Day 28: And then my brain exploded

Well, it is the last day of this month-long blog-fest over at "We Work for Cheese" and I've managed to plunk out all but two days' worth of them...so go on over there and see what we've each accomplished. 

 

Just a little (more like a lot) about myself regarding this month-long thing.  We were all given the same "prompts" - a word or words which we would incorporate somehow or another into our daily blogs.  I know it might seem incomprehensible, but I managed not to peek at the "word-of-the-day" until just before writing each day's blog...which, I would write at about 4:00-7:00 in the morning, mostly whilst watching the Olympics (hence the strong Olympic overtone in many of them).

 

I, like those Olympians, loved the challenge -- I liked to see what I could come up with in roughly 30 minutes to an hour.  Most times I would look at the word(s) and then an idea would spring to mind and I'd start typing...usually it went in a completely different direction than my original thought.  I like that things like that can happen inside my very own head. 

Coming up with that first word is supposedly the hardest, and I've known people to get some serious writer's block doing so. I used to be that way when I was younger, altho from an early age I knew I wanted to be a writer.  I loved short stories and, in my opinion, Ray Bradbury was the best at doing them. 

 

I had an English teacher once, oh, geez...maybe in 5th or 6th grade, whose name escapes me now -- but he gave me the highest compliment you can bestow upon a would-be writer of 12 or 13-years old.  

He asked me: "Where did you copy this from?"

 

Now, that might seem like a silly thing to ask -- considering in this day and age, you'd just pop online and copy/paste some portion of the text and find out if someone copied it.  Back then, it wasn't so easy.  Teachers couldn't know everything...and I certainly could have gotten something out of some obscure book and written it down and turned it in with my name on it.

 

So, when I was asked that question...I replied that I didn't copy it.  The teacher looked at me in utter amazement and asked, "Really?" I'm sure he had his fair share of liars over the years saying they didn't, but, I didn't...and I stood my ground.  He then said to me, and I'll never forget his words (even if I did manage to forget his name):  "Wow, you should be a writer...this is really good."

 

I was happy as a little clam and, in the following years, I would forgo taking study halls and lunches and gleefully filled up my classes with more English classes.  Not those English classes where you have to know what the "past present pluragative of a subjugated non-plussed noun" was, but actual "writing" courses.

 

I was all set to whisk off one of my stories to Omni Magazine...because back then they'd actually solicit submissions -- when the worst possible thing that could happen, happened. 

They published a Ray Bradbury story...and then one from another well-known sci-fi writer -- and then yet another.  My dreams were dashed, they'd never use some silly 15-year-old girl from New Jersey's stuff now...not when they had the likes of this stuff to choose from.  I pushed my pen aside after high school and that was it. 

 

Then, one day, many years later, I was sitting around making small talk to a little kid while his brother and my daughter were at a Science Olympiad (there's that word again) competition. I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, you know, the quintessential question every grown-up asks a kid...and he shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know.  He seemed a bit embarrassed by the fact that a child of his "advanced" age, which was probably about twelve, had absolutely no clue yet. I remarked about how silly it was to ask children what they wanted to be when they grew up anyway...because pretty much no one really knows what they want to be when they're that young.  I told him that I did, however, know one kid who was always saying he wanted to be a "political speech writer" when he grew up...and we'd kinda look at him and go "Uh, okay, Eddie."  I then continued and said, "You know, when I was little, I wanted to be a writer, too." 

 

Then I went silent.

 

It dawned on me, that my tiny young self...knew what I wanted to do -- but, my grown-up self never did.  And, when everything was all said and done...I still wanted to be a writer.  Why I hadn't realized until then was anyone's guess.

 

It wasn't the greatest revelation; I mean it wasn't like I could tell you, "And then my brain exploded!" -- altho, being that I was at a science competition, it would have been the right place for it...and it probably would have been awesome, you know...for the other people to witness...kinda like one of those volcanoes everyone makes with the lava spurting out on top...but it wasn't even that type of science competition anyway, so it's probably for the best that it never happened.

 

But, it still amuses me sometimes when I sit here and think, because I do think about it a lot...and I will never know what would have happened had I just slipped one of my stories inside an envelope, slapped some stamps on it, and sent it off to Omni.  I'll never know if they would have bit.  It only would have taken one bite, too - and my whole world would have turned out differently.

 

Yep, I'll never know what would have happened, but you could be damned sure if they HAD published one of my stories...you wouldn't be reading this crap right now! 

As for Eddie...you know...that silly kid I told you about who wanted to be a political speech writer when he was like in 6th grade...and 7th...and 8th...and so on?  Well, I think this about sums it up: 

 

As for "writer's block" -- I actually have no problem whatsoever coming up with the first word to start it all...it's the ones after that which are the hardest for me.  I really need to stop talking about being a writer one day -- and be one.

____________________________

__________________

________

Thanks again to Nicky at her lovely blog, "We Work for Cheese", for giving me the opportunity all this month to enjoy a little bit of self-publicity, which, if you know me -- you know that I love nothing better. Well, okay, maybe I would love a chance to write a movie script...or a book...or...okay, I'm doing it again, aren't I?  Sorry.  

I managed to sneak in today's prompt, which was "And then my brain exploded" and the two I missed earlier on this month, which were "One bite" and "Liars".  I feel so utterly complete now.  

Lastly, I would like to take the opportunity to say to Ed Gillespie (who probably doesn't remember me at all): "Good luck with your Senate bid. I hope I didn't embarrass you too much by mentioning your name here. I know everyone (myself included) from your home town of Browns Mills, New Jersey, are so incredibly proud of you.  Here's wishing you only the best to you and your family...and, if you ever need a political joke writer...well, I'm here."  

