Two obituaries juxtaposed on CNN, literally on the same line of the opening page:
Soul singer Al Wilson, best known for the song "Show and Tell," has died at age 68. Wilson was born in Meridian, Mississippi.
Soft rocker Paul Davis, best known for the song "I Go Crazy" has died at age 60. Although CNN doesn't mention his place of birth, Wikipedia reports that Davis too was born in Meridian, Mississippi, where he also died.
(If you're of the right age, I'll bet at least one of those songs is in your head right now.)
My daughter lived for a while in Meridian and was married there.* It's kind of at the ends of the earth, frankly. Yet quite a few other famous people arose from that earth, including Sela Ward, Jimmie Rodgers, Diane Ladd...and the infamous Fred Phelps.
*Fun fact: she was married less than two months before her 21st birthday, but I had to give notarized permission for her to apply for the marriage license since parental permission is required for anyone under 21 to marry. This was not how you thought of Mississippi, was it?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Go, Speed Racer!
The answer to the question, So if Danica Patrick's a real racer, when is she going to win a race? has an answer: today.
Patrick took the lead in the Indy Japan in lap 198 of 200.
"This is the best day of my life," [her father] T.J. said. "I've dreamt about it. I'm so proud of her. For all the grief she has gotten over it, she proved she can win races and she is going to win a lot more."Helio Castroneves, the man she edged out at the end, was gracious:
Danica's husband, Paul Hospenthal, is a professional physical therapist who works with athletes in MLB, professional tennis and golf.
"Female aside, she's just a hard competitor," Hospenthal said. "She never asked to be the female in the male sport; she just wants to work hard. With any race car driver, coming to the lead and winning like this and showing a little patience is fantastic."
At times, that patience was tested. For the first 49 races of her career, she was constantly hounded by the questions, "When are you going to win a race?" or "Are you ever going to win a race?" She became the first woman to lead the Indianapolis 500 in 2005 and was in front with seven laps to go before fading to a fourth-place finish that year.
But in her 50th start, Patrick finally answered those questions and lived up to her billing off the track.
"I'm so happy for her, so proud of her," said team owner Michael Andretti. "It's always been a matter of when, not if when she was going to win. I'm so proud of her the way she did it. She stuck to her numbers and her speed. I love this girl. I'm so happy for her the monkey is off her back.
"There will be more of this to come."
"With five laps to go, I was saving fuel," Castroneves said. "When Danica passed me, I realized she was the leader. She did a great job, passed me fair and square and that shows you how competitive our series is."I see that everyone quoted in these stories is male -- it would have been nice at least to hear her mother's reaction -- but I suppose it's tough to turn to the female experts for comment when Patrick is in a class by herself: at 26, the first woman ever to win an IndyCar race.
Edit: Litbrit has an eloquent and personal post on Patrick's win here.
Worth the Wait
July 1, 2008: the day Mad Men's first season releases on DVD. How quickly did I preorder after discovering this? Well, how quickly do you think I can click-click-click-click and click?As I waited impatiently these past months to hear something on the DVD release, I presumed that the reason it was taking so long was so the producers could put together a nice special features pack. I should say so:
“MAD MEN Series Commentary” – audio commentaries on all 13 episodesCommentary on all thirteen eps? Be still, my heart.
“Establishing MAD MEN” – featurette exploring the world of MAD MEN
“Advertising the American Dream” – featurette on the 1960’s creative revolution in media
“Pictures of Elegance” – Photo Gallery with Commentaries from the Costume, Hair and Production Designers
“Scoring MAD MEN” – A One-on-One Discussion with Composer David Carbonara
MAD MEN Music Sampler
AMC's official description of the show doesn't do it justice, but I get all finger-tied when I try to write about it, so cribbing the official description is the best I can do:
Set in 1960 New York, MAD MEN reveals the lives of the ruthlessly competitive men and women of Madison Avenue’s “Golden Age”, where key players make the art of the sell while their private lives get sold. And no one plays the game better than Don Draper (Golden Globe®-winner Jon Hamm), the biggest ad man – and ladies man in the business. As Don makes the plays in the boardroom and the bedroom, he struggles to stay a step ahead of the rapidly changing times and the young executives nipping at his heels.It's so much more than that. Oh, is it so much more!
The show's pedigree: created by Matthew Weiner, one of the producer/writers on The Sopranos (a show I could never get into, but maybe someday I'll try again). In fact, he submitted the pilot for Mad Men as his writing sample when he applied for the Sopranos job. Even though I could never embrace The Sopranos, I could appreciate its complexity and moral ambiguity, and the same features fuel Mad Men.
If you have cable or satellite and haven't seen this show (airing on AMC), why? Why?
National Poetry Month: Did I Miss Anything?
One of my favorites:
Did I Miss Anything?
--Tom Wayman
Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose
how could something significant occur?
Did I Miss Anything?
--Tom Wayman
Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours
Everything. I gave an exam worthNothing. None of the content of this course
40 percent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I’m about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 percent
has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter either to you or me
and are without purpose
Everything. A few minutes after we began last timeNothing. When you are not present
a shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel
or other heavenly being appeared
and revealed to us what each woman or man must do
to attain divine wisdom in this life and
the hereafter
This is the last time the class will meet
before we disperse to bring the good news to all people
on earth.
how could something significant occur?
Everything. Contained in this classroom
is a microcosm of human experience
assembled for you to query and examine and ponder
This is not the only place such an opportunity has been
gathered
but it was one place
And you weren’t here
Saturday, April 19, 2008
You Could At Least Act Like You Care
I was solicited by e-mail to take a survey about a tv show that I watch. I decided to go ahead.
First question: your gender? (male or female)
Second question: your age? (offering at least 10 different ranges to choose from)
Upon my truthfully answering the second question I got this message:
This concludes this survey. Thank you for participating.
Obviously, due to my "advanced" age, my opinion does not matter.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Life Requires VISA, or, Cashierin' is a Hard Thing to Do
Our campus Starbucks operates not unlike this ad. Regardless of the length of the line, it moves quite quickly and smoothly. And like most of the patrons in the ad, I usually use my VISA check card to pay for my purchases.
But not last night.
I had some cash, actual cash, in my pocket when I went to pay for my banana nut loaf, total $2.19. I handed over a ten and two dimes, and after punching a few buttons and pausing, the cashier went all funny on me. She got this weird this-is-funny-no-it's-not look on her face, ducked her head and turned to the guy next to her. After mumbling, she left the register and he stayed to deal with me.
"How much money did you give her?" he asked.
"A ten," I said, thinking that perhaps she forgot which denomination of bill I gave her.
"Was that all?" he asked.
"Two dimes."
"Okay," he said, "so you get..."
But the young woman returned and interrupted, giggling. "I figured it out."
"...eight dollars and one cent," the guy said, handing me my change.
Nuts to all that
Mustang Bobby at Shakesville brought an important issue to my attention this morning: the Florida legislature has debated the urgent matter of truck nuts, with the result that rednecks and other asses across the state can continue to exercise their constitutional right to use free speech to display what idiots they truly are.
This got me all riled up in the comments, and I decided to cross-post what I said here. Blood is going to be running in the halls next week as students face finals and final papers, and some face the fact that as they try to register for fall they not only aren't going to be able to get the schedule they want, but the schedule they need. The current worst job in the university right now has to be that of academic adviser, as these are the people who will take the brunt of the fury that rightfully belongs elsewhere.
The state's economy is rickety, and this is going to become very clear to our school's students and their parents this coming week when the students with late registration appointments try to register and can't put together a full schedule because the classes they need are not available, and no more are being added. (We have cut a lot of classes out of the schedule.) This is going to create some bad, bad consequences, not the least of which is that federal financial aid requires students to take a certain number of credit hours. Furthermore, some people in what they thought was their final semester will have to wait to graduate because the classes they need are either full or not being offered.
High school seniors who have worked diligently to get themselves into college are now receiving letters that they have a "deferred" acceptance, which seems to mean we'll let you in as soon as we know for sure we have classes for you.
But truck balls -- truck balls are the truly important issue facing our state, and I'm relieved to know that they are getting the attention they deserve.
This got me all riled up in the comments, and I decided to cross-post what I said here. Blood is going to be running in the halls next week as students face finals and final papers, and some face the fact that as they try to register for fall they not only aren't going to be able to get the schedule they want, but the schedule they need. The current worst job in the university right now has to be that of academic adviser, as these are the people who will take the brunt of the fury that rightfully belongs elsewhere.
The state's economy is rickety, and this is going to become very clear to our school's students and their parents this coming week when the students with late registration appointments try to register and can't put together a full schedule because the classes they need are not available, and no more are being added. (We have cut a lot of classes out of the schedule.) This is going to create some bad, bad consequences, not the least of which is that federal financial aid requires students to take a certain number of credit hours. Furthermore, some people in what they thought was their final semester will have to wait to graduate because the classes they need are either full or not being offered.
High school seniors who have worked diligently to get themselves into college are now receiving letters that they have a "deferred" acceptance, which seems to mean we'll let you in as soon as we know for sure we have classes for you.
But truck balls -- truck balls are the truly important issue facing our state, and I'm relieved to know that they are getting the attention they deserve.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Long Distance Phone Call
...from Iraq, this morning.
Marine Son is doing fine. He had a little downtime and thought he'd call his mother.
A nice boy, that one.
Marine Son is doing fine. He had a little downtime and thought he'd call his mother.
A nice boy, that one.
National Poetry Month: The Excrement Poem
Somehow I managed not to come across this one until last year:
The Excrement Poem
--Maxine Kumin
It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.
We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,
or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.
And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redelivered grain, how inky-cap
coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter
it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today’s last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.
The Excrement Poem
--Maxine Kumin
It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.
We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,
or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.
And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redelivered grain, how inky-cap
coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter
it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today’s last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
National Poetry Month: American Academy of Arts and Letters Edition
Just as it's hard to get a seat on the bench of the Supreme Court, the only way a prominent artist can become a member of the 250-member American Academy of Arts and Letters is if a, um, vacancy occurs.
Eight such vacancies apparently occurred over the past year. Newly elected members include humorist (and poet) Calvin Trillin, someone to whom I turn when I despair of the world in which I live. From Trillin's little gem of an anthology Obliviously On He Sails: The Bush Administration in Rhyme:
Cheney’s Head: An Explanation
One mystery I’ve tried to disentangle:
Why Cheney’s head is always at an angle.
He tries to come on straight, and yet I can’t
Help notice that his head is at a slant.
When Cheney’s questioned on the Sunday shows,
The Voice of Reason is his favorite pose.
He drones in monotones. He never smiles---
Explaining why some suspects don’t need trials,
Or why right now it simply stands to reason
That criticizing Bush amounts to treason,
Or which important precept it would spoil
To know who wrote our policy on oil,
Or why as CEO he wouldn’t know
What Halliburton’s books were meant to show.
And as he speaks I’ve kept a careful check
On when his head’s held crooked on his neck.
The code is broken, after years of trying:
He only cocks his head when he is lying.
At the ceremony, which will not only include induction of new members but also the awarding of many awards, "Academician Wallace Shawn will deliver the Blashfield Foundation Address, titled The Unobtrusives." And I do believe we're talking about that Wallace Shawn.
Edit: Looking over a list of members, living and dead, I spy at least one of those who has recently given up his seat at the table: Kurt Vonnegut. It feels sort of right for Trillin to have taken his place.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Update on Marine Son
I haven't said much about Marine Son, because I don't know much, and some of what I know I must keep to myself. However, I can say this: he's actually based in Kuwait (unless that has changed), flying in and out of Iraq. (He's a back-of-the-helicopter guy, not the pilot.) I am led to understand that he has a roof rather than a tent over his head when he's on base and access to shopping for the basics, like razors and snacks. I have most of my info from his wife, Indian Princess.
Soon (I forget when she said), he will be allowed to teleconference with Indian Princess for ten minutes.
He's working 16-hour days, with one day off a month. Apparently, even though he's only supposed to be there for 6 months, they plan to get a year's worth of work out of him.
