter and I were running errands. Among them was a trip to the commissary. In addition to the groceries she needed for herself and the kids, she had a little bit of cash from the inlaws and a short list of things they wanted her to pick up.

As we were driving, Daughter said, "Mom, FIL wants me to get ketchup."

"Ok."

"Mom," she said, "he said it has to be HUNT'S. Nothing but Hunt's. He said he wasn't giving any of his money to that liberal Kerry by buying Heinz ketchup. He was really mad about it."

We had a good laugh, and she bought the Hunt's; the Hunt's/Heinz thing has become something of a shorthand between us when we talk about her in-laws.

Last night Daughter and I had a long phone conversation. The in-laws had just finished a short visit at her house, and she was talking about something that had happened at dinner, but then she interrupted herself (as we often do -- I'll bet you do, too) to tell me about a special moment at the table. FIL picked up the ketchup -- the Heinz ketchup.

"He looked at it for a long time," Daughter said. "He didn't say anything but I could see he was thinking about it."

Because dinner with two little ones at the table is lively, she never really noticed whether FIL actually used the ketchup.

This conversation reminded me of the Buy Blue site. I hadn't been there in some time, but the last time I looked I was quite disheartened -- I concluded that to be politically and socially responsible I'd have to stop eating, drinking, and buying clothes, at the very least. However, the ketchup incident sent me back to look, and I was mostly pleasantly surprised. Many of the places I shop are either blue, neutral, or represented by rather small elephants. I can substitute "bluer" (or less red) businesses for some I currently use. (The directory can also be viewed according to category or ranking.) It pleased me to see that while Blockbuster is represented by a medium-sized red elephant (because it makes more donations to Rs than Ds), my new love Netflix has a small blue donkey, representing its contributions to mostly Ds. Amazon makes many more R donations than D, while Barnes & Noble's medium-sized blue donkey represents not only its Democratic donations, but also props for "employment equality" and "social responsibility." I love Amazon's site, but I can get books at B&N just fine, thank you, and thanks to Netflix I'll be buying very few movies anyway.

The funniest statistic, though, I've saved for last. While it might be true that the purchase of a bottle of Heinz ketchup puts a little change into the personal pocketbook of Teresa Heinz Kerry and her husband to do with as they will, the H. J. Heinz Corporation makes generous donations -- currently 71% of its donations -- to the REPUBLICAN party. (Con-Agra Foods, Inc., maker of Hunt's ketchup, isn't listed on the Buy Blue site at all.)

So FIL, keep on boycotting Heinz. It'll make you feel good, but it'll make me feel even better.

Friday cat blogging: Molly update

Molly has now been on antibiotics for several days, and her status is...inconclusive.

She is frisky (as frisky as a 14-year-old cat gets), she's sleeping (which she wasn't doing at all last weekend), she's walking with her tail up (again, she wasn't before the doctor visit), and she's asking for frequent petting sessions (again, normal). In fact, everything about her behavior is utterly normal except one thing.

She's not eating much. She ate a fair amount on Tuesday, a little bit more than a full can of Fancy Feast, but since then, she's just been picking. So I'm still worried.

Elizabeth Edwards

Add me to the list of people saying prayers for the most remarkable Elizabeth Edwards as she and her doctors work to control her incurable, but "manageable," cancer.

Not too long ago, I heard a blurb advertising an upcoming news story -- must have been on NPR -- that said cancer treatment was improving to the point that many cancers could be considered a "chronic" rather than terminal disease. I never got to hear the actual story. But we're about to watch one family publicly live with just that situation.

May Mrs. Edwards' cancer remain manageable for many, many, many years.

Pfc. LaVena Johnson

I'm way overdue posting on this, although I assume that most of the four people who visit my blog already know about this. Still -- it's worth mentioning if only one new person becomes informed and does...something. At least sign the petition to the Armed Services Committees.