  

Day 26: Naked and Lost

Two guys from long ago,

Once, many, many years ago, when I was maybe around 15 years-old (approximately 1976) my girlfriend and I met up with the both of you, hanging around by the bridge at Mirror Lake.  After partaking of some "illegal green stuff" which isn't as illegal now as it was then, you might remember that we all decided to go skinny-dipping in the lake.

Naturally, you two guys...who were a few years older, but not wiser, were all for it...and stripped completely down as fast as you could and jumped on in -- figuring you were not only going to get a peek at our lithe naked bodies but probably would "get lucky" as well.
 

My friend and I, younger, but undoubtedly wiser...and with a bit of devilish streaks in us, grabbed your clothes and ran like mad with them.  We tossed them onto the side of the road up a ways and ran back to her house, laughing all the way, and crawled back through her bedroom window...pretending we never snuck out.  I am certain there was a fair amount of giggling that nite in her room and her parents probably knew what we were up to all along...but not all of it.

To this day I often wonder who you two guys were and how you ever got home, naked...and if you ever found those "lost" clothes of yours.

Consider this an open apology, two guys whose names I don't recall, I'm so sorry...but, I wished I would have seen your faces after it dawned on you that not all 15-year-old girls were "as easy" as all that.

So sorry,

- Mariann

This story is completely true, and, yes, I do often wonder how they managed. I wonder it more often than they probably will ever know.


This is part of a month-long writing challenge at "We Work for Cheese" -- Day 26 (two more to go) -- today's prompt being "Naked and Lost".

Ancient Alien Conspiracy Regarding "The War of the Worlds"

Orson Welles...the genius mastermind responsible for such epic creations as "Citizen Kane", "The Magnificent Ambersons", and "The Third Man" got his brilliant idea of "The War of the Worlds" radio show on the exact same day as the Roswell, New Mexico alien spaceship crash.  Yes, unbeknownst to Welles, his panic-laden historic "Martians landing in a farmer's field in Grover's Mills, New Jersey" idea came into his head on 4 July 1947. 

Yes, the broadcast was a full nine years earlier, but some ancient alien theorists discount the date and, in fact, insist that aliens did indeed land when the inception of the idea first popped into Welles' head. The infamous Halloween radio show was broadcast 30 October 1938...but due to a full nine years of unaccountable time, it actually occurred the exact same time.  "If Welles were alive, he'd emphatically collaborate our findings." ancient alien theorist, Giorgio A. Tsoukalos, was quoted as saying. Tsoukalos further posited, "The time difference is just further proof that aliens indeed landed on Earth and have been time-travelling, interweaving fact with fiction all along.  That's what aliens are best at doing.  They've been setting the clocks back further than we've ever done.  We've only just begun to scratch the surface of this and firmly believe Orson Welles was a cosmic conduit between space aliens and 'The War of the Worlds' author H.G. Wells. Their surnames are nearly identical, both states the aliens landed in have the word 'New' in them, and Welles wrote that radio show interpretation of that exact same book.  This does not happen coincidentally...the aliens were trying to tell us something...and this was probably it."

(This was a little Halloween homage parody I wrote.  But...if they use it in one of their upcoming episodes, you will know where they got the idea.  I hope I get the check.)

Oh, that's just not right...

I fear that is a photo of a Phillly Cheese Steak Blintz.  I found it online.  I shall now get up and heave some more.

Today's prompt in Nicky and Mike's "We Work for Cheese" non-contest contest, is:  Where can I get a good blintz?

 

I am not one-hundred percent certain, but I'm figuring probably New York and New Jersey (I'm from Jersey).  One thing I can tell you with one-hundred percent certainty, is...you can't get one in Alabama (I'm living in Alabama).

 

Sigh.

 

I hope "Where can you get a good cheese steak?" is not coming up later in the month.

 

Double sigh...

(Yes, technically I used the prompt in the body of the blog...so it counts.  Don't make me find another food abomination over at Yelp to show you in order to get you to change your mind.)

I Put My Heart Into This One...I Really Did

Well, I was going to write some heartwarming story about Beach Haven in New Jersey and Hurricane Sandy and how I used to go there...and how much destruction they have suffered. It was going to be sad...and with me lamenting my youth and it was going to have some inspirational tie-in somehow...but I haven't felt well all day and just a little while ago (when I finally got up at 6:00 p.m.), I thought I was having some heart attack or something.

I have a wonky heart and it's scary...coupled with the fact it was beating about 5000 miles per hour and I was sweaty...plus I also had a wicked headache - I just sorta imploded. I darted in out of extremely messy rooms trying to find my blood pressure machine to calm me down a bit -- it always seems worse than it is, at least that's how I've had it so far. Absolutely no safe haven in the storm that is my mind when I'm going into panic mode.

Then I took a heart pill, which I think is a blood pressure kind of pill, and it slows my heart down...and I drank one of those "old people" Ensure shakes - and I feel a lot better. Perhaps it was a blood sugar issue - I keep telling them I have blood sugar issues, but they tell me I don't. Well, THEY don't ever take my blood sugar when I wake up after lying there for hours trying to sleep, but failing miserably.

I was also going to make a wickedly naughty post about something being "clean s-haven"...but, I didn't. But you can bet your ass it was going to be rollickingly hilarious and you would have spat milk out of your nose...even if you hadn't drank milk in ages. Seriously, it was going to be THAT friggen brilliantly done.

But I didn't.

I decided to calm down, breathe, sing old movie songs, and load the dishwasher instead.

"H aven, I'm in h aven...and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak..."

...damn, my wonky "e" on the keyboard must be sticking again.

At least my heart seems to be beating right and I can speak again...

...whew.

(This is Day 6 of Nicky and Mike's "30 Minus 2 Days of Writing" non-contest contest over at "We Work For Cheese".  Today's prompt was "Haven".  Please check out the other blogs over there...but ignore all the ones on the list which were posted before mine.  Yes...do that.  ;)  That would be a good thing to do.)