No more complaining from me about my workload.
Soon (I forget when she said), he will be allowed to teleconference with Indian Princess for ten minutes.
He's working 16-hour days, with one day off a month. Apparently, even though he's only supposed to be there for 6 months, they plan to get a year's worth of work out of him.
No more complaining from me about my workload.
My side yard
I just had an itch to take a photo today. Everything is so green and I'd like to be out in it...but I have grading. My side yard is the largest part of the yard -- the other parts of the yard are more "normal" sized for a subdivision. This yard is a luxury -- except at mowing time.
I'm thinking about a bench somewhere among those trees, but most commercial benches have too much metal in them for my tastes. This is Florida, people! And metal conducts heat to our tender skin. By the end of the summer, if the economy doesn't completely freefall, I may put a shed in the far corner. It's hard to see where the fences are, but the beige shed on the left of the photo is my neighbors', and mine would nestle up near it, like a little trailer park -- I hope a classy one. I've lived in this house for 32 years with no shed or basement, and with a small attic with no easy access, so it too is useless for storage. Tall Son has left a lot of things behind and keeps bringing more for me to store. In the storage room, in addition to the usual kinds of things that one accumulates, I have a sink and kitchen cabinets to be sanded and primed and sanded and painted and installed ... someday. No wonder my house is bursting with Stuff.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Juxtaposition
From the online records of my bank account:
Monthly car insurance premium -- $49.09
My last fill-up -- $48.60
Monthly car insurance premium -- $49.09
My last fill-up -- $48.60
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Language of Life: Some Rambling Words for National Poetry Month
I have two degrees in English, a BA and an MA.
Yet I was late, very late, coming around to poetry. I think it's safe to say I never got completely comfortable with it until I had to teach it, and even then it took a while.
I'm not sure why. The wrong professors? The wrong poems? The wrong method of teaching (used on me)? The wrong method of teaching (used by me)?
I think it began with self-recrimination: I don't get it, I thought. I'm too stupid to get it. And more than a few professors did have a (I believe unintentional) bad habit of dismissing comments with a wave of the hand and saying, "no, that's not it." As a teacher, I try very hard to give most interpretations a fair hearing -- I'm a BIG believer in multiple interpretations. I try very hard not to wave the hand, but instead ask for further explanation. Sometimes I'm eventually convinced of the validity of the student's idea. Often, if the interpretation is way off base (I think that necklace is a symbol for a space alien), another student will chime in and help set her peer straight.
In fact, I think I've only come across one poem (not that I've read them all, not hardly) for which I would argue that truly, there's only one interpretation. Here it is:
If it's not obvious to you right away, that's ok. Let me help. The poem has NINE lines. Each line has NINE syllables. Here are some of its images: elephant, ponderous house, melon, fruit, loaf...rising, new-minted in ... fat purse -- well, etc. Every line, all NINE of them. With NINE syllables. Did I mention the importance of NINE?
Yes, of course the poem is about pregnancy. Plath warns us right up front that it's a riddle, and riddles generally only have one right answer. And to argue it's about space aliens or famine or man's alienation in the post-modern era is -- well, stretching it.
However, most poems open their arms wide to allow readers their own intimacy with them. Just as each person's relationships with different people are different relationships, so is each poem's relationship different with different people. My favorite poem may be one on which you wrote the tenth grade paper that earned you your first D. Your favorite poem may remind me of a friend who betrayed me. I may see optimism in a poem that for you signifies the end of the world. I may think that red hat symbolizes courage, while you see shame. And there's a good, good chance we're both "right," which is a relative term anyway.
Prior to the Modern Brit Poetry graduate class that I unintentionally took (a story all of its own), poetry for me was mysteries and math: no, I have no idea what the teacher thinks this poem means, and is da-DAH an iamb or a trochee and why do I care again, exactly? In this class, however, we sat in a circle and discussed the poems! The students, as a group, talked more than the professor! Sometimes he admitted he didn't know how to pronounce a word, or what the poet might have meant by "peanut butter"! This might well have been the first time I was exposed to the idea of multiple meanings in poetry. Remember again that this was a graduate class!
Later, but not much later I'd guess, I stumbled upon Bill Moyers' series The Language of Life on PBS, and it, more than anything, changed my view of poetry. (Ever since, I've wanted to go to the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, a biennial affair that should be on again this fall.) I found the show mid-series, and as far as I know, it has never run again. Too damn bad. I recorded the last few episodes, which are somewhere among my things and not very sharp. The rest I have never seen. Now and then (including just before I started this post), I Googled the series, but I don't see any "news." No hope that it'll be released on DVD or run on PBS again. Not yet. (Its entry on imdb.com has no message board! So sad! On the other hand, it's so very out of print...) I could, however, buy the VHS set from an entrepreneur on Amazon for $350.00 or more... I do, however, have the book and a few years ago bought the cassette set on eBay brand new for far less than Amazon sellers want for it now.
Anyway, this series, more than anything ever, made me see poetry as something dynamic. Poets read in intimate rooms with Moyers, under tents to crowds, in circles with students. Reading Jimmy Santiago Baca's poetry is one experience; hearing him read it is another experience entirely, another relationship.
So, way to go, Bill Moyers.
This post has gone on almost long enough, so I'll start wrapping it up. I did eventually figure out how to teach poetry, and very few students walk away unable to discuss on paper a poem of their choice (among my choices) with a reasonable level of intelligence. (Note I said nothing about writing skill, just thinking. Another matter entirely.)
And the point, which I'm finally getting to, is that here's the truth about poetry: a person's relationship with poetry is not an either/or proposition: we don't have merely two choices -- (a) like and "get" it all or (b) be a poetry neanderthal. We should give ourselves permission to have a different relationship with each poem. If we like a particular poem, we should like it. If we love a particular poem, we should love it. If we don't understand a particular poem, we should slow down and get to know it a little better. And if after a few tries things are just not working out, we should tell it goodbye and try another.
I'll end the rambling with one of Naomi Shihab Nye's best-known poems, one which works just fine as my own credo:
Yet I was late, very late, coming around to poetry. I think it's safe to say I never got completely comfortable with it until I had to teach it, and even then it took a while.
I'm not sure why. The wrong professors? The wrong poems? The wrong method of teaching (used on me)? The wrong method of teaching (used by me)?
I think it began with self-recrimination: I don't get it, I thought. I'm too stupid to get it. And more than a few professors did have a (I believe unintentional) bad habit of dismissing comments with a wave of the hand and saying, "no, that's not it." As a teacher, I try very hard to give most interpretations a fair hearing -- I'm a BIG believer in multiple interpretations. I try very hard not to wave the hand, but instead ask for further explanation. Sometimes I'm eventually convinced of the validity of the student's idea. Often, if the interpretation is way off base (I think that necklace is a symbol for a space alien), another student will chime in and help set her peer straight.
In fact, I think I've only come across one poem (not that I've read them all, not hardly) for which I would argue that truly, there's only one interpretation. Here it is:
Metaphors
I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.
Sylvia Plath
If it's not obvious to you right away, that's ok. Let me help. The poem has NINE lines. Each line has NINE syllables. Here are some of its images: elephant, ponderous house, melon, fruit, loaf...rising, new-minted in ... fat purse -- well, etc. Every line, all NINE of them. With NINE syllables. Did I mention the importance of NINE?
Yes, of course the poem is about pregnancy. Plath warns us right up front that it's a riddle, and riddles generally only have one right answer. And to argue it's about space aliens or famine or man's alienation in the post-modern era is -- well, stretching it.
However, most poems open their arms wide to allow readers their own intimacy with them. Just as each person's relationships with different people are different relationships, so is each poem's relationship different with different people. My favorite poem may be one on which you wrote the tenth grade paper that earned you your first D. Your favorite poem may remind me of a friend who betrayed me. I may see optimism in a poem that for you signifies the end of the world. I may think that red hat symbolizes courage, while you see shame. And there's a good, good chance we're both "right," which is a relative term anyway.
Prior to the Modern Brit Poetry graduate class that I unintentionally took (a story all of its own), poetry for me was mysteries and math: no, I have no idea what the teacher thinks this poem means, and is da-DAH an iamb or a trochee and why do I care again, exactly? In this class, however, we sat in a circle and discussed the poems! The students, as a group, talked more than the professor! Sometimes he admitted he didn't know how to pronounce a word, or what the poet might have meant by "peanut butter"! This might well have been the first time I was exposed to the idea of multiple meanings in poetry. Remember again that this was a graduate class!
Later, but not much later I'd guess, I stumbled upon Bill Moyers' series The Language of Life on PBS, and it, more than anything, changed my view of poetry. (Ever since, I've wanted to go to the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, a biennial affair that should be on again this fall.) I found the show mid-series, and as far as I know, it has never run again. Too damn bad. I recorded the last few episodes, which are somewhere among my things and not very sharp. The rest I have never seen. Now and then (including just before I started this post), I Googled the series, but I don't see any "news." No hope that it'll be released on DVD or run on PBS again. Not yet. (Its entry on imdb.com has no message board! So sad! On the other hand, it's so very out of print...) I could, however, buy the VHS set from an entrepreneur on Amazon for $350.00 or more... I do, however, have the book and a few years ago bought the cassette set on eBay brand new for far less than Amazon sellers want for it now.
Anyway, this series, more than anything ever, made me see poetry as something dynamic. Poets read in intimate rooms with Moyers, under tents to crowds, in circles with students. Reading Jimmy Santiago Baca's poetry is one experience; hearing him read it is another experience entirely, another relationship.
So, way to go, Bill Moyers.
This post has gone on almost long enough, so I'll start wrapping it up. I did eventually figure out how to teach poetry, and very few students walk away unable to discuss on paper a poem of their choice (among my choices) with a reasonable level of intelligence. (Note I said nothing about writing skill, just thinking. Another matter entirely.)
And the point, which I'm finally getting to, is that here's the truth about poetry: a person's relationship with poetry is not an either/or proposition: we don't have merely two choices -- (a) like and "get" it all or (b) be a poetry neanderthal. We should give ourselves permission to have a different relationship with each poem. If we like a particular poem, we should like it. If we love a particular poem, we should love it. If we don't understand a particular poem, we should slow down and get to know it a little better. And if after a few tries things are just not working out, we should tell it goodbye and try another.
I'll end the rambling with one of Naomi Shihab Nye's best-known poems, one which works just fine as my own credo:
Famous
--Naomi Shihab Nye
The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Haiku: A Challenge Met
Sir Robin requests the pleasure of our haiku. If you write one, send it to him.
I went for "traditional" flavor first time out, invoking the season of the haiku's creation. I couldn't decide on punctuation, so this became three haiku. I wasn't sure what the plural is, but the Tubes seem to be in agreement that it's haiku.
Spring Haiku 1:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work, endless, joy.
Spring Haiku 2:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work, endless. Joy.
Spring Haiku 3:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work. Endless joy.
I went for "traditional" flavor first time out, invoking the season of the haiku's creation. I couldn't decide on punctuation, so this became three haiku. I wasn't sure what the plural is, but the Tubes seem to be in agreement that it's haiku.
Spring Haiku 1:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work, endless, joy.
Spring Haiku 2:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work, endless. Joy.
Spring Haiku 3:
Spring brings a soft breeze
A backyard of red flowers
Yard work. Endless joy.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Just Shoot Me Now
Because it's coming to that:
Well, I had a few comments, but really, I'm rendered speechless.
I think I'll go run a few errands now while the likelihood of a shootout in the parking lot of the Ok Grocery Store is still somewhat unlikely.
Somewhere, Charlton Heston is smiling.
TALLAHASSEE, Florida - Most Florida residents would be allowed to take guns to work under a measure passed by Florida lawmakers on Wednesday.
The bill, allowing workers to keep guns in their cars for self-protection, was approved by the Florida Senate by a vote of 26-13. It now goes to Republican Gov. Charlie Crist to sign into law.
Backed by the National Rifle Association and some labor unions, the so-called "take-your-guns-to-work" measure would prohibit business owners from banning guns kept locked in motor vehicles on their private property.