Pfc. LaVena Johnson, 19 years old, died in Iraq. While she's not alone in that, the circumstances of her death -- and what happened afterwards -- deserves the attention and action of every person in this country, regardless of political affiliation, who claims to "support the troops." Other than to ask you to sign the petition and write your congresspersons (if you're in Florida like me, a lot of Floridians sit on the Armed Services Committees), I'll turn the rest over to Phil Barron, who has been tireless in his devotion to getting this story out and who spearheaded the Johnson petition (follow the link to get the links imbedded in this story, including the TV news report):

Once upon a time lived a young woman from a St. Louis suburb. She was an honor roll student, she played the violin, she donated blood and volunteered for American Heart Association walks. She elected to put off college for a while and joined the Army once out of school. At Fort Campbell, KY, she was assigned as a weapons supply manager to the 129th Corps Support Battalion.

She was LaVena Johnson, private first class, and she died near Balad, Iraq, on July 19, 2005, just eight days shy of her twentieth birthday. She was the first woman soldier from Missouri to die while serving in Iraq or Afghanistan.

The tragedy of her story begins there.

An Army representative initially told LaVena's father, Dr. John Johnson, that his daughter died of "died of self-inflicted, noncombat injuries," but initially added that it was not a suicide. The subsequent Army investigation reversed this finding and declared LaVena's death a suicide, a finding refuted by the soldier's family. In an article in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Dr. Johnson pointed to indications that his daughter had endured a physical struggle before she died - two loose front teeth, a "busted lip" that had to be reconstructed by the funeral home - suggesting that "someone might have punched her in the mouth."

A promise by the office of Representative William Lacy Clay to look into the matter produced nothing. The military said that the matter was closed.

Little more on LaVena's death was said until St. Louis CBS affiliate KMOV aired a story last night which disclosed troubling details not previously made public - details which belie the Army's assertion that the young Florissant native died by her own hand. The video of the report is available on the KMOV website.

Reporter Matt Sczesny spoke with LaVena's father and examined documents and photos sent by Army investigators. So far from supporting the claim that LaVena died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the documents provided elements of another scenario altogether:

Indications of physical abuse that went unremarked by the autopsy
The absence of psychological indicators of suicidal thoughts; indeed, testimony that LaVena was happy and healthy prior to her death
Indications, via residue tests, that LaVena may not even have handled the weapon that killed her
A blood trail outside the tent where Lavena's body was found
Indications that someone attenpted to set LaVena's body on fire
The Army has resisted calls by Dr. Johnson and by KMOV to reopen its investigation.

We have seen in other military deaths, most infamously that of Army Ranger and former professional football player Cpl. Pat Tillman, that the Army has engaged in an insulting game of deny and delay when it comes to uncovering embarrassing facts. Only when public and official attention is brought to bear on the matter - as happened, eventually and with great effort, with the case of Cpl. Tillman - do unpleasant truths come to light.

Astonishing as it seems, it takes that level of outrage to compel the Army to find the truth and tell it, to honor its own soldiers. No such groundswell has yet emerged in the case of LaVena; not enough voices have demanded that someone in the military, anyone, speak for her. At first glance, the contrast between the cases of Pat Tillman and LaVena Johnson seems vast, but at the core the situations are the same. In each case, the death of a young soldier in a dangerous place and time was not explained to the families they left behind, the families that gave them up so that they could serve us. An honest accounting of their passing is all the dead ask of us.

The mother of Pat Tillman put the matter in stark and honest terms:

"This is how they treat a family of a high-profile individual," she said. "How are they treating others?"

In the case of Private First Class Johnson, we know the answer.

Put a loved one's mug on a free mug!

Publix, through Snapfish, is offering a free mug (must pay shipping costs of $5.99) until March 31. You must enter PUBLIXFREEMUG in the coupon code as you check out. Follow THIS link.

This is a real, dishwasher-safe ceramic mug, not a plastic thing with a paper insert.

It was hard to decide. The grandsons? Molly? Finally, I chose the last solo photo I took of Grammie.

Don't YOU need a new mug?

The mailbox is a happy place again!