 

 

Candy is dandy...but sicker is quicker

I've been in a writing slump lately - I think it's a combined "health issues, have no job, and I'm sick of reading more heinous ways people can kill each other" type of thing. So, if I'm not up to my usual "fun self" - well that is why.

Back when I was a child, my mother would always remind me not to take candy from strangers.

This, to a child in my era, seemed a bit strange in itself.

In my day (which was pretty much the 60s) you didn't hear of kids getting abducted - I knew of only one and it was quite a few years before my time: Charles Lindbergh's baby. And while it took place in New Jersey, it was supposedly for money and our family had none...so I was pretty much off the hook.

In Jersey where I lived, we got the Philadelphia news; and if things didn't happen in the generalized area of their broadcasting antenna, well, we never really knew about it. There were other things taking precedence anyway...mainly the Vietnam war, hippies, drugs, free love and rock and roll. There was also all this racial tension in some place called "Birmingham". But I was a kid and kids aren't too keen on watching the news religiously...so much of it was a blur to me...and so far away.

Closer to home, i.e., the Philadelphia area, we'd hear about fires engulfing homes once a week and killing a couple people and the obligatory "jack-knifed truck on the Schuylkill Expressway". I swear there was always some 18-wheeler lying on its side on that road every single day of the year. But pretty much this was the routine I was brought up with. And, if you didn't take candy from strangers, play with matches...and didn't play in traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway, you were pretty much guaranteed to lead a fairly long and uneventful life.

During my childhood years it was also typical for parents NOT to discuss such things as child molestation, sexual predators and pedophiles...and the resulting consequences of these. Heck, a couple of these terms weren't even coined yet.

I'm not stupid, I know these things went on since the dawn of mankind...and certainly were taking place in the 1960s and 1970s, but it seems so much more commonplace nowadays and it's probably due to instant information via the Information Highway. Face it, someone "goes missing" in Burlington, Vermont and people in New York City and Seattle, Washington (and all points between) hear about it roughly the same exact time. This didn't happen back in my day.

But I remember once when I was around 12 or 13, my friend and I were walking to "the beach" in my town in Jersey. It wasn't really so much a beach as it was a murky cedar lake with a set expanse of sandy shoreline...but we were walking along a dirt road shortcut as we always had every other time we went there.

Halfway through our walk, which was 3/4 of a mile at the most, a guy in some car pulled up next to us and asked if we'd like a lift. My friend and I, totally oblivious as to what type of pervert he probably was, said "No" and kept on walking.

There was no obvious overt sense of danger we felt we were in - plus he didn't offer us any candy...just a ride.

Despite these facts, he kept following at a snail's pace directly behind us as we continued walking and talking down this relatively isolated dirt road...the beach literally within our sights...and surely within walking distance. It was also within running distance, and for reasons I'll never quite understand, we both got an extreme case of the "heebee jeebies" at exactly the same time and broke out into a full on sprint to put as much distance between his car and us.

As you might have guessed, nothing happened, and we lived to go to "the beach" (and marvel at our instant cedar water tans) another day...and another...and another...

...some children don't.

And it's not just strangers - most times it's someone they know. And I think it's high time to start a much more aggressive approach for the sake of all our children.

That "candy" line we were all fed when we were kids - was plain silly - especially when Halloween rolled around.

I tell...and have told...both my children that there are people out there who torture and kill kids, dump their naked bodied in ditches on the side of the road and...very often...horrible heinous things happen before and after.

I don't Google photos to show them nor yank out a Hieronymus Bosch painting to get my point across, but a good scary dose of Stephen King-type terror isn't necessarily a bad thing in my opinion.

And, let me just address something which has been stuck in my craw for years - and I basically think this has a high basis in fact:

Not meaning to sound flip...but if you are going to get abducted - let's just hope you are a pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed, white girl - as those are the only ones it seems get any full-out media attention.

Think about it, when was the last time a national manhunt was called for a missing homely Haitian girl? A Native American girl with a wonky eye? Someone Hispanic with an overbite? Any black girl??

Nope.

And it's so incredibly sad. I'm sure caring parents of ANY child is just as concerned about their child...and that child deserves the same treatment as that given a flaxen-haired beauty -- a missing media darling who becomes the press's eye candy.

I find that strangely disturbing.

(Orinally written, but not published, a couple years ago.)

Becoming Unglued

"Mrs. Clayton, Jimmy's eating paste!" Little Suzy's tattletale shrieks broke the relative giddiness of the room and the whole class turned to see for themselves.

There he was...the telltale sign of paste hanging on the corners of his mouth like dingleberries...well, hanging on a whole other orifice; his mouth clamped tighter than that other sphincter, but smelling remarkably better.

"Let me see, James. Open your mouth." Mrs. Clayton's direct order and stern gaze (peering out from behind her black cat-eye glasses which were perched precariously on her hawk-like nose) had absolutely no effect on the kid. He wouldn't, or maybe he couldn't...but he shook his head forcefully back and forth and then a couple gulps later...he'd open wide for all to see. The evidence cleverly swallowed...his fat pink tongue wagging back and forth like an innocent puppy dog's tail. He was triumphant and, like that puppy, clearly oblivious to any wrong-doing.

With the "whiff test" administered directly after, Mrs. Clayton could do no more than to confiscate our group's paste container and we'd have to make do with passing around the industrial-sized Elmer's Glue which always needed Herculean strength to squeeze out a hair's diameter of the stuff on your paper. Even with shoving both a pin and a nail in the top part (over and over again)...the best you could hope for was an inconsistent dotted-line of semi-clotted goop to plop out and sore muscles the next day.

Now paste always had that nice minty aroma to it when I was a kid...I'm not sure if it still does nowadays...but back then it did. Perhaps that's why the paste-eaters of my era treasured it so. And you can rest assured there was always one kid in class who was an elitist gourmand when it came to all things sticky.