The measure applies to employees, customers and those invited to the business establishment as long as they have a permit to carry the weapon.
Backers say the measure upholds the vision of the authors of the U.S. Constitution, who made the right to bear arms part of the Bill of Rights.
"The second thing they wrote about in that constitution was the right to bear arms," said Sen. Durell Peaden, a Republican from Crestview, Florida. "It was what was dear in their hearts."
Well, I had a few comments, but really, I'm rendered speechless.
I think I'll go run a few errands now while the likelihood of a shootout in the parking lot of the Ok Grocery Store is still somewhat unlikely.
Somewhere, Charlton Heston is smiling.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Water, Water Everywhere
Oops.
In Jacksonville, Florida, the local TV station ran a story about the city's plans to strictly enforce watering rules because as those who are paying attention know, water is in some places a scarce commodity and is headed toward that for the rest of us.
A city official explains the need for getting serious about water conservation:
The online text story closes with a drop-down menu for viewers to peruse the top consumers of water in the county, both residential and commercial. Several prominent names appear under residential, including those of a head football coach and an owner of an upscale auto dealership. However, the most amusing name appears in the business section:
The City of Jacksonville.
In Jacksonville, Florida, the local TV station ran a story about the city's plans to strictly enforce watering rules because as those who are paying attention know, water is in some places a scarce commodity and is headed toward that for the rest of us.
A city official explains the need for getting serious about water conservation:
"We want to hold off as long as we can and have our water supply last as long as possible as clean as possible," said Vincent Seibold with the city's Environmental Quality Division.
The online text story closes with a drop-down menu for viewers to peruse the top consumers of water in the county, both residential and commercial. Several prominent names appear under residential, including those of a head football coach and an owner of an upscale auto dealership. However, the most amusing name appears in the business section:
The City of Jacksonville.
Carl Sandburg, Redux, Or, Happy Poetry Month!
While I was visiting at Sir Robin's place, he reminded us all that this is National Poetry Month. I knew this. I just didn't actually acknowledge it, not even when I was teaching poetry, not even when I invited a poet to visit my classroom next week. Talk about being too close to the trees to see the forest...
This made me think about The Official Poet of Bitty's Back Porch, Carl Sandburg. It's not every blog that has an Official Poet, I don't suppose, but this one does. Because I am One Busy Person, I'm going to honor NPM for now by rerunning a Sandburg post. I've never rerun anything before, but Law & Order does it to great effect, so why not me, too? Here goes, from March 31, 2006:
Some weeks back, I waxed, um, poetic about Carl Sandburg, favorite son of our mutual natal state, Illinois. At the time, I bemoaned the cost of the used Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg as out of my reach.
Well.
I found a less expensive copy.
Over the past five years -- and only AFTER finishing my formal education, I might add -- I've come to appreciate poetry. For years it intimidated me, but once I realized the obvious, that it is ok not to like or understand it all, just as it is ok not to like or understand all prose, poetry and I became good friends.
Poetry must be read slowly, carefully. If not, one might as well be reading the back of a Tylenol bottle.
And so, a week or so ago, slowly grazing in my new/old Sandburg book, I confirmed two things:
(1) Lefties, Carl is for sure one of us.
(2) I can get overstimulated quickly by poetry. Reading too much Sandburg produces the same dazed mental state in me as eating too much canned icing.
I offer two Sandburg poems today because one just isn't enough. The first is a prose poem that shows us two things: although he worked mostly in traditional forms, Sandburg wasn't a slave to tradition. Secondly, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
From Good Morning, America (originally copyrighted in 1928):
The second poem, also from Good Morning, America, I'm rather certain I've read before, long ago:
This made me think about The Official Poet of Bitty's Back Porch, Carl Sandburg. It's not every blog that has an Official Poet, I don't suppose, but this one does. Because I am One Busy Person, I'm going to honor NPM for now by rerunning a Sandburg post. I've never rerun anything before, but Law & Order does it to great effect, so why not me, too? Here goes, from March 31, 2006:
Some weeks back, I waxed, um, poetic about Carl Sandburg, favorite son of our mutual natal state, Illinois. At the time, I bemoaned the cost of the used Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg as out of my reach.
Well.
I found a less expensive copy.
Over the past five years -- and only AFTER finishing my formal education, I might add -- I've come to appreciate poetry. For years it intimidated me, but once I realized the obvious, that it is ok not to like or understand it all, just as it is ok not to like or understand all prose, poetry and I became good friends.
Poetry must be read slowly, carefully. If not, one might as well be reading the back of a Tylenol bottle.
And so, a week or so ago, slowly grazing in my new/old Sandburg book, I confirmed two things:
(1) Lefties, Carl is for sure one of us.
(2) I can get overstimulated quickly by poetry. Reading too much Sandburg produces the same dazed mental state in me as eating too much canned icing.
I offer two Sandburg poems today because one just isn't enough. The first is a prose poem that shows us two things: although he worked mostly in traditional forms, Sandburg wasn't a slave to tradition. Secondly, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
From Good Morning, America (originally copyrighted in 1928):
Implications
When the charge of election bribery was brought against an Illinois senator, he replied, "I read the Bible and believe it from cover to cover."
When his accusers specified five hundred dollars of corruption money was paid in a St. Louis hotel bathroom, his friends answered, "He is faithful to his wife and always kind to his children."
When he was ousted from the national senate and the doors of his bank were closed by government receivers and a grand jury indicted him, he took the vows of an old established church.
When a jury acquitted him of guilt as a bank wrecker, following the testimony of prominent citizens that he was an honest man, he issued a statement to the public for the newspapers, proclaiming he knew beforehand no jury would darken the future of an honest man with an unjust verdict.
The second poem, also from Good Morning, America, I'm rather certain I've read before, long ago:
Money, Politics, Love and Glory
Who put up that cage?
Who hung it up with bars, doors?
Why do those on the inside want to get out?
Why do those outside want to get in?
What is this crying inside and out all the time?
What is this endless, useless beating of baffled wings at these bars, doors, this cage?
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Bette Blackout Blues
According to Mustang Bobby, via Shakesville, Turner Classic Movies is running a "Bette-athon" to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Bette Davis' birth.
So I read this and wonder why it is I never watch Turner Classic Movies. I like classic movies.
I go look and discover that I don't get it with my service. Bummer.
This is one of the things I really, really, really, really, really don't understand about cable/satellite TV. Really. One would think that the various networks would be frantic to be on the "expanded basic" (or whatever your individual provider calls it) and would push hard/make concessions to be on that "tier." After all, the more viewers, the more commercial revenue, yes? But to get some of the channels that the cool kids watch, like TCM and MSNBC, I have to pay an additional $10-$20/month. So I don't.
Some time back when Phil was talking about Sarah Richardson's shows being on Fine Living (I watched her when she was featured prominently on HGTV), I considered upgrading, but in the end I couldn't justify an additional expense to view two or three additional desired channels when I don't have time to watch the desired channels I already have. So while I can't see the Bette-athon, Rachel Maddow, or any one of a zillion cool things on the National Geographic channel, in the end I don't think it's me who gets hurt. It's the stations who are stuck behind a economic firewall between them and me.
So I read this and wonder why it is I never watch Turner Classic Movies. I like classic movies.
I go look and discover that I don't get it with my service. Bummer.
This is one of the things I really, really, really, really, really don't understand about cable/satellite TV. Really. One would think that the various networks would be frantic to be on the "expanded basic" (or whatever your individual provider calls it) and would push hard/make concessions to be on that "tier." After all, the more viewers, the more commercial revenue, yes? But to get some of the channels that the cool kids watch, like TCM and MSNBC, I have to pay an additional $10-$20/month. So I don't.
Some time back when Phil was talking about Sarah Richardson's shows being on Fine Living (I watched her when she was featured prominently on HGTV), I considered upgrading, but in the end I couldn't justify an additional expense to view two or three additional desired channels when I don't have time to watch the desired channels I already have. So while I can't see the Bette-athon, Rachel Maddow, or any one of a zillion cool things on the National Geographic channel, in the end I don't think it's me who gets hurt. It's the stations who are stuck behind a economic firewall between them and me.
Dateline 15,000 BC?
Newsflash! Women do more housework once they get married. And when they have kids, they do even more! It must be true if a study says so.
I'm speechless. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster that a brave scientist took on the task of finding this out for us and a brave news organization put its corporate neck on the line to report it!
Seriously, I know there are plenty of men who do their fair share of work around the house, whether that's painting and mowing or baking and cleaning. And some men are the primary house-tender. But for the majority of women, it didn't take a study to prove what most of us have experienced since the beginning of marriage. And it's even odder that this is being reported as breathlessly as if it's the newest idea since, oh, I don't know -- kids like candy?
Having a husband creates an extra seven hours of housework each week for women, according to a new study. For men, tying the knot saves an hour of weekly chores.
"It's a well-known pattern," said lead researcher Frank Stafford, an economist at University of Michigan's Institute for Social Research. "Men tend to work more outside the home, while women take on more of the household labor."
He points out individual differences among households exist. But in general, marriage means more housework for women and less for men. "And the situation gets worse for women when they have children," Stafford said.
I'm speechless. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster that a brave scientist took on the task of finding this out for us and a brave news organization put its corporate neck on the line to report it!
Seriously, I know there are plenty of men who do their fair share of work around the house, whether that's painting and mowing or baking and cleaning. And some men are the primary house-tender. But for the majority of women, it didn't take a study to prove what most of us have experienced since the beginning of marriage. And it's even odder that this is being reported as breathlessly as if it's the newest idea since, oh, I don't know -- kids like candy?
Irony? Karma?
I don't think I was gloating in my very recent post on a brush with the law, but Karma has apparently paid me a visit anyway.*
I rather expect to get a ticket in the mail this week. Rats!
Here's what happened: my least-favorite driving scenario is to be in a left-hand turning lane with someone immediately facing me trying to left-turn in the other direction, a green light but no left-turn arrow, people behind me, and traffic maybe coming at me/maybe not because I can't see through the vehicle facing me. And lucky me -- I got into that scenario tonight.
I was inching into the left turn because I wasn't absolutely sure that the way was clear. Once I could see that no one was coming, I took off across the intersection. Only after I got halfway across did I realize that the light must have turned when I was busy watching the traffic because now cars were coming into the intersection from my left.
I was embarrassed. I try really hard to be both a careful driver, while at the same time not being a problem driver (meaning not being so overly cautious that I cause trouble). I try very hard not to make driving mistakes, and I never intentionally run a light. My kids make fun of me because I sometimes stop for yellow lights if I think I can't make it through. (No one does that, Mom!) Anyway, I pulled into the parking lot, shopped, and came out to the car. As I was lined up at the light to get out of the parking lot and back on to the main road I noticed something hovering over each set of lights: cameras. Cameras pointing at the intersection at every angle, including the one I'd been traveling.
The cameras are new to my county. They've only been in place a few months and aren't everywhere. This light has only been in place for about a month. This will be my first ticket ever for a moving violation.
My only hope is that the cameras were on the fritz tonight. But I don't suppose I can be lucky twice in one week.
I rather expect to get a ticket in the mail this week. Rats!
Here's what happened: my least-favorite driving scenario is to be in a left-hand turning lane with someone immediately facing me trying to left-turn in the other direction, a green light but no left-turn arrow, people behind me, and traffic maybe coming at me/maybe not because I can't see through the vehicle facing me. And lucky me -- I got into that scenario tonight.
I was inching into the left turn because I wasn't absolutely sure that the way was clear. Once I could see that no one was coming, I took off across the intersection. Only after I got halfway across did I realize that the light must have turned when I was busy watching the traffic because now cars were coming into the intersection from my left.
I was embarrassed. I try really hard to be both a careful driver, while at the same time not being a problem driver (meaning not being so overly cautious that I cause trouble). I try very hard not to make driving mistakes, and I never intentionally run a light. My kids make fun of me because I sometimes stop for yellow lights if I think I can't make it through. (No one does that, Mom!) Anyway, I pulled into the parking lot, shopped, and came out to the car. As I was lined up at the light to get out of the parking lot and back on to the main road I noticed something hovering over each set of lights: cameras. Cameras pointing at the intersection at every angle, including the one I'd been traveling.