Distracted by Molly's situation (see below), I completely forgot about my new Netflix membership and didn't go to the mailbox until very late in the day. Imagine my delight to find my first video, Prime Suspect, season 1, disk 1, especially since I truly hate going to the mailbox for what I see as the daily garbage run.

At the end of the day, I climbed into bed and watched most of the two-episode video. Less than an hour in, I realized that this show clearly inspired The Closer, which is more formulaic and less gritty, but, at least initially, addresses the same kind of sexism as Prime Suspect: resentment by the men of a woman in charge of the "murder room" (as well as disbelief by the public that the woman is in charge), led by one of the woman's subordinates in particular. As I await PS disk 2, I fully expect one of the junior men, probably Burkin, to warm up to Jane Tennison very soon, just as Sgt. Gabriel became the first to respect Brenda Johnson.

I think I'm gonna like Netflix, but did I really need another thing distracting me from getting things done?

The Power of Positive Thinking

Yesterday I took Molly to Dr. J, compassionate veterinarian and husband of friend Alanna. Molly, it seems, is an overachiever, having produced test results that show the highest white cell count the animal hospital has ever seen. It likely means one of two things: she has an infection or she has cancer. We could confirm the cancer (or not cancer) with a $350 ultrasound or we could treat her with antibiotics for infection and see what happens. Considering that we're going to know one way or another soon enough, I chose the antibiotics.

Dr. J gave her pain medication and her first dose of antibiotics yesterday. I swear she is some better today. Her fur looks a little less ragged, she spent some time stalking squirrels through the patio door, and, most importantly, I can tell from the condition of the food bowl that she at least tried to eat a little. I annoyed her greatly giving her antibiotics this morning (liquids -- I am no good with the pills and this is too important to mess up), but I'm willing to make her mad at me to keep her alive.

I'm going with positive thinking until I'm proven wrong. Feel free to join me with thoughts and prayers. I'm not ready to be a no-cat household.

What Makes God Laugh, Spring Break edition: When the good news is also the bad news

So it's Spring Break.

For me, that means plans: Get caught up on the grading. Get caught up on the house, which I have utterly torn apart so I can put it back together better. (At least that's how I justify its condition.) Get caught up with the yard work.

First day of Spring break...I break. I sat down to write out the bills and suddenly felt ill. Stayed in bed the rest of the day.

I've been playing catch-up ever since. Today was supposed to be full-tilt grading.

My cat is sick and I must seek medical care for her tomorrow. (No, she doesn't eat any of the tainted foods, but thanks for thinking of us.)

Today I learn my wonderful uncle and aunt, who have never visited my very humble home, are coming to visit...in 10 days.

I can't even decide which project to clear first.

Bitty becomes the last person in America to join Netflix!

I almost never watch movies. I really can't say why. I own DVDs I've never seen, for pity's sake.

But this $4.99 Netflix deal caught my eye a while back, and, after watching and enjoying an actual movie on TNT yesterday (The Pledge), followed by finding yet another "free trial" Netflix ad in my junk mail...I gave in.

Only a few movies in my queue so far, on purpose: the two disks of Season 1 of Prime Suspect (which are on the way), Sherrybaby, Quinceanera, and Mad Hot Ballroom. Because the $4.99 deal allows me only 2 films per month, if it turns out I actually WATCH the films, I'll probably upgrade to the $9.99 deal.

So...anyone have any suggestions? Interests, besides (obviously) independent films: smart thrillers/detective. Smart comedies. Smart romances.

I don't have time for foolishness.

Time and loss

My work office is a mess. I moved out of the old one and into the new in August, in media res: trying to pack, unpack, plan, and start a new semester all at once. However, the most immediate chores always win the Bitty's Time Sweepstakes, so the clutter just keeps cluttering.