Elmer's Glue, although much more fun to play with (when it finally did come out) didn't have the culinary draw that nice white paste had. And don't forget, paste did have that popsickle-like stick inside the cap with which to poke and probe your way to the parts that didn't have any construction or crepe paper bits intermingled with it. Pure, unadulterated paste. Left alone with a tub of the stuff and the likes of Suzy being absent that day...Jimmy could get his fill uninterrupted. Sure, we'd laugh and point...but you have to keep in mind paste wasn't the only thing this kid was "into".

Jimmy had the unfortunate luck to be born a "Barger"..."James Barger" to be precise. Naturally, Jimmy also had reddish hair...all the more to stand out and be different from the other kids - but other than his propensity for paste...Jimmy had another proclivity: Jimmy liked to pick his nose and eat the contents therein.

In the well-oiled machinery of the mind of a five or six-year-old, it doesn't take too much gear-turning to alter "Barger" to "Booger"...and well, the name stuck. Stuck better than a nose-mining paste-oholic on a sub-zero playground in December. If you've never witnessed the sheer amount of "stuff" a nose can leak out of it in the winter in Jersey during recess...well, you haven't truly lived. Usually this is what mittens and coat sleeves were for...but little Jimmy "Booger" would be off by himself with the unbridled passion of a deer with a salt-lick. The kid was an unstoppable, unwavering gross-out spectacle. I'm not sure which he enjoyed more...the taste of paste and snot or the constant attention of his classmates pointing at him and egging him on to eat more paste and snot.

As he went through the elementary grades, Jimmy "Booger" Barger went through his fair share of paste. Paste becoming more and more a rarity with each passing year, Jimmy was eventually weaned off his habit, at least as far as we knew.

The nickname was still in use the year I moved when I was eleven, and while I was never there to know for certain, I'm pretty much inclined to believe it stuck until graduation day...when he could finally venture forth on a new life outside of the Hamilton Township School System.

Memories of youth undoubtedly fade...although some things do seem to cement themselves in our minds. It's silly what we retain in our heads years down the road - and how the simplest things can trigger those memories. You see, lately I've been wondering about poor old James...and whatever became of him -- because there's a boy in my daughter's school who looks strikingly similar.

Oh, I'm not going to blurt out any questions regarding paste ingestion to him...but...I might be inclined to get close enough to catch a whiff of his breath. You know, just for old-time curiosity's sake.

And, if it's minty fresh, eh...perhaps then I'll ask.

It's Not What You Say...It's How You Say It

(As you can plainly see, my copy has long since lost it's bright yellow cover; the colourful words inside, however, remain intact.)

"We lost our empire, we suck at tennis, our food is lousy, but our television sure kicks ass!" - BBC America's new slogan of sorts they just started airing.

On BBC America's "Being Human" tonight, the werewolf guy was dealing with some anger issues...and kept cussing throughout the show. I think he was not only pissed...but pissed as well. (Oh, go look it up - it's British slang interspersed with American slang...a two-fer, if you will. Mind out of the gutter!)

"Fluffernutter". Just wrong on so many levels. Seriously. I'm surprised no one's complained or that the Marshmallow Fluff people don't have a very crude commercial on the air. Heck, I would if I were them.

And even more shocking, is William Shatner, starring in CBS's "$#*! My Dad Says". Personally I think it should have starred Clayton Moore (The Lone Ranger) years ago. The whole "Who was that masked man?" would have been really funny in my opinion.

In 1972, George Carlin came out with one of the most recognized and repeated bits in history (that was "bits" with a "B"...not a "T"...which, had it been a "T", it would have been number seven on his list): "Seven words you can never say on television." It's been nearly forty years; some of them have crossed over and some have not.

As a Jersey chick, I am well-versed in the art of vulgarity. When I was the tender age of twelve, me and my friend from across the street, Robin Howard, (if you're still out there Robin, say "Hi!") took my often used Monopoly game, pretty much worn out to the point where, had it been real money, would have long since met the incinerator...and decided we'd give it the "naughty treatment".

On the back of each of the bills (and there are 240 of them in a brand-spanking new game) we put "naughty phrases". Taking into consideration we were naive pre-teen girls and there might have been some bills missing, we still had to come up with at least 200 semi-offensive phrases. Offensive enough to make us giggle like pre-pubescent idiots, yet not offensive enough to make a parent within earshot suspect we had put 200 "Beavis and Butthead"-like utterances on the backs of "not so legal" tender.

And we were determined not to repeat ourselves. Granted, some of the bills mentioned boys in town we had crushes on...like Kenny Lear and all three of the Cook brothers, but most were just scrawled with the rudest words we could think of. Some words we really had absolutely no clear knowledge of what they meant, and most words we didn't even have a vague notion. Remember, this was pre-Internet days and Webster's didn't list "vulgarities". "Slang and its Analogues" did, however, and I was never quite sure if my mother knew exactly what she gave me when she presented her flea market find to me when I was about eleven.

This book, besides being a huge book of slang originally published in seven volumes from 1890-1904, is a treasure trove of "all things naughty". I think the guy who wrote "Mrs. Doubtfire" did exactly what I did (the one scene where Robin Williams, as "Mrs. Doubtfire", is talking to Pierce Brosnan about his intentions towards Sally Field, is pretty much a straight read from this book) when I first got my hands on it -- which is, turned to three select locations: "Male Genitalia", "Female Genitalia", and "The Act Itself". As they always say, "Location, Location, Location!", right?

So...when we finally completed our Monopoly money mission, we were downright proud of ourselves. We had the "usuals" in there...and also some others, like...the defunct "Trans World Airlines" acronym with an "extra" initial after it, oh, perhaps initials of Bon Jovi (they were, after all, from Jersey) before they made it famous (it, not IT, famous), and possibly Bruce Springsteen's as well (hey, he's from Jersey, too) and I'm pretty sure we mentioned the illustrious "C" word.