The cameras are new to my county. They've only been in place a few months and aren't everywhere. This light has only been in place for about a month. This will be my first ticket ever for a moving violation.
My only hope is that the cameras were on the fritz tonight. But I don't suppose I can be lucky twice in one week.
Sympathetic comments would be greatly appreciated.
*When I do something good, why doesn't Karma reward me then? Why?
*When I do something good, why doesn't Karma reward me then? Why?
Friday, April 04, 2008
Fun With Demographics: another thing Wikipedia is good for
While I was making a comment on the Blue and Red Light Special post below, I did a quick search on the town of Waldo, Florida, a little bump in the road nationally famous for being a speed trap. I chose Wikipedia as my source and noticed that Wiki P. had quite a lot of demographic info posted for a town of 800, so I decided to check out my own Tiny Town. Since I'm not inclined to identify where I am, no links -- sorry. But I did learn lots of interesting stuff, based on the 2000 census (which means that the info is somewhat out of date, but still):
All by myself, I currently earn almost exactly the 2000 median income for families. Believe me, although I'm no longer destitute (have been in the past), I don't make a lot of scratch, so that's scary. In fact, while I currently make $22,000 more than the median income for women, in 2000, my income pretty much was the median income for women. I guess this explains why I'm able to pay my bills on time now!
In 2000, mine was one of the 10.3% female-headed households.
In 2000, 18.4% of households were non-families. Since that's such a high number, I wonder what that means. That is, of course we have the situations where platonic friends room together, but I'll bet that 18.4% includes a lot of same-sex couples and even hetero unmarried couples, both of whom probably see themselves as families, thank you very much. But the gubment doesn't. Perhaps they need to ask different questions on those census forms.
The most stunning thing to me, although I'm not sure why it stunned me, is that my town needs to be renamed Whiteyville: in 2000, 93% of us were white. Where I live is a subdivision in my town, which is cozied up against another, non-rural small town (from my mailbox I can look down the street and see mailboxes from this other town), which is next to a Big City. I live, in essence, in a bedroom community. This might be why my street defies the racial demographics of my town. For years it has been a little United Nations. Our cul-de-sac has seven houses. On the corner: white husband, white-hispanic wife (wife's recently deceased hispanic mother used to live there, too). Next to them: black family. Next to them: white husband, white wife. Next to them: white husband, Japanese wife. Next to them: white me. Next to me: white husband, white wife. Next to them, the other corner: black-hispanic husband, white-hispanic wife, hispanic kids. In other words, four out of seven homes are not just "white" or not white at all. So, yes, 93% surprised me. However, much of the rest of my small town actually covers a lot of unincorporated area and is extremely rural. I guess it makes sense that most of those folks living down those dirt roads, many of whom drive Confederate-flagged pickups, are white.
To put this in perspective, the Big City near my home, the place where I work, had a white population of just under 65% in 2000.
It'll be interesting to see what changes the 2010 census reports, but we'll all have to wait a while for that post.
All by myself, I currently earn almost exactly the 2000 median income for families. Believe me, although I'm no longer destitute (have been in the past), I don't make a lot of scratch, so that's scary. In fact, while I currently make $22,000 more than the median income for women, in 2000, my income pretty much was the median income for women. I guess this explains why I'm able to pay my bills on time now!
In 2000, mine was one of the 10.3% female-headed households.
In 2000, 18.4% of households were non-families. Since that's such a high number, I wonder what that means. That is, of course we have the situations where platonic friends room together, but I'll bet that 18.4% includes a lot of same-sex couples and even hetero unmarried couples, both of whom probably see themselves as families, thank you very much. But the gubment doesn't. Perhaps they need to ask different questions on those census forms.
The most stunning thing to me, although I'm not sure why it stunned me, is that my town needs to be renamed Whiteyville: in 2000, 93% of us were white. Where I live is a subdivision in my town, which is cozied up against another, non-rural small town (from my mailbox I can look down the street and see mailboxes from this other town), which is next to a Big City. I live, in essence, in a bedroom community. This might be why my street defies the racial demographics of my town. For years it has been a little United Nations. Our cul-de-sac has seven houses. On the corner: white husband, white-hispanic wife (wife's recently deceased hispanic mother used to live there, too). Next to them: black family. Next to them: white husband, white wife. Next to them: white husband, Japanese wife. Next to them: white me. Next to me: white husband, white wife. Next to them, the other corner: black-hispanic husband, white-hispanic wife, hispanic kids. In other words, four out of seven homes are not just "white" or not white at all. So, yes, 93% surprised me. However, much of the rest of my small town actually covers a lot of unincorporated area and is extremely rural. I guess it makes sense that most of those folks living down those dirt roads, many of whom drive Confederate-flagged pickups, are white.
To put this in perspective, the Big City near my home, the place where I work, had a white population of just under 65% in 2000.
It'll be interesting to see what changes the 2010 census reports, but we'll all have to wait a while for that post.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Blue and Red Light Special
It's late: 11:30 pm. It's dark. I'm weary. Very weary. I'm on my way home from work. I'm on the long, winding road with the 35 mph speed limit.
Now, it's not that I don't like to drive fast, but I'm allergic to things that needlessly cost me money, like speeding tickets, so I tend to drive right at 5 mph over any posted speed limit, having bought into the folklore that the police won't bother me if I'm within that parameter.
Suddenly, aggressive blue and red flashing lights replace the darkness in my rearview mirror. I look down. 41. I'm guilty. This is it. My first speeding ticket. Ever. Where's the license? Did I ever put the new insurance card in the wallet? Will I ever find the registration in that rat's nest in the glove box?
I hit the turn signal and pull over, resigned to the increase in my insurance rates. Only then do I realize that a car was behind me, and it, trailed by the police car, passes me by. Both of them pull over just ahead of me.
I take a deep breath and pull back out on the winding road.
Tonight someone else got the blue and red light special, not me.
Now, it's not that I don't like to drive fast, but I'm allergic to things that needlessly cost me money, like speeding tickets, so I tend to drive right at 5 mph over any posted speed limit, having bought into the folklore that the police won't bother me if I'm within that parameter.
Suddenly, aggressive blue and red flashing lights replace the darkness in my rearview mirror. I look down. 41. I'm guilty. This is it. My first speeding ticket. Ever. Where's the license? Did I ever put the new insurance card in the wallet? Will I ever find the registration in that rat's nest in the glove box?
I hit the turn signal and pull over, resigned to the increase in my insurance rates. Only then do I realize that a car was behind me, and it, trailed by the police car, passes me by. Both of them pull over just ahead of me.
I take a deep breath and pull back out on the winding road.
Tonight someone else got the blue and red light special, not me.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Oh, the places I won't go!
A good many things I'd like to blog, I don't. I have a fear that someday a family member will find the thing and then I'll have some 'splainin' to do.
Right now, for instance, there are a truckload of things I'd like to say about a certain person who needs to stop being so self-centered and controlling before it comes back to bite him or her, whichever the case may be, in the tush, as well as harm us all.
But for the sake of familial harmony, I'm keeping my mouth shut online and in person.
The best blog post I never wrote was about an event that I won't specifically allude to here and my enormous restraint throughout the event. Since this blog generally is not a place where I spill words to praise my own wonderfulness, I hope you will take my word for it when I say I was a saint in this situation.
Friend Alanna knows what I'm talking about and will vouch for me.
I'm dealing with a similar situation right now.
Sorry for being so frustratingly vague. Grrr!
Otherwise, I can't go there.
Right now, for instance, there are a truckload of things I'd like to say about a certain person who needs to stop being so self-centered and controlling before it comes back to bite him or her, whichever the case may be, in the tush, as well as harm us all.
But for the sake of familial harmony, I'm keeping my mouth shut online and in person.
The best blog post I never wrote was about an event that I won't specifically allude to here and my enormous restraint throughout the event. Since this blog generally is not a place where I spill words to praise my own wonderfulness, I hope you will take my word for it when I say I was a saint in this situation.
Friend Alanna knows what I'm talking about and will vouch for me.
I'm dealing with a similar situation right now.
Sorry for being so frustratingly vague. Grrr!
Otherwise, I can't go there.
Monday, March 31, 2008
A Rose By Any Other Name
A few years ago, traveling on a local road I rarely travel, I passed by a beauty salon called Curl Up and Dye. I nearly ran off the road. Since then, I've heard of other, similar places with the same name. Morbid, I thought then, and morbid, I think now.
Tonight I spied a new sign on a local road I often travel: Eat Your Heart Out Catering.
Do people actually think before they name their shops, or are they just so proud of their own cleverness that they don't consider that potential clients might find their clever names ... sinister?
Unless your establishment is the Haunted Mansion at the Magic Kingdom, being cleverly sinister is not the best of ideas.
Tonight I spied a new sign on a local road I often travel: Eat Your Heart Out Catering.
Do people actually think before they name their shops, or are they just so proud of their own cleverness that they don't consider that potential clients might find their clever names ... sinister?
Unless your establishment is the Haunted Mansion at the Magic Kingdom, being cleverly sinister is not the best of ideas.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Efficiency of UPS
On Monday I ordered two books from Amazon, one a friend's recently published book of poetry, and one Tobias Wolff's hot-off-the presses collection Our Story Begins: New and Selected Stories. I've been waiting for Wolff's book partly for its own self and partly so I could spend the minimum $25 required to get Free Shipping and get my friend's book. Yippee! (Adding to the happy savings: by "preordering" the Wolff book all of one day early, I got another discount.)
I don't know how Amazon makes shipping decisions, but I'm always just a little disappointed when the shipper of choice is USPS. It's not that they're slow, because they're not particularly, but their "track this shipment" information decidedly lacks information. Usually there's a cursory note -- something like "carrier notified to pick up package." And then there might not be another notation until after I've opened the package and am turning the pages of the book.
Not so with UPS, which o happy day Amazon chose this time. UPS practically offers the phases of the moon and the state of mind of the truck drivers. Here's the books' travel history:
March 27, 2008 04:00:00 PM BITTY'S TOWN FL US Delivered
March 27, 2008 08:18:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Out for delivery
March 27, 2008 08:12:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Departure Scan
March 27, 2008 06:28:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Arrival Scan
March 27, 2008 03:11:00 AM ORLANDO FL US Departure Scan
March 26, 2008 06:27:00 PM ORLANDO FL US Arrival Scan
March 26, 2008 08:24:00 AM CHATTANOOGA TN US Departure Scan
March 26, 2008 04:04:00 AM CHATTANOOGA TN US Arrival Scan
March 25, 2008 11:43:00 PM NASHVILLE TN US Departure Scan
March 25, 2008 06:28:00 PM NASHVILLE TN US Shipment picked up from seller's facility
March 25, 2008 12:21:08 PM US Carrier notified to pick up package
I was up early this morning, so I got to watch the package move from its arrival in Big Town through all the moves except "delivered," which happened when I was not online. It's like watching a loved one run a relay race, or checking in periodically with the Tour de France. Go, go! You can do it!
Now the first part of the excitement is over, and I can move to the second part. I must publish post, shut down, and drive home so I can turn the pages of my new books.
I don't know how Amazon makes shipping decisions, but I'm always just a little disappointed when the shipper of choice is USPS. It's not that they're slow, because they're not particularly, but their "track this shipment" information decidedly lacks information. Usually there's a cursory note -- something like "carrier notified to pick up package." And then there might not be another notation until after I've opened the package and am turning the pages of the book.