Little by little I unpack and rearrange: a pile, a box, an envelope here and there. I recently came across an envelope of photos that were formerly taped to my old office's wall and in them was a particularly beloved one of Grammie and her lifelong friend Reeney (who deserves a post all of her own someday), taken in my kitchen on May 20, 1995. (I know this because once upon a time I properly labeled my photos...). At the time, Grammie was a robust 82; Reeney was a few years older. I propped the photo in front of the monitor.

Looking at it today, I realized that it really is a record of the past: Reeney died in 1998, Grammie last year. I threw away the miniblinds a few months ago, and the chairs the ladies are sitting in now wait in my living room for me to take them to the local women's shelter thrift store this weekend. The only tangible objects in the photo still in my life are the door handle that peeks out from behind the blinds, the coffee mug in front of Reeney, and the blouse Grammie is wearing. (I kept a suitcase full of her blouses, a time capsule that comforts me even though I haven't opened it once since I packed it over a year ago.)

The things and people that surround us seem so permanent because we see them day after day.

And then suddenly we look around and everything is different.

Time

I feel ever-constricted by time, but it's not time's fault: it's the way our social structure uses and abuses it. In his poem “A Martian Sends a Postcard Home,” Craig Raine catches this idea perfectly as the “Martian” tries to explain life on Earth:

… time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

Yesterday I sat down with a friend and colleague as he showed me a huge web project he has almost finished. Colleague Friend is not a computer expert and he taught himself Dreamweaver to do this. This man accomplishes more on his lunch hour than I do in a week.

How is this????

We both get 24 hours per day.

My current dilemma? It’s 6:00 a.m. I must be “up” by 7:30. I woke up, however, at 3:30 and have been trying to exhaust myself back to sleep ever since. Later I will drag myself through the day only to not be able to sleep tonight. I fully expect that before the day is over, Abe Lincoln and a beaver will give me a pep talk as a silent astronaut observes.

Of course, I’m not really sure I’ve been awake since 3:30.

When we rolled into this experimental Daylight Saving Time, my home computer and cell phone automatically adjusted for the change.

I changed the time on my stove, but I changed it wrong. It’s – somehow – 15 minutes early. To get to the real time, I’ll have to take the time to scroll forward 11 hours and 45 minutes. This is a bad system.

I changed the time in my car.

I changed the time on my alarm clock and bedroom VCR. I can’t change the time on my living room VCR because I lost my remote somewhere in my house and I’m waiting for the new used one that I ordered from eBay.

I don’t care whether my living room TV and stereo know what time it is.

I haven’t changed either of my hanging-on-the-wall clocks yet.

My work office phone adjusted for the change; my work computer didn’t.

I feel like I'm ticking with impatience.
And the boxes are as confused as I am.

Friday Cat Blogging: Teenage Molly Ninja Turtle

Nineteen ninety-three was a year of change in our cat population. First I found JJ along the side of the road and brought her home "temporarily." Then, Semmi, the most majestic-looking cat I ever hope to own, was murdered with a small-caliber gun, and in my grief, the next weekend I followed a "free kittens" sign to my most-beloved cat, Molly.

She had been with us only a few months and was still in her kittenhood, probably technically a cat-teen, when we discovered her amazing talent: like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Molly could defy gravity and fight foes in mid-air. Like a Honey Nut Cheerios mini-beach ball:



Back in the old days, toys sometimes actually came in cereal boxes and we didn't have to send away for them. The beach ball was one such toy. The kids were casually batting it around when Molly went into hyperdrive and leapt to the attack. Leapt, as in gravity-defying heights.

So the game was on. For some weeks, several times a day, the kids would post themselves at either end of the hall and bat the ball back and forth; Molly, between them, would leap and twist and contort in her efforts to attack the ball, and she would play this game until she was exhausted. We took a number of photos -- this is the best -- and some video (which is somewhere in this house...). After a few weeks, she lost interest in the beach ball, as teenagers do. They grow up, find new interests, and move on.

The old TV has been replaced twice over, the nasty carpet ripped out years ago, the son now property of the USMC, but Molly and I are still here keeping each other company, both a little too sluggish and creaky to chase after inflatable balls, but still here. And so are the memories.