Way back in my day, back in Jersey, the "C" word wasn't primarily used as a euphemism for the "P" word, or for the even more naughty sounding and clinical "V" word. The "C" word was something we used for descriptive purposes...kinda like using the "B" word today. Like "Oh, stop being such a 'C'" - unterstand me now? Ooops, sorry, typo..."understand". And, again, how some words managed to get "letter recognition" status and some are still okay to say...in a way, is beyond me. I never got any of the memos.

Of course, the "mother" of them all...is the "F" word. That's my personal favourite. It's so handy. It can be a verb, an adjective, a noun, and I probably have used it in the past imperfect tense and didn't even know I was being so incredibly correct when I did so. Grammatically correct - not politically.

But, as the Bee Gees sang way back in 1968, "It's only words...and words are all I have...to take your heart away." Granted they probably weren't thinking about naughty words, but I'd like to get a feel for which words, be they on Carlin's list or not, take your heart away, or at least raise your blood pressure some.

So, which "bad" words are you okay with...and which would never touch your lips? Are there exceptions to the rule? Are there any films or TV shows you'd say called for their usage...or would you rather see them cleansed entirely from the screen and you totally wash your hands (and mouth) of them?



For the longevity of this post, please be a "good ranger" and mask your words as well.


(The above statement was for the Montgomery Advertiser's online site commenters. I left it stand because I thought it was witty.)


(For those who are wondering, I still actually have that Monopoly game. It's fun to get it out now and again and read about the good old days. ;) )



A blog forethought on this subject matter as an afterthought: I'm more of the mind-set that it's really not the words you use...but the intention behind them. Unfortunately, in my life I've been called many certain words. These certain words were not naughty, dirty, vulgar words said in jest...but common, everyday words which hurt much more. When someone does that...it doesn't matter what they say...it's how they say it and the meanness put behind it. People don't need to resort to cuss words to be cruel and put you down...regular words do just fine.

Words, are, after all, only words.

Ah...the Sweet Smell of Spring...on Venus!

In keeping with my monthly suggestion of a Montgomery Advertiser online theme (last month was "...Nature's Little...") - I read Liberty4USA's blog and she suggested others post their Spring memories...so I decided to go for it and do a Spring blog myself.

While Liberty let slide she's a closet pyromaniac...and heaven knows I've done my fair share of "setting things on fire for the 'sake' of science"...I won't divulge what horrors befell the unlucky specimens who got the hot end of the deal. Plus...I really don't want PETA putting my childhood photo on signs with a circle and red line through it. So, I'll just confess she's not the only one who found out that you can indeed set things on fire with a magnifying glass...altho I'll admit my infatuation with it stopped LONG ago. ;)



But...back to Spring.

Spring always conjures up imagery in my head of getting a brand spanking new matching pastel outfit to wear to church on Easter Sunday. This included "the works": hat, dress, a flimsy coat, and "shiny as a just minted penny" shoes. Photos were obligatory; gloves were optional...but as I grew up in the 1960s, they were still in vogue and I had to have them. I don't remember ever wearing the outfit more than once...but it was always an event - and fond memories are made of such events.

Spring, growing up in New Jersey...was a transitional thing. My son even remarked to me the other day, upon seeing the outside temperature while in the climate controlled atmosphere of my car, that Spring lasted about one day...and what was up with it going from freezing cold to blazing hot literally overnight.

It is true...I remember in Jersey how the flowers would herald the changing seasons. First the crocus would poke its clever blooms up and out thru the snow...then the narcissus and daffodils...giving way to the luxurious scent of lilac. If you've never smelled a real live, honest-to-goodness lilac bush...you really don't know what you're missing. Forget those Glade air fresheners...even Yankee Candle can't come close. A real Yankee knows lilacs don't reek of things like patchouli and cotton...or whatever combo they use to try to recreate the "lilac" experience. Real lilac hangs on the air as delicately as those lace-like structures etched on a dragonfly's wings...and darts off in the wind as effortlessly and quickly as well. It's there for a moment...and when you think you can hone in on it...it eludes you yet again.

Grabbing handfuls of the lovely blossoms and deeply burying my nose in them...ah...the thing that Spring memories again are made of - but are probably only as sweet as the remembrances of youth. I'm sure the flowers don't emit the same odour they once had. Time has a way of altering the senses and perceptions...and turning the most lovely memories into the mundane when you stray down that road again in another time. Some things are best left to memories...so perhaps it's a good thing I've never seen a lilac bush here in Alabama...and those waxy "effigies" the companies make - well, can't hold a candle to them.

But I'm waxing nostalgic (yes, that clearly was intentional)...

Spring in Alabama - what does it mean to me now?

Mosquitoes? Yeah, okay but they seem to find me year-round...so not that "Spring-like" really. Think, think, think...what do I remember most about this place in the Spring?

I know!

Primordial soup.

We have a swimming pool...or as they call it here in the South, a "cement pond". (Oh, c'mon...that was a joke.) Each year, instead of letting it run (via the pump)...we just let nature run its course...and then just drain it in the Spring, clean out the sludge which accumulated...and fill it back up again. Voila! Yankee ingenuity at its best. (Again...I'm jesting.)

But...in between the time we stop swimming and the time we start swimming...there is this interim period...a "Spring" of sorts if you will...which happens, coincidentally, between Winter and Summer. And in that time period - all kinds of things take up residence in my pool.

There are bugs...water bugs. I don't know how they find my pool...but they do. It's not like there's a little river which leads into my pool...but the water bugs find it anyway. Then the frogs and toads come. This is about the same time that the algae decides to go into hyperdrive. It begins to look like the scum on top of a soup...the stuff that you scoop off when it's simmering. Seriously...this stuff looks like it's just about to boil. There's some anaerobic activity going on I'm certain. Then...that's when "it" happens. Out of this bubbling cold cauldron - "things" begin to grow in this massive soup mixture.