Not so with UPS, which o happy day Amazon chose this time. UPS practically offers the phases of the moon and the state of mind of the truck drivers. Here's the books' travel history:
March 27, 2008 04:00:00 PM BITTY'S TOWN FL US Delivered
March 27, 2008 08:18:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Out for delivery
March 27, 2008 08:12:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Departure Scan
March 27, 2008 06:28:00 AM BIG TOWN NEAR BITTY'S TOWN FL US Arrival Scan
March 27, 2008 03:11:00 AM ORLANDO FL US Departure Scan
March 26, 2008 06:27:00 PM ORLANDO FL US Arrival Scan
March 26, 2008 08:24:00 AM CHATTANOOGA TN US Departure Scan
March 26, 2008 04:04:00 AM CHATTANOOGA TN US Arrival Scan
March 25, 2008 11:43:00 PM NASHVILLE TN US Departure Scan
March 25, 2008 06:28:00 PM NASHVILLE TN US Shipment picked up from seller's facility
March 25, 2008 12:21:08 PM US Carrier notified to pick up package
I was up early this morning, so I got to watch the package move from its arrival in Big Town through all the moves except "delivered," which happened when I was not online. It's like watching a loved one run a relay race, or checking in periodically with the Tour de France. Go, go! You can do it!
Now the first part of the excitement is over, and I can move to the second part. I must publish post, shut down, and drive home so I can turn the pages of my new books.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Nobody Wants to Have a Damned Meeting!
I'm on a committee. Generally, I find it kind of a silly one, but that's neither here nor there. Today we were to hold our scheduled monthly meeting.
I fouled something up, so we weren't going to be able to do what we'd planned. I sent my apologies around, and I presumed that we'd conduct some other business.
Well.
The speed at which suggestions to cancel the meeting appeared in my mailbox stunned me.
I show up at these silly meetings, assuming that everyone else is all rah-rah.
But what's now clear is that nobody, not just me, wants to have a damned meeting!
I fouled something up, so we weren't going to be able to do what we'd planned. I sent my apologies around, and I presumed that we'd conduct some other business.
Well.
The speed at which suggestions to cancel the meeting appeared in my mailbox stunned me.
I show up at these silly meetings, assuming that everyone else is all rah-rah.
But what's now clear is that nobody, not just me, wants to have a damned meeting!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I am well and truly Lost now: Lost Madness
A "friend" just told me about Lost Madness at the Washington Post:
More on this later as time permits.
(But seriously -- between Jack and Cindy, who did you think was going to win? And while Locke and Sayid go head-to-head next time, Kate's up against...Vincent?? I smell a fix.)
During the NCAA Tournament, college basketball freaks get to advance their favorite teams through a series of brackets. Now, it’s the “Lost” fans’ turn.I call her a "friend" because a real friend wouldn't feed in to my obsession. No, no.
Introducing “Lost” Madness, a two-week competition where readers can vote for their favorite “Lost” characters in 32 face-offs featuring 64 of the key players from the Oceanic 815 universe. By the time it’s all over, a champion – otherwise known as the best “Lost” character ever – will emerge.
More on this later as time permits.
(But seriously -- between Jack and Cindy, who did you think was going to win? And while Locke and Sayid go head-to-head next time, Kate's up against...Vincent?? I smell a fix.)
Friday, March 07, 2008
People visit my blog. Who knew? And some self-pity, too.
This is kind of a shock. I'm barely reading my own blog, and four people showed up today.
Thanks, guys.
I wasn't going to blog any more for a while. I really don't have time, but here goes anyway.
I find myself in an odd position of having to keep my mouth shut about how I feel about having my son leave to risk his life for an immoral rich man's misadventure.* I'm not being silenced by neocons, although living in the red section of my red state, that's often how I feel about other issues -- silenced. Instead, I feel muzzled by what I can only think to call my own sense of decency. Except for talking to my friends -- bloggy and face-to-face -- I have to hold my silence. And I'm holding my silence with the people that I'd most like to talk to.
Let's start with Daughter. She's the most likely person I would talk to about such things, but this is her brother we're talking about. She's at least as invested in this as I am. Worse, her husband leaves for Afghanistan in a few months. So when we speak of this, I only say about a tenth of what I'm thinking.
Then there's Tall Son. Again, it's his brother, and it would be unfair of me to dump on him.
Then there's Indian Princess, Marine Son's wife, pregnant and with a not-quite-five-month-old at home. Enough said.
Mostly importantly, I have to remain silent with Marine Son. I'll be talking to him this weekend (by phone -- we're on opposite coasts). I have to say goodbye to him -- knowing that it might really be goodbye. (Of course, this is theoretically true of every goodbye, but usually we're not seeing people off on their trip into a circle of hell.) In such a conversation, it's not good form to express fury at the waste of it all. Not good form to complain. Not good form to say what I really want to say, which is I am terrified you won't come back -- or won't come back the same person. I am terrified you won't get to raise your children, you who have waited your entire adult life to have a child who could live with you. I am terrified for your younger children -- that they might never know you. I am terrified that you, who are one of the funniest, cleverest, noblest, most loving people I have known, will not
---it took me three minutes to type this word --
survive.
Anyway, that's a conversation I'm not allowed to indulge in. I know there are many people who do, but I can't be one of them. Except with a few friends. And except here.
What makes me uncomfortable is that this situation forces me to be dishonest, to be someone other than who I am.
But for the sake of other people's feelings, that's how it has to be.
*and if someone wanders in here and lectures me about the dangerous world we live in, that we have real enemies, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. -- I know that. I am referring to our vanity war, which has done nothing whatsoever to mitigate those problems.
Thanks, guys.
I wasn't going to blog any more for a while. I really don't have time, but here goes anyway.
I find myself in an odd position of having to keep my mouth shut about how I feel about having my son leave to risk his life for an immoral rich man's misadventure.* I'm not being silenced by neocons, although living in the red section of my red state, that's often how I feel about other issues -- silenced. Instead, I feel muzzled by what I can only think to call my own sense of decency. Except for talking to my friends -- bloggy and face-to-face -- I have to hold my silence. And I'm holding my silence with the people that I'd most like to talk to.
Let's start with Daughter. She's the most likely person I would talk to about such things, but this is her brother we're talking about. She's at least as invested in this as I am. Worse, her husband leaves for Afghanistan in a few months. So when we speak of this, I only say about a tenth of what I'm thinking.
Then there's Tall Son. Again, it's his brother, and it would be unfair of me to dump on him.
Then there's Indian Princess, Marine Son's wife, pregnant and with a not-quite-five-month-old at home. Enough said.
Mostly importantly, I have to remain silent with Marine Son. I'll be talking to him this weekend (by phone -- we're on opposite coasts). I have to say goodbye to him -- knowing that it might really be goodbye. (Of course, this is theoretically true of every goodbye, but usually we're not seeing people off on their trip into a circle of hell.) In such a conversation, it's not good form to express fury at the waste of it all. Not good form to complain. Not good form to say what I really want to say, which is I am terrified you won't come back -- or won't come back the same person. I am terrified you won't get to raise your children, you who have waited your entire adult life to have a child who could live with you. I am terrified for your younger children -- that they might never know you. I am terrified that you, who are one of the funniest, cleverest, noblest, most loving people I have known, will not
---it took me three minutes to type this word --
survive.
Anyway, that's a conversation I'm not allowed to indulge in. I know there are many people who do, but I can't be one of them. Except with a few friends. And except here.
What makes me uncomfortable is that this situation forces me to be dishonest, to be someone other than who I am.
But for the sake of other people's feelings, that's how it has to be.
*and if someone wanders in here and lectures me about the dangerous world we live in, that we have real enemies, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. -- I know that. I am referring to our vanity war, which has done nothing whatsoever to mitigate those problems.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
The Other Shoe Drops
So I've been having a good cry all afternoon, and I don't think it's going to end anytime soon.
I've known it was coming, but not quite when until this afternoon.
My son leaves for Iraq on Monday.
I've known it was coming, but not quite when until this afternoon.
My son leaves for Iraq on Monday.
Monday, February 18, 2008
In Which Bitty Ponders Becoming a Hollywood Producer
In an e-mail exchange with a friend today, we were commiserating with one another about the difficulty of getting students to interact with Shakespeare.
They whine that they can't understand the language, so they can't read it.
They whine that they can't follow what's going on in film versions, so they can't watch it.
Yet the Danes/DiCaprio Romeo & Juliet of a few years back did well enough. Methinks it's all about casting.
Friend suggested that Johnny Depp, because he's popular with our crowd, should do a Shakespearean tragedy, whereupon I hit on the idea of financing it through the contributions of grateful English teachers.
I figure ten bucks from each of us should be enough to get Depp and a high-quality cast and director, as well as finance the other costs.
Yeah, there are that many of us and we're that desperate.
They whine that they can't understand the language, so they can't read it.
They whine that they can't follow what's going on in film versions, so they can't watch it.
Yet the Danes/DiCaprio Romeo & Juliet of a few years back did well enough. Methinks it's all about casting.
Friend suggested that Johnny Depp, because he's popular with our crowd, should do a Shakespearean tragedy, whereupon I hit on the idea of financing it through the contributions of grateful English teachers.
I figure ten bucks from each of us should be enough to get Depp and a high-quality cast and director, as well as finance the other costs.
Yeah, there are that many of us and we're that desperate.
Honor Thy President
Driving by the day care my now-adult children once attended long, long ago, I saw a sign.
First, I should mention that "message signs" have long bugged me. I hate having signs nagging at me, telling me what to do, what to think, who to be. I once attended a warm, loving church. Then the pastor died of cancer, new people came in, and the day I knew the place had changed utterly was the day the message sign quit making announcements (Spaghetti dinner at 7 Wednesday) and started scolding me (Think it's hot here?). Yes, message signs make me break out in hives.
So, I'm driving by our former day care in this red, red state, and I see on the message sign what looks on first blush like an innocuous message:
I suspect that if the owner had italicized letters, that "all" would have been in italics.
I got the sermon, Ms. Daycare.
As a person who likes to exercise the "freedoms" that our current White House resident is so fond of speechifying about, I particularly enjoy my freedom to think. So far this is not a crime. And I think that anyone who wants to receive honor must first act honorably.
First, I should mention that "message signs" have long bugged me. I hate having signs nagging at me, telling me what to do, what to think, who to be. I once attended a warm, loving church. Then the pastor died of cancer, new people came in, and the day I knew the place had changed utterly was the day the message sign quit making announcements (Spaghetti dinner at 7 Wednesday) and started scolding me (Think it's hot here?). Yes, message signs make me break out in hives.
So, I'm driving by our former day care in this red, red state, and I see on the message sign what looks on first blush like an innocuous message:
Honor all our Presidents.
I suspect that if the owner had italicized letters, that "all" would have been in italics.
I got the sermon, Ms. Daycare.
As a person who likes to exercise the "freedoms" that our current White House resident is so fond of speechifying about, I particularly enjoy my freedom to think. So far this is not a crime. And I think that anyone who wants to receive honor must first act honorably.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
My Valentine's Gift
For Valentine's Day, I got a call from Marine Son and Indian Princess.
Their baby #2 (his #3; my grandchild #5) will be making his or her appearance around my birthday in October.
I dare anyone to beat that!
(I think I need to open a Christmas club. I now know why people do that.)
Their baby #2 (his #3; my grandchild #5) will be making his or her appearance around my birthday in October.
I dare anyone to beat that!
(I think I need to open a Christmas club. I now know why people do that.)
A Good Day
Definition of a good day:
1. The semi-official end of the workweek (I actually work 7 days a week, and I have a meeting tomorrow, but no more classes this week).
2. Payday.
3. New episode of Lost in 2 hours, 50 minutes.
Check, check, and check.
This is officially a good day.
1. The semi-official end of the workweek (I actually work 7 days a week, and I have a meeting tomorrow, but no more classes this week).
2. Payday.
3. New episode of Lost in 2 hours, 50 minutes.
Check, check, and check.
This is officially a good day.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Crazy: A Meme
Tagged by Waveflux, I’m doing this little book meme, but I’m not sure how cool my response is. And what's a meme -- nay, what's a blog? -- if it's uncool. Nevertheless, here I go. Here are the instructions:
1. Grab the nearest book (that is at least 123 pages long).
2. Open to p. 123.
3. Go down to the 5th sentence.
4. Type in the following 3 sentences.
5. Tag five people.
The genuinely nearest book is one I love, The Pocket Muse: Endless Inspiration, by Monica Wood. However, since it is an inspirational book, many of its pages contain only a sentence or two. This is true of page 123. It has no fifth sentence, nor does it have a sixth, seventh, or eighth. It has only one. Here it is:
Cool -- and I need to get right on that -- but not really fitting the rules.