Primordial things.

Primordial things begin to grow...and grow and grow. It's like a full-scale science experiment - my own little planet of life brewing...right in my backyard. We had these one-celled creatures you could SEE with the naked eye. You aren't supposed to SEE one-celled creatures like amoebas. But these were giant amoebas! I kid you not. I had giant microbial mutant life in my pool...and I will probably have it again. The abject lack of a transitional Springtime is probably to blame...certainly not due in any part with our lackadaisical approach to proper pool maintenance.

So while SETI and NASA are out there with their mass spectrometers, telescopes and space stations...searching the far distant skies for extraterrestrial life on other planets, I have intraterrestrial life in my pool each year. Life that I let slip down some drain.

On some grand cosmic scale this is probably terribly sad or terribly ironic...which it is I'm not really sure.

But it sure wouldn't be Spring in Alabama to me...without it.

Two Guys, a Girl and a Tube Tester: Blogger Idol - Round 2

Back when I was a kid, it would've been pretty standard procedure to have had the television repairman on speed dial...had there been speed dial back then.

Like clockwork, and always right before something great was about to come on one of the three channels that were out there, the television would go on the fritz. No amount of aluminum foil on the antennas or adjusting the horizontal hold was going to fix it.

The repairman would come over and he'd always be some guy my family knew, although for the life of me I don't ever remember my parents having friends over and we never went to anyone's house. How we knew these guys on a first name basis is still a mystery to me and always will be.

But he'd come around lugging a giant suitcase rivaling the size of our television cabinet and pull out tube after tube and systematically "trial and error" them until one magically turned our black and white behemoth on again.

There'd be some exchange of money and we'd all converge back around the set, me on the floor right up close enough to get a good megawatt dose of electronic exposure (I was, after all, the family-designated remote control) but back then we were oblivious to the perils of such things...and such things probably made us much stronger anyway. Yes, Nietzsche probably owned a really big television as a kid.

Then one day the television didn't work and to save a buck...as heaven knows how much it cost for a TV house call back then, my father decided he'd try a new angle. A newfangled machine was at the local "Two Guys" department store...and when I say "local" I mean a good 45-minute drive. All stores in Jersey were a good 45-minute drive away. I swear no one ever lived close to anything there...going to the grocery store was pretty much an all-day event...so when we'd pile into the car to go to "Two Guys", well it was akin to an expedition to the Himalayas...we'd be gone for hours. Hours to a kid is like days to a grown-up...and as usual, no drive would be complete without my sister and I asking the never-ending series of "Are we there yet?"'s.

"Are we there yet?" my sister would eventually ask.

"No." my father would grumble back.

Ever the smartass, I'd quip, "How about NOW?" two minutes later.

In another two minutes, I'd do it again. Antics such as these are why my father invented such "awe-inspiring" games such as "For every Volvo you see I'll give you a nickel. For every red Volvo, you'll get a quarter."

Now, I don't know about you, but back in my childhood, a quarter was a big deal. I never got an allowance so the value of a coin, any silver coin...was astronomical to me. It didn't matter much to me that in 1967 they probably sold 11,000 Volvos in the whole country...and probably only 10 were in the state of New Jersey. There was serious money to be had and all questioning of when we were getting there ceased. 'Hell, take the long way around, Dad. Go on the Turnpike!'

But, we'd end up at our destination in no time after that - and I'd be no richer.

And back in those carefree days of my youth, you were given free reign in the stores. Sure, I'd start out with my mother...but I'd go off and always manage to get lost and found again -- and this time was no exception. Only this time I was going with my father.

He had an assortment of tubes he plucked haphazardly from the back of the television set and standing right smack in the middle of the store -- was an amazing thing. A thing I'd never seen before. A tube tester.

It was wonderful. It had lights and I think it made a slight buzzing sound...and a set of needles would go to and fro when you placed a tube on one of two metal discs that shone like...well, like shiny quarters. The buzzing would raise in pitch and I believe some clicking noises were involved somehow. This indeed was something special - I knew it was. My father let me place a tube on one of the discs. Like magic, the needles flicked. I got to do it again. And again. Some tubes made them flick with lightning speed into the green and some just slightly budged as if in a slow-motion sequence on television itself.

Then it, like the "Volvo game", ended all too soon. We packed all the tubes back up and walked away from it; the buzz getting fainter and fainter with each step.

Oh, it was all too much...the allure of the machine beckoned me to come back to it. As soon as I was left to my own devices, I found my way back over...probably through my astute hearing...honing in on the buzz like a bee back to the hive.

I carried out the motions exactly as my father did: Flip the switch on. Check. Needles spiking left to right and back down again. Check. Tubes? Hmmmm...what can I do?? I have no tubes! Fingers. I have fingers! Left index finger on the left shiny disc...right index finger on the right shiny di...

"Oh, what the HELL!"

I swear to God I was zapped with enough wattage to power up two electric chairs. I was thrown back about 10 feet and if there would've been a weight-bearing pillar in back of me I would have been knocked unconscious for sure. In fact I'm not sure that I WASN'T knocked unconscious. All I know is that my fingers, hand, arm and pretty much the whole side of me was numb and tingling.

I got up and ran off.

"Where were you? We were looking all over the place. What were you doing all this time?" my mother half-chidingly inquired.

"Um...nothing."

Well, it wasn't like I could really tell her I was zapped within an inch of my life and was probably unconscious for the last half hour. I envisioned the loudspeaker lady blurting out, "Clean-up in aisle 7!" Nah...best I keep this little incident all to myself.

And it's nothing that a couple orange-flavoured St. Joseph Baby Aspirins couldn't cure when I got home...ah, the good old-fashioned taste treat from my youth.