So I reached for the next nearest book, The Vintage Anthology of Contemporary American Short Stories, edited by The Genius Tobias Wolff. My offering this time is short and, well, short:
It’s from a classic short story, but I won’t say which one right now. I dare the two and a half readers of this blog to throw out a guess without Googling it.
(Hints: Contemporary American Short Stories. Short, terse, sentences. Edited by Tobias Wolff, who has friends in the bid-ness.)
Without the dare, I don’t know how interesting my part of the meme is. Even with the dare…eh.
Since I’ve already flunked the meme once and eh’d it a second time, why start worrying about the rules now? I’ll just tag one person: kaat.
1. Grab the nearest book (that is at least 123 pages long).
2. Open to p. 123.
3. Go down to the 5th sentence.
4. Type in the following 3 sentences.
5. Tag five people.
The genuinely nearest book is one I love, The Pocket Muse: Endless Inspiration, by Monica Wood. However, since it is an inspirational book, many of its pages contain only a sentence or two. This is true of page 123. It has no fifth sentence, nor does it have a sixth, seventh, or eighth. It has only one. Here it is:
Write about an immigrant who refuses to be noble, humble, or dignified – from the point of view of her husband.
Cool -- and I need to get right on that -- but not really fitting the rules.
So I reached for the next nearest book, The Vintage Anthology of Contemporary American Short Stories, edited by The Genius Tobias Wolff. My offering this time is short and, well, short:
Crazy.
“Swell,” he said. “Terrific.”
It’s from a classic short story, but I won’t say which one right now. I dare the two and a half readers of this blog to throw out a guess without Googling it.
(Hints: Contemporary American Short Stories. Short, terse, sentences. Edited by Tobias Wolff, who has friends in the bid-ness.)
Without the dare, I don’t know how interesting my part of the meme is. Even with the dare…eh.
Since I’ve already flunked the meme once and eh’d it a second time, why start worrying about the rules now? I’ll just tag one person: kaat.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Constructed beauty
Today Tall Son sent this photo of his current job. He loves the tilt panel construction best. He wants me to see the building.
However, I see shadow, reflection, pattern, and glorious blue.
However, I see shadow, reflection, pattern, and glorious blue.
Monday, February 04, 2008
My Inner Prufrock
I didn't see this coming, although I have to sorta kinda agree with the narrative that justifies this choice -- especially about the "hopeless effort of people trying to impress other people..."
I guess I should go back and read that poem that most people despise.
Hat tip to Melissa, whom I am not trying to impress. ;)
I guess I should go back and read that poem that most people despise.
You're Prufrock and Other Observations!
by T.S. Eliot
Though you are very short and often overshadowed, your voice is poetic
and lyrical. Dark and brooding, you see the world as a hopeless effort of people trying
to impress other people. Though you make reference to almost everything, you've really
heard enough about Michelangelo. You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Hat tip to Melissa, whom I am not trying to impress. ;)
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Opposite of Identity Theft
I've just spent almost an hour writing a letter, making copies, making a trip to the post office, etc. for a creditor who INSISTS on getting my name wrong in its records. I have called to no avail. I was assured my name was corrected, but I'm still getting a tidal wave of paperwork in the wrong name. Now the creditor wants me to initiate automatic deductions from my bank account. How, pray tell, can I do that when my bank account is in my actual name, and the creditor's records -- and the form it wants me to use -- is in the fantasy name???? (The name is not actually a fantasy, but a despised maiden name that I have not used for over 36 years and only give to people when I must provide my maiden name. It has many bad associations for me, which makes this process not only irritating and time-wasting, but really, really upsetting.)
This is the opposite of identity theft; I'm having an identity foisted on me that I don't want.
Now I know at least in a small way how those people must feel who are prematurely declared dead by Social Security, etc. and whose cries of but I'm still alive! are ignored.
This is the opposite of identity theft; I'm having an identity foisted on me that I don't want.
Now I know at least in a small way how those people must feel who are prematurely declared dead by Social Security, etc. and whose cries of but I'm still alive! are ignored.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Well, Now I'm Kinda Sorry the Golden Globes Got Cancelled
...since my just-about-favoritest show, Mad Men, and the maddest man of all, Jon Hamm, won their awards.
(And yes, despite my lingering absence, I'm still around. Whatever that means.)
(And yes, despite my lingering absence, I'm still around. Whatever that means.)
Monday, December 17, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
400 Days
Only 400 days left of the Bush Administration.
Only 400 days left to send billions upon billions of dollars into the economic sinkhole that is Iraq.
Only 400 days left to send countless soldiers to one of four fates: death, physical injury, PTSD, home well and in one piece.
Only 400 days left to wage war on Iran.
Only 400 days left to wage the war on terror just as the Three Stooges would. (That is, if Larry punches ya, ignore him and hit Curly...)
Only 400 days left to drag-foot on positive environmental policies.
Only 400 days left to further tarnish our reputation on the world stage.
Only 400 days left to push an energy policy that does little to nothing to implement ideas and technology that would help decrease consumption while simutaneously blaming consumers for consuming.
Only 400 days left to pad the bank accounts of energy executives and war profiteers.
Only 400 days left to push the ineffective strategy of abstinence-only sex ed.
Only 400 days left to advocate for the fetus while abandoning the infant.
Only 400 days left to pretend our country is doing something productive for those areas damaged by Katrina.
Only 400 days left.
If on day 401 we aren't looking forward to significant and positive change on all these issues and more, there simply is no hope for us.
Only 400 days left to send billions upon billions of dollars into the economic sinkhole that is Iraq.
Only 400 days left to send countless soldiers to one of four fates: death, physical injury, PTSD, home well and in one piece.
Only 400 days left to wage war on Iran.
Only 400 days left to wage the war on terror just as the Three Stooges would. (That is, if Larry punches ya, ignore him and hit Curly...)
Only 400 days left to drag-foot on positive environmental policies.
Only 400 days left to further tarnish our reputation on the world stage.
Only 400 days left to push an energy policy that does little to nothing to implement ideas and technology that would help decrease consumption while simutaneously blaming consumers for consuming.
Only 400 days left to pad the bank accounts of energy executives and war profiteers.
Only 400 days left to push the ineffective strategy of abstinence-only sex ed.
Only 400 days left to advocate for the fetus while abandoning the infant.
Only 400 days left to pretend our country is doing something productive for those areas damaged by Katrina.
Only 400 days left.
If on day 401 we aren't looking forward to significant and positive change on all these issues and more, there simply is no hope for us.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Splotchy's Story Meme
Tagged by konagod, I herewith keep Splotchy's Story Meme alive and well. To quote kona, "Each tagged person needs to add to the story and then tag others. Them's the rules and I don't make 'em." I backtracked to Splotchy and discovered a request that we link to those who go before us. Well, that makes sense. So I did.
I hereby tag Phil, Kaat, Madame X, and Maya's Granny.
(And even if I haven't officially tagged you, if you drop in and read this, please do pick up on the meme. It's a hoot!)
Now, on with the story:
I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)
I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)
The nightmares began during the following spring. The apple trees came to life in my dreams. At first the trees spoke and I thought they were amusing. That changed when the messages arrived. Lately, their anger was directed at me. (mathman6293)
I turned and stared out the kitchen window, past the frosty-lidded cistern to the orchard beyond. My trees, my beautiful fruit trees, stood leafless and dark. I wished with all my heart that this was just a normal winter thing, but it wasn’t.
"Why are you blaming me, guys? You know I love you. You watched me go out and vote that last time, in the ice-storm. It’s not like I didn’t try!”
I turned with a sigh and went to the phone to give Zaius a call. Perhaps The Good Doctor had made some incremental progress on his Long-Shot-Theory. (TCR)
Unfortunately, the phone was dead. Not from the inclement frigid weather, but because I didn't pay the phone bill and my service was shut off. "Oh well, I'll use the cell phone," I said aloud to no one but myself. As fate would have it, the cell phone battery was completely drained. I never even heard the thing chirping during the night to remind me to charge it. Being somewhat annoyed by all this, I went back to the kitchen, grabbed an ice pick and began chipping away at the rock-solid apple sauce when suddenly there was a very loud knock on my door which startled me. (kona)
In my surprise, I dropped the applesauce; no one but me had been on the property since Cordelia had died, not even Zaius. The frozen jar smashed into my big toe, which was inadequately protected by a worn green handknit slipper, one of Cordelia’s last gifts to me. Blood gushed from the crushed digit as the knocking escalated into insistent pounding. I moved from room to room in a frenzy, limping yet rushing, knocking over stacks of books and papers, blood documenting my every move. Where were my glasses? I had to have my glasses to see out the peephole. It hadn’t been prudent to fling open a door in welcome since the Winter Cleansings of 2018, just after the internet was shut down. Where did I put them? Just as I spotted the spectacles beside the fireplace, the pounding stopped, replaced by a most inhuman howl. (Bitty)
I hereby tag Phil, Kaat, Madame X, and Maya's Granny.
(And even if I haven't officially tagged you, if you drop in and read this, please do pick up on the meme. It's a hoot!)
Now, on with the story:
I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)
I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)
The nightmares began during the following spring. The apple trees came to life in my dreams. At first the trees spoke and I thought they were amusing. That changed when the messages arrived. Lately, their anger was directed at me. (mathman6293)
I turned and stared out the kitchen window, past the frosty-lidded cistern to the orchard beyond. My trees, my beautiful fruit trees, stood leafless and dark. I wished with all my heart that this was just a normal winter thing, but it wasn’t.
"Why are you blaming me, guys? You know I love you. You watched me go out and vote that last time, in the ice-storm. It’s not like I didn’t try!”
I turned with a sigh and went to the phone to give Zaius a call. Perhaps The Good Doctor had made some incremental progress on his Long-Shot-Theory. (TCR)
Unfortunately, the phone was dead. Not from the inclement frigid weather, but because I didn't pay the phone bill and my service was shut off. "Oh well, I'll use the cell phone," I said aloud to no one but myself. As fate would have it, the cell phone battery was completely drained. I never even heard the thing chirping during the night to remind me to charge it. Being somewhat annoyed by all this, I went back to the kitchen, grabbed an ice pick and began chipping away at the rock-solid apple sauce when suddenly there was a very loud knock on my door which startled me. (kona)
In my surprise, I dropped the applesauce; no one but me had been on the property since Cordelia had died, not even Zaius. The frozen jar smashed into my big toe, which was inadequately protected by a worn green handknit slipper, one of Cordelia’s last gifts to me. Blood gushed from the crushed digit as the knocking escalated into insistent pounding. I moved from room to room in a frenzy, limping yet rushing, knocking over stacks of books and papers, blood documenting my every move. Where were my glasses? I had to have my glasses to see out the peephole. It hadn’t been prudent to fling open a door in welcome since the Winter Cleansings of 2018, just after the internet was shut down. Where did I put them? Just as I spotted the spectacles beside the fireplace, the pounding stopped, replaced by a most inhuman howl. (Bitty)
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Merry Christmas from the Afterlife
A few months ago, my almost-13-year-old grandson told me his great-grandmother (mother's mother's mother) had recently died. At least, that's what I thought he told me. I'm not on unfriendly terms with his mother (who is not my son's wife), but we don't chat regularly, either, so I hadn't heard this news.
I confirmed this info to be true with Marine Son, First Grandson's father.
I'd meant to send belated condolence letters/cards to FG's mother and her mother -- dead grandmother was a nice lady and I'd liked her -- but I hadn't got around to it.
Imagine, though, my surprise this week when I received a Christmas card from said dead grandmother.
The stick-on return address label showed just her husband's name, but I immediately recognized the handwriting that had penned my name and address as the same hand I'd been seeing for the 12 years the couple had been sending me cards. My initial reaction was that the great-grandfather had been writing out the Christmas cards all these years and I just hadn't known it until now.
Then I opened the card and found it signed Him and Her.
Signed Him, the widower. Signed Her, the deceased.
I decided that I must have not been paying close attention when First Grandson and Marine Son both told me about the death. I thought it must have been First Grandson's grandfather's mother.
I was, gotta say, freaked out, but also embarrassed that I'd made such a mistake. And I was oh so grateful that I hadn't sent the condolence cards.
However, tonight I decided to double-check. Marine Son is away from home doing training and I certainly wasn't going to call First Grandson or his mom. So I went to the net, plugged in the appropriate info, and...
discovered that the kind lady who sent me the Christmas card did indeed die in July.
Either it really is the husband who's been writing out the cards all these years and he simply can't let go of her, or she was one of those hyper-organized types who wrote them out well in advance and her husband decided to mail them anyway.
In any event, I feel deeply uncomfortable about this.
But I put the card out with the others anyway.
Merry Christmas, Him and Her.
I confirmed this info to be true with Marine Son, First Grandson's father.
I'd meant to send belated condolence letters/cards to FG's mother and her mother -- dead grandmother was a nice lady and I'd liked her -- but I hadn't got around to it.
Imagine, though, my surprise this week when I received a Christmas card from said dead grandmother.
The stick-on return address label showed just her husband's name, but I immediately recognized the handwriting that had penned my name and address as the same hand I'd been seeing for the 12 years the couple had been sending me cards. My initial reaction was that the great-grandfather had been writing out the Christmas cards all these years and I just hadn't known it until now.
Then I opened the card and found it signed Him and Her.
Signed Him, the widower. Signed Her, the deceased.
I decided that I must have not been paying close attention when First Grandson and Marine Son both told me about the death. I thought it must have been First Grandson's grandfather's mother.
I was, gotta say, freaked out, but also embarrassed that I'd made such a mistake. And I was oh so grateful that I hadn't sent the condolence cards.
However, tonight I decided to double-check. Marine Son is away from home doing training and I certainly wasn't going to call First Grandson or his mom. So I went to the net, plugged in the appropriate info, and...
discovered that the kind lady who sent me the Christmas card did indeed die in July.
Either it really is the husband who's been writing out the cards all these years and he simply can't let go of her, or she was one of those hyper-organized types who wrote them out well in advance and her husband decided to mail them anyway.
In any event, I feel deeply uncomfortable about this.
But I put the card out with the others anyway.
Merry Christmas, Him and Her.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Friends
On the phone today with Daughter’s Littlest, who will be 3½ any day now, and who started preschool in September:
Bitty: Do you like your school?
Littlest: I have lots of friends.
Bitty: What are their names?
Littlest: I don’t know. (Aside) Mommy, what are their names?
Bitty: Do you like your school?
Littlest: I have lots of friends.
Bitty: What are their names?
Littlest: I don’t know. (Aside) Mommy, what are their names?
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Clever
Tall Son sent this video this morning. I think he sent it mostly because he could; that is, he just bought an iPhone and he sent it through the phone. Tall Son is a marketer's dream: he has probably owned at least 25 different cell phones since portable phones were first invented. His first looked like the radios in the war movies. Now that he's purchased the iPhone, I'm left wondering what took him so long. Me, I'm on my third phone. I gave the first away to a domestic violence program and the second one broke.
However, Tall Son's patriotic spending habits are not the point of this post. The clever video is. It interests me on two levels: these guys clearly spent a lot of time practicing this routine since the camera never cuts away. One little goof and they'd have to start over. I'd like to know how many takes it took to get it right. The other thing? It reminds me of Les Miz and its circular stage. I have students doing a presentation on the movie version of the play next week, and after that I'll be watching Les Miz myself as I evaluate their efforts.
I'll try not to think of treadmills as I watch it.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Dilemma
So I'm being asked at work to do an important, labor-intensive job. There's something in it for me, but I suspect that "something" won't be worth it. Instead, I'll likely have 8 months of time-management hell trying to get it all done.
I want to be helpful, but at the same time, I have REPEATEDLY gotten myself into tasks that involve a lot of work and a little thanks. One nearly sent me to the looney bin.
In other words, yes, Bitty is a doormat.
You would think I would know better by now.
I do know better.
And I'll probably still agree to do it.
I want to be helpful, but at the same time, I have REPEATEDLY gotten myself into tasks that involve a lot of work and a little thanks. One nearly sent me to the looney bin.
In other words, yes, Bitty is a doormat.
You would think I would know better by now.
I do know better.
And I'll probably still agree to do it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Mais oui....!
How unsurprised am I by this?
Personal to Alanna: you should do this. I'd love to see what it comes up with!
Found at Shakesville.
Personal to Alanna: you should do this. I'd love to see what it comes up with!
| Your Inner European is French! |
 Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so. |
Found at Shakesville.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Turkey Float
I didn't know for sure that I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner until just recently, so I didn't get my turkey until Monday evening. It's ginormous, and the turkey websites advise a 4 to 5 day thaw for a ginormous bird.
I don't have 4 to 5 days.
Plan B advises thawing in cold water. And I quote:
Sounds like a plan, but (a) I have the shallowest sink in the western world, and (b) when I attempted to immerse the bird in water in a plastic bin, I discovered...it floats. How am I to "cover completely" a turkey that floats? I may be a mere English major, but even I know that no amount of water will cover something that persists in bobbing on the surface. All I can think of is putting a weight on it.
Now where did I leave that brick?
Update: I tried placing a big, heavy bowl on top of the turkey, but the bird shoved the bowl aside and stubbornly rose to the top. I wondered if David Letterman ever tried to make a turkey float, but I found no results.
I don't have 4 to 5 days.
Plan B advises thawing in cold water. And I quote:
You may also place the wrapped turkey in the sink and cover it completely with cold water for about 30 minutes per pound.No, I may not.
Sounds like a plan, but (a) I have the shallowest sink in the western world, and (b) when I attempted to immerse the bird in water in a plastic bin, I discovered...it floats. How am I to "cover completely" a turkey that floats? I may be a mere English major, but even I know that no amount of water will cover something that persists in bobbing on the surface. All I can think of is putting a weight on it.
Now where did I leave that brick?
Update: I tried placing a big, heavy bowl on top of the turkey, but the bird shoved the bowl aside and stubbornly rose to the top. I wondered if David Letterman ever tried to make a turkey float, but I found no results.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
This Week in Post Secret
We use LOL a lot here on the internet, but I really don't LOL all that often.
But I sure did today after visiting Post Secret:
Except in my case, I live in fear of something slightly less dramatic. A mere robbery or kidnapping, perhaps. Then, God help me, I'd be alive to face Griss and Cat. Because, fear or not, my house doesn't get cleaned nearly often enough.
But I sure did today after visiting Post Secret:
Except in my case, I live in fear of something slightly less dramatic. A mere robbery or kidnapping, perhaps. Then, God help me, I'd be alive to face Griss and Cat. Because, fear or not, my house doesn't get cleaned nearly often enough.
The Name Game
I dropped in on one of my favorite reads, Maya's Granny, and found the name meme. I did something like this a while back on someone's blog with my real name, but I think I'm going to stick to my blog name, Bitty Sue, with "Sue" operating as both middle and last name. Let's see what happens:
1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & first car) - Taffy Datsun
2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie) - Butter Pecan Oatmeal (doesn't sound very gangsta if you ask me!).
3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name) - B Sue (well, that was no fun)
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal) - Periwinkle Cat
5. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first) - Suebi
6. SUPERHERO NAME: (”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink) - The Sage Pepsi
7. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers) - Ralph David
8. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) - Hendricks Houston
9. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, favorite flower) - Spring Gardenia
10. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”) - Banana Slacksy
11. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree) - English Muffin Maple
12. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”) - The Reading Lightning Tour
13. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) - Sue Chicago
14. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names ) Josephine Unknown
I think this at very least proves that I have no business being a gangsta, but I might make a great soap opera character or weather anchor...
Feel free to join in, in comments if you are without blog.
1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & first car) - Taffy Datsun
2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie) - Butter Pecan Oatmeal (doesn't sound very gangsta if you ask me!).
3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name) - B Sue (well, that was no fun)
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal) - Periwinkle Cat
5. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first) - Suebi
6. SUPERHERO NAME: (”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink) - The Sage Pepsi
7. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers) - Ralph David
8. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) - Hendricks Houston
9. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, favorite flower) - Spring Gardenia
10. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”) - Banana Slacksy
11. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree) - English Muffin Maple
12. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”) - The Reading Lightning Tour
13. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) - Sue Chicago
14. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names ) Josephine Unknown
I think this at very least proves that I have no business being a gangsta, but I might make a great soap opera character or weather anchor...
Feel free to join in, in comments if you are without blog.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
In which Bitty gets one inflammatory forwarded e-mail too many
Not As Faraway Daughter (she's not as far away as she used to be) forwarded this e-mail to me recently.
This gem was followed by 670 names, the last one being my daughter's.
(Before I get started on my rant, I question the wisdom of sending your full name, city, and state of residence around the web. That was in my third reply to Daughter.)
The day she sent this, I sent out a first reply, letting her know that when I had time, I had a few things to say about this. Here, then, was my second reply to her:
It's possible that this e-mail was begun by someone who half-heard, half-understood what it was that Congress did and went off on a tear.
It's just as possible that this e-mail was begun by a sly political operative who wanted to further poison the anti-immigrant attitudes in our country.
It only takes one of these outrageous stories, true or not, to get people angry and then motivate them to vote according to misinformation.
Don't assume that just because someone said it, it's true. Don't assume that just because it comes in an e-mail it's true.
Don't think with your emotions. Think with your brain.
________________________________________________________
Post script: At least 13 years ago, I took a Culture Wars class. I had no idea how engaged I would be in those wars later. Anyway, the professor, 13 years ago, said that there's always talk about how Social Security is going broke, and that it would intensify as the boomers reached retirement age. He said that we will eventually fix it the way we've always fixed Social Security problems: invite a large influx of foreign workers into the country to increase the level of contributions to the fund.
How can this be!!Mom & DadMom was a homemaker and Dad worked all his life and paid into SS.Dad has passed away and now Mom can barely make ends meet. While thepossible "illegal" alien in front of her at the grocery store buys thename brands, Mom goes for the generic brands, and day old breads.She doesn't have out of state calling on her phone, because she can'tAfford it and shops at the thrift shops and dollar stores. Sheconsiders having a pizza delivered once a week "eating out". She grewup during the depression, watched her husband go overseas to fight inWW II a year after their marriage, and then they went on to raise, feedand clothe 5 children, struggling to pay tuition for parochial schools.The Senate voted this week to allow "illegal" aliens access to SocialSecurity benefits. I'm sorry, but how can the Senate justify this slapin the face to born and bred, or naturalized citizens. It is alreadyimpossible to live on Social Security alone. If they give benefits to"illegal" aliens who have never contributed, where does that leave usthat have paid into Social Security all our working lives?Attached is an opportunity to sign a petition that requires citizenshipfor eligibility to receive Social services. If you do not wish to signthe petition yourself, please forward on to anyone you think might beinterested.PETITION FOR: President Bush Mr. President: The petition below is aprotest against the recent vote of the senate which was to allowillegal aliens access to our social security! We demand that you andall congressional representatives require citizenship for anyone to beeligible for social services in the United States .
This gem was followed by 670 names, the last one being my daughter's.
(Before I get started on my rant, I question the wisdom of sending your full name, city, and state of residence around the web. That was in my third reply to Daughter.)
The day she sent this, I sent out a first reply, letting her know that when I had time, I had a few things to say about this. Here, then, was my second reply to her:
Dear Daughter,I spend all kinds of time trying to educate my children, too, apparently.