It's not like they could kill you or anything like the tube tester...

This is my blog entry for Round 2 of the Blogger Idol competition. Please go HERE (or click the image below) to vote. Voting ends Wednesday, 13 Jan 10 at 8:00 p.m CT...so, please, get your vote in. Thank you!

The Write Stuff

I am writing a book.

Yeah, yeah...I know what you're thinking, "What??? She can READ??" Hey, Leno could really use you...talents like that are a "rarity" in the comedic realm...

...but, yes...yes, I can read...to answer your above question...and if Sarah Palin can write *cough cough* a book, well, darmit, so can I.

What I originally thought you were going to think was "but it says in her profile that she's been writing a book...you'd figure she woulda had it done by now"...but, little things like...oh, depression...and my pathetic health issues...and lack of a job...and a marriage that didn't turn out like I envisioned, and no money...and...no real friends (other than online ones)...and the fact that no one beat down my door after I won the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest back in 2003 -- altho they do a reality show now about anything and everything...so I totally missed the boat on that one...and okay, what was my point again?

My book.

I started a book once...when I was about 13. Then I put it down and never really picked it back up again. Then I graduated, got a job, got married, had a couple kids, and one day while on a trip to a Science Olympiad competition my daughter was attending about four years ago - I ended up talking to a fellow parent's child regarding what they might want to do after they graduate (like any kid of 12 or 13-year-old really knows what they want to do with the rest of their life). They just did what I expected...shrugged and said, "Uhhh...I dunno". And I said, "Yep...I know what you mean...when I was your age I had no clue what I wanted to do...in fact, there were only two people I went to school with who did. One wanted to be a dentist...and he went on to be a dentist...and the other was Eddie Gillespie, who wanted to be a political speech writer."

Odd, huh? I mean, c'mon...who the heck's ambition in life in 8th and 9th grade centers around writing speeches for politicians...especially in Browns Mills, New Jersey? Well, for those of you who are curious...here's what he ended up doing: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed_Gillespie

Anyway...as I was having this conversation I relayed how I always "wanted to be a writer"...and then it dawned on me, not unlike a ton of bricks, that geez...I just wasted like 30 years wondering what I wanted to do with my life (other than the role of being a mother...which I always wanted to be)...only to find out I KNEW when I was just a kid.

Imagine my initial shock and subsequent "Eureka moment" after the realization of time wasted consisting primarily of sitting on my butt lamenting my great law career...(I always figured I could find a loophole in anything and thus would be an extreme asset to any corporate entity) only to find out that, like Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz"...I didn't need to go searching anywhere...my "no place like home" was my childhood dream of writing.

What tipped the scales, not of justice...but of determination that I possibly COULD do this, was after I watched a program on A&E's "Biography" - quite some time ago...you know, when A&E actually showed "quality programming". They profiled well-known horror author, Stephen King...whom I never did hold in any high esteem...until after I watched the show...and what he said "literally" changed my mind. He stated that he was determined to write and that he had a game plan: to sit at his typewriter every single night and peck away...for three hours, regardless of what came out. What came out ended up being a "stupid teen angst story" (his words...or something to the effect of) later to be known as "Carrie"...and if it weren't for his wife salvaging it from the trash bin and encouraging him to finish it...well, no one really knows now, do they?

So, I've gotten back in the saddle again...and instead of relying on someone to "co-author" with me (like I did once before), I'm going to sit back and try to go this one alone. I figure if I peck away each night and churn out three pages, I'd have something to edit and re-edit...and further re-edit in about four months.

And, as King had his wife...I have my kids. I told my son the other day of my idea - consisting of the general outline of the book...and...he thought it was GOOD! That might not mean anything to you, but...my son never thinks anything I write is good. It's always "lame", "it's emo", "it's pathetic"...and a few other choice words and phrases I won't go into detail about here. I don't think I've ever written a blog to elicit any other response out of him...so when I told him of the plot I wasn't expecting anything other than the usual. But, he said it was good! He even read what I'd written so far - and praised it...he even went so far as to give me some ideas.

My daughter is helping as well - playing my conscience...always trying to light the fire under my butt..."You REALLY need to start writing your book again before someone else comes up with your idea." And she's right. I've got to hunker down and "Stephen King" it. Well, not "It" it...but just plain "it"...oh, you know what I mean.

Coincidence? Propofol Recall and Michael Jackson's Death

This is going to be my shortest blog ever. Don't get too excited...as I'm sure I'll more than make up for it in my next one. ;)

Anyway, I get automatic government recalls to my email account. Anything from melamine tainted pet food to salmonella-infested alfalfa sprouts to baby cribs with the slats spaced too far apart to 1996 Dodge Grand Caravans being recalled outright because they slowly fall apart and then they subsequently totally replace said vehicle with a brand new one at their own cost (wishful thinking on that last one)...and everything in between.

So, I'm checking my mail tonite and I came across one I just had to say "hmmmmm...coincidence?" to.

Propofol Recall

It's a recall for Proprofol - the drug that's been bantered about lately as being the likely culprit (along with the doctor) for the untimely death of Michael Jackson:

Possible Causes of Death

If this doesn't create an isolated hotbed of controversy in the next few days...I don't know what will.

But, regardless...it certainly makes me sit up and say "hmmmmm..." - and being from New Jersey I can't help but have all sorts of "conspiracy theory" thoughts now floating around inside my head. So, coincidence?

Nah...I'm not buying it.

Capris, Clamdiggers, Pedal Pushers, and Knickers, Oh My!

I keep saying it to everyone - "I am NOT accepted here in Montgomery". The cheerleader-type mentality reigns supreme. They've drawn that circle in the sand and I cannot cross over. I am "Little Ralphie" and his "A Christmas Story" friends; noses smooshed and faces pressed up against the window of "Higbee's Department Store" but I can't get in...

...or can I?

But...I wonder. You see, someone must have sent out a "clothing memo" to the "over 40 crowd" and counted me out once more. I never got word that I should, in some "Stepford Wivesonean focus" go to the store and plunk down ready cash on some Capri pants.

It's clearly evident everyone else here got the memo, as everywhere I look, women who fall into that "cougar-aged" category...are sporting these horrid things.

Oh, don't try to convince me otherwise...I saw it a little at first, a few years ago...or at least I "think" I did. I'd go into a store and try on some pants and remark to myself, "huh...that's funny - usually they are overly long - these don't even make it to my ankles...they just kinda "high water" it there. And I'd write it down to some sweat shop in Pakistanjurbec cutting fabric short and catering to the overly short-legged girls of the world.

And staring at that "lower exposure of skin" in the mirror takes me back...way back - to a time in my youth, all regional locales aside - although I'm sure everyone across the world has experienced this in one shape or form...the time you HAD to wear your sibling's pants (be them brother or sister) they outgrew...because you were next in line, height-wise. Surely you can sympathize with the emotional scourge...the raking over the coals...the cutting down a few notches...that only 3rd through 6th graders can inflict upon one another. The finger-pointing, the name calling, the ostracizing - the social embarrassment of seeing...or worse yet, of wearing those high-top Keds (or Ked mock-offs...which we called "Bo-Bo's") the "clever" moms would buy in order to conceal and camouflage the obvious - thereby doing even MORE damage by their misguided, albeit thoughtful, misdirection.

So, when I tried on those things...a wellspring of horror came rushing over me like a flood...reminding me even MORE so of those high-water pants that never needed to be hiked up...and unfastening that first button cum snap thing...and shimmying them down past your hips...well before sagging pants were in "vogue"; no, that kind of deception never cut it.

Back on the rack these misfits went.

Now imagine my chagrin when I find out NOW...that THEN - I could have been a trend-setter. Just think...all those social pariahs I went to school with - were way ahead of their time. Unfortunately, they never lived in present-day Montgomery where they could parade around and flaunt those ankles...and calves with confidence. Believe it or not...they can even wear them in front of 3rd to 6th graders and NOT get mocked...even at the ripe-old advanced age of 48.

Me? In a way I'm glad I didn't get "the memo" - my Washington, DC trip last month solidified my thoughts and confirmed my suspicions. It's really more of a regional thing - Capris were far and between there and, I'm guessing, even further between in Jersey...where I grew up. Further bolstering the old saying "you can take the girl out of Jersey...but you can't make her wear items of clothing which will leave an indelible mental mark on her like those all too often scabbed knees from Dodgeball on the playground...which ruined an infinitesimal amount of tights"...or something like that. Or perhaps it's just "You can take the girl out of Jersey and plop her in Montgomery...but will she wear them to fit in?

Well...let's find out next installment, shall we?

(Part I of II)

Ring Around The Toe-sy...

I've been wanting to do a blogumn about this for a while...but hadn't decided on an angle...thinking perhaps I just ought'n not do it (yes...I put that in specifically as an "in-joke" for one person...so there, I did it) - so, therefore, that means I will. This same person figures I'm being too much like the female version of Andy Rooney with my opinions lately...probably just because I'm getting old and curmudgeonly...but, what the heck...I'll run with it - or at least trot a little...

Just what IS it with toe and thumb rings lately? They look awfully silly and quite uncomfortable to boot. In fact...if you were wearing a toe ring AND a boot...I bet it would be all the more uncomfortable.

I remember, back in the 1960's - toe rings and thumb rings started to be quite the sensation...but they also had the Indian-inspired toe-ring "attached anklet" which made it look like much more of a fashionable accessory than the simple "got my toe caught in the gasket of my tub's faucet and I decided I'd run with it" kinda thing. In fact, if I'm not mistaken - this toe-anklet chain was quite akin to the middle finger-bracelet chain...which also had that whole "Hindu-inspired, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Beatles, George Harrison-influenced, Ravi Shankar, sitar-playing, patchouli incense burning" era thing going on - which, I, as a child growing up in New Jersey...would see first-hand because we frequently made near-monthly Hippie-watching pilgrimages to New Hope, Pennsylvania - way back then when these things...and Twiggy...were, literally...in vogue.

Now...I was too young to don toe rings or toe ring-anklet chains back then - but I remember them clearly as I have an older sister...who really isn't that much older than me...but always acted much older than she really was. That not being here nor there...I remember certain things distinctly...and this was one of them.

Then the 60's made way for the 70s and they, in turn, brought in the 80's and MTV and Dynasty and no one on prime-time television back then would be caught dead wearing anything less than shoulder pads and attitude. The 1990s came and fashion went out and it still really hasn't returned if you ask me...but...toe rings and thumb rings are now back...and I've just got to ask everyone...

WHY??

And the thumb rings I've seen aren't particularly attractive...they typically look like those bird-banding rings they tag onto birds in the wild to track them...plus they look about as comfortable. They aren't ornate...and simply look completely out of place on most people...but I have to keep coming back to the Indian/Hindu culture as to why there's a resurgence with them. Certainly most people aren't archers who wear them (oh, yeah...I did some research here on thumb rings)...and as far as I can tell archers really aren't on the fashion forefront...so I'm going to blame it on Bollywood.

So, my theory is that back in the 60s - Hindu influence was everywhere...and these toe and thumb rings cropped up. Of course, most of the people who are wearing these today weren't even around back then to remember any of this - fortunately there are old people like me to remember. And recently, especially with the success of "Slumdog Millionaire", Bollywood films have taken everyone by storm...thus we're thrust back into the whole concept where everything old is new again...and, like those circular toe and thumb rings...they came around again.

But, unfortunately, most people can't pull this look off...and seriously...most thumb and toe rings I've seen on people...look like they couldn't pull them off either - at least not without some pain and soap or butter involved.