I still don't have time to fully address this, but I never will and need to move on. Here are two things on it:
http://www.snopes.com/politics/immigration/petition.asp
http://www.snopes.com/politics/immigration/socialsecurity.asp
This petition and things like it irritate me for two reasons:
1. The probable intent is to inflame its readers, to make them angry. In this case, its intent is to intensify anti-immigrant, esp. anti-"brown people" attitudes. People read this and when governors or Congress or Presidential candidates try to deal in whatever way with immigration issues, they remember how pissed off they are about those social security benefits and how "the government" is trying to give away the store. What the e-mail DOESN'T do is accurately describe the issue and just serves to make people even more ignorant and reactionary than they already are. Look at how many people signed it without bothering to confirm if it's true or not!!!! This is true of ALL of these kinds of e-mails, which generally stretch the truth to appeal to people's prejudices and fears.
2. As I said, it's inaccurate. The 2nd link above addresses this in more detail than I had intended, but the bottom line is this: NO ONE gets Social Security benefits without paying in.
By the way, my first paying job was with Social Security. I worked in the department that handled claims by foreign citizens. That's right. We've been paying Social Security bennies to foreign people forever. Since the beginning of Social Security, I presume. In these cases, they were legal workers, but they were aliens.
Let's go for a number 3. It's this kind of crap thinking by Americans that makes my job harder; I spend all kinds of time trying to undo pre-formed opinions, a/k/a prejudice.
Don't assume that just because someone said it, it's true. Don't assume that just because it comes in an e-mail it's true.
Don't think with your emotions. Think with your brain.
Love,
Mom
It's possible that this e-mail was begun by someone who half-heard, half-understood what it was that Congress did and went off on a tear.
It's just as possible that this e-mail was begun by a sly political operative who wanted to further poison the anti-immigrant attitudes in our country.
It only takes one of these outrageous stories, true or not, to get people angry and then motivate them to vote according to misinformation.
Don't assume that just because someone said it, it's true. Don't assume that just because it comes in an e-mail it's true.
Don't think with your emotions. Think with your brain.
________________________________________________________
Post script: At least 13 years ago, I took a Culture Wars class. I had no idea how engaged I would be in those wars later. Anyway, the professor, 13 years ago, said that there's always talk about how Social Security is going broke, and that it would intensify as the boomers reached retirement age. He said that we will eventually fix it the way we've always fixed Social Security problems: invite a large influx of foreign workers into the country to increase the level of contributions to the fund.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
5309
The cashier rings up the groceries.
I slide my check card through the black plastic card reader.
The cashier says, "Your total is $53.09."*
The black plastic card reader asks for my PIN.
I stand there, confused. Disoriented.
Something's wrong, and I'm not sure what.
PIN? PIN? This is an easy question. Why am I unsure of the answer?
I look at the total on the screen. $53.09.*
The confusion clears. My PIN is 5309.* My total is $53.09.*
For a heartbeat, my financial universe is in alignment.
*Like me, my PIN has a pseudonym.
I slide my check card through the black plastic card reader.
The cashier says, "Your total is $53.09."*
The black plastic card reader asks for my PIN.
I stand there, confused. Disoriented.
Something's wrong, and I'm not sure what.
PIN? PIN? This is an easy question. Why am I unsure of the answer?
I look at the total on the screen. $53.09.*
The confusion clears. My PIN is 5309.* My total is $53.09.*
For a heartbeat, my financial universe is in alignment.
*Like me, my PIN has a pseudonym.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Baby, It's Cold Outside
42
I realize that for many around the country, 42 degrees at this time of year is a heat wave. However, this is our first night with weather like this. The sky is clear; thanks to the falling back property of Daylight Saving Time, I get an extra hour of life tonight; my heat works; and I have warm jammies, fresh sheets, and a good book:
I realize that for many around the country, 42 degrees at this time of year is a heat wave. However, this is our first night with weather like this. The sky is clear; thanks to the falling back property of Daylight Saving Time, I get an extra hour of life tonight; my heat works; and I have warm jammies, fresh sheets, and a good book:
(Ann Patchett: who I want to be when I grow up.)Life is good.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Random amusing photo
I was going through some pictures, and I came across this one. It's the house next door to where, until recently, my great-aunt lived. It's not something I'd expect to see in my suburban Florida neighborhood, and so I took the photo, but in rural Illinois, I don't suppose it's so surprising to see corn growing in a gutter that's past its scheduled cleaning.
(Click on the photo to embiggen and better see the corn.)
Snurg, Piffle, Burst!
Found at the blog of the delightful Maya's Granny, and so suited to the blog of an English teacher that I just had to make a home for it here.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
A rose by any other name...
Those ubiquitous stickers on the back windshields of family SUVs with an outline of a sports figure and a name: they scream "Mama of a Baseball/Football/Soccer, etc. Player on Board."
I had to pass the SUV and get a good look at that mama this morning, because I wanted a firm picture of what kind of woman names her child Anakin. (However, this mama was either a grandmama or she'd been living a seriously rough life.)
Some of the baby name sites that offer meanings and origins of names take the name Anakin seriously and attribute it to George Lucas, yadda yadda. The site I linked to above says it means "warrior." Whatever. Other say "no results," as it should be. I tried checking to see what it might mean to name a baby Chewbacca. Surprisingly, no results.
As I clicked along from link to link, I arrived at the Social Security Administration's baby name site, a site in some ways more interesting than others because it has the weight of a really good set of statistics behind it. (Anakin does not make SSA's top 1000; that's as far as SSA's statistics run.)
I gave up the search for Anakin and had fun playing with the SSA's site for a while.
Clicking on "Popular Names by Birth Year" and limiting myself mostly to the top 20, I see that the year Marine Son was born, his name was #1. I knew this well before today, but at the time of his birth, I only knew a few people by that name and thought it was quite unusual and lovely. Ha!
The year Tall Son was born, his name was ranked #16. There goes Bitty being all cutting edge again.
The year Not As Far Away Daughter was born, her name was #5. (Both the year of TS's birth and D's, all three of my children's names made the top 20 list.)
The year of my birth indeed reads like my high school yearbook. Whatever happened to Barbara, Brenda, and Cynthia anyway? And why don't people name their daughters Linda any more? Yet I was a bit surprised to see that the year I was born, my own non-Bitty name was #10. I don't know many people by that name, but those I do are all indeed around my age (give or take 10 years). Apparently we were really hot for a short while. However, had I been named Mary, I'd have been #1. (Between Marine Son's and Tall Son's births, Mary dropped out of the top 20 after a very, very long run at the top.) Interestingly, the year my mother was born, in the early 30's, Mary was number 1 and my mother's name, like mine during my birth year, was #10.
The year Grammie was born, in the early nineteen teens, Mary was still flying high at #1, not imagining a day when she'd be bumped from that honor. Grammie didn't make the top 20 list (she made the top 100), but her name was in the top 20 for some years when her own mother was a child.
My children have been more successful at thumbing their noses at trends. None of my four (count 'em, 4!) grandsons made the top 20 lists for the years of their births, although Grandson #1's name is currently in the top 20, and Baby A, born recently, may be at the beginning of a trend, since Indian Princess reported that several babies in the nursery received the same name that he did.
Most of my current students are 18 or 19, and sure enough -- I've griped about this before -- the top three girls' names in both 1989 and 1990 and in the same order both years were Jessica, Ashley, and Brittany. In fact, looking at the top 20 lists for both girls and boys for those years is pretty much like looking inside my gradebook.
I will probably retire in 2022 or 2023, unless they make me do it earlier. That last year, the young men in the classroom, who are now in the sandbox with my daughter's youngest son, will sport names very similar to those I see now. But when it comes to girls, I can expect to face a classroom sparse on Brittanys and instead, except for an abundance of Madisons, full of girls who sound like they should be Grammie's classmates: Emily, Emma, Abigail, Olivia, Isabella, Hannah, Ava, Grace, and Chloe.
And not an Anakin in sight.
I had to pass the SUV and get a good look at that mama this morning, because I wanted a firm picture of what kind of woman names her child Anakin. (However, this mama was either a grandmama or she'd been living a seriously rough life.)
Some of the baby name sites that offer meanings and origins of names take the name Anakin seriously and attribute it to George Lucas, yadda yadda. The site I linked to above says it means "warrior." Whatever. Other say "no results," as it should be. I tried checking to see what it might mean to name a baby Chewbacca. Surprisingly, no results.
As I clicked along from link to link, I arrived at the Social Security Administration's baby name site, a site in some ways more interesting than others because it has the weight of a really good set of statistics behind it. (Anakin does not make SSA's top 1000; that's as far as SSA's statistics run.)
I gave up the search for Anakin and had fun playing with the SSA's site for a while.
Clicking on "Popular Names by Birth Year" and limiting myself mostly to the top 20, I see that the year Marine Son was born, his name was #1. I knew this well before today, but at the time of his birth, I only knew a few people by that name and thought it was quite unusual and lovely. Ha!
The year Tall Son was born, his name was ranked #16. There goes Bitty being all cutting edge again.
The year Not As Far Away Daughter was born, her name was #5. (Both the year of TS's birth and D's, all three of my children's names made the top 20 list.)
The year of my birth indeed reads like my high school yearbook. Whatever happened to Barbara, Brenda, and Cynthia anyway? And why don't people name their daughters Linda any more? Yet I was a bit surprised to see that the year I was born, my own non-Bitty name was #10. I don't know many people by that name, but those I do are all indeed around my age (give or take 10 years). Apparently we were really hot for a short while. However, had I been named Mary, I'd have been #1. (Between Marine Son's and Tall Son's births, Mary dropped out of the top 20 after a very, very long run at the top.) Interestingly, the year my mother was born, in the early 30's, Mary was number 1 and my mother's name, like mine during my birth year, was #10.
The year Grammie was born, in the early nineteen teens, Mary was still flying high at #1, not imagining a day when she'd be bumped from that honor. Grammie didn't make the top 20 list (she made the top 100), but her name was in the top 20 for some years when her own mother was a child.
My children have been more successful at thumbing their noses at trends. None of my four (count 'em, 4!) grandsons made the top 20 lists for the years of their births, although Grandson #1's name is currently in the top 20, and Baby A, born recently, may be at the beginning of a trend, since Indian Princess reported that several babies in the nursery received the same name that he did.
Most of my current students are 18 or 19, and sure enough -- I've griped about this before -- the top three girls' names in both 1989 and 1990 and in the same order both years were Jessica, Ashley, and Brittany. In fact, looking at the top 20 lists for both girls and boys for those years is pretty much like looking inside my gradebook.
I will probably retire in 2022 or 2023, unless they make me do it earlier. That last year, the young men in the classroom, who are now in the sandbox with my daughter's youngest son, will sport names very similar to those I see now. But when it comes to girls, I can expect to face a classroom sparse on Brittanys and instead, except for an abundance of Madisons, full of girls who sound like they should be Grammie's classmates: Emily, Emma, Abigail, Olivia, Isabella, Hannah, Ava, Grace, and Chloe.
And not an Anakin in sight.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Birthday Buddies. Or not.
CNN’s candidate profiles offer a surprising bit of information.
Hillary Rodham Clinton was born on October 26, 1947 in Chicago, Illinois.
Dennis Kucinich was born on October 26, 1947 in Chicago, Illinois.
Except that it doesn’t seem to be true. Other sources indicate that Kucinich was born on October 8, 1947 (in Cleveland).
A leading news outlet making an error? I’m stunned.
(I'm also bummed because I was considering the astrological consequences of two presidential candidates having exactly the same birthdate and place. Oh well.)
Hillary Rodham Clinton was born on October 26, 1947 in Chicago, Illinois.
Dennis Kucinich was born on October 26, 1947 in Chicago, Illinois.
Except that it doesn’t seem to be true. Other sources indicate that Kucinich was born on October 8, 1947 (in Cleveland).
A leading news outlet making an error? I’m stunned.
(I'm also bummed because I was considering the astrological consequences of two presidential candidates having exactly the same birthdate and place. Oh well.)
Deprivation
This I know:
There are not nearly enough orange Tootsie Roll Pops per bag of Tootsie Roll Pops.
Happy Halloween!
There are not nearly enough orange Tootsie Roll Pops per bag of Tootsie Roll Pops.
Happy Halloween!
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