The Crippled Children Fund

The following is true, almost word for word… really…

Liz and I are running errands down town. We see the young man standing anchored in the busy lunch-time crowd. He is the perfect package of holiday cheer and guilt, wrapped in a pristine lime-green polo shirt. His smile and bright eyes radiate the confidence in his world view and his sense of purpose.  Knowing what he wants, we separate around him so he doesn’t know where to look... we are unsuccessful.

“Ladies!” he says “You look like wonderful caring people!”

“No!” I answer “I am an evil mastermind.”

“Oh…” he says, pretty sure I am joking but his heavy eastern European accented face betrays a little concern that he is missing the sarcasm hidden in my English.

“What are you selling?” Liz asks, straight to the point.

“I am not selling anything. I work for the Amazing Crippled Children Association (I changed the name because… well you’ll see). What would you say if I told you, you could solve their problems without changing anything about your lifestyle?” Liz and I both laugh loudly.

“I have already solved all the problems.” Liz says and I back her up –

“Yes, she is a genius. I am evil and together we plan world domination.”

“Haha…” he says, though it is a little forced, still wondering if his very perfect English is up to the gauntlet we are throwing down. “Well, for just a dollar a day you can make a huge difference in their lives.”

“How, how does our money help?

“What?” he says, the nerves starting to show.

“Where. Does.The.Money.Go?”

“Ahhh I’m glad you asked! 80% goes directly to the children! For someone to go into schools and talk about disability! Also some children get wheel chairs! It’s more help because they don’t get enough from the government!” At this Liz and I laugh so hard we are almost crying and his confusion is complete and his perfect selling smile disappears. He crinkles his brow and tries, “So do you want to help?”

“NO!” I say daring him to look me in the eye. “Well actually, I am disabled and she” I say indicating Liz, “has been dealing with health issues with her child for a long time…”

“And the government doesn’t help us already!” Liz adds.

“What’s wrong with you!? His accusing eye roams up and down my body. Clearly I am better off than the children he is desperate to help.

“Well I’m walking today but sometimes I can’t walk and must be carried everywhere like a true evil genius!”

 “So can we give you money and then you give us money?”

He is so confused all he can say is “So… so…Can I sign you up?” he shows us his iPad.

“No!” we both say and turn to leave throwing a pathetic apology over our shoulder. As we go, we realize what we have just done and wonder when we became the people who not only say no to charity but decide to torture the poor young man just doing his job. When did I begin to think that the pre-ghost-visited Scrooge was the hero? But then, as I continue to freak out about our confrontation, we realize we don’t want to pay someone to go into schools to talk about disability. We can’t imagine anything worse than a child who just wants to be normal, being wheeled into an auditorium where their differences are discussed on a grand scale. And then I realize Liz should be with me more because she helps me say what I actually mean. So if you need anyone to help you deal with the steady stream of charity donations seekers during the holiday season, apparently Liz and I are available for hire. We get to the point so you can decide if the charity is actually doing something useful. But we only come as a pair because if I come alone, I will cave and all of your money will be donated before a single word is spoken. Liz gives me super powers.

Facebook

Dear Facebook,
Stop tugging at me, like a small child in the candy aisle, with catchy lines that are supposed to be written by “friends”. Like: "this guy thought he knew what was coming but when he saw what was really going on, his mind was blown". Or "check out this list of crazy things, when I got to number eleven my jaw dropped”.  Or "woman is robbed but what she does next is priceless." Really REALLY really?????  It’s priceless? (Just to let you know, number six was way better than number eleven.)And the pièce de résistance: "here is a list of things to make you cry". Stop making me self conscious and doubt that I know who my best friend is or that if I just click I can see what I will look like when I am older AND who will still love me when I look like that. No matter how much you pry, you don’t know me!!!! I think… although you were right about which Muppet I would be if I was a Muppet … NO stop it! You have gotten me to "take this test" for the last time! From now on I will just assume I am a cross between a Disney princess, Jedi knight, Black Widow, Juliet, and Elmo and I will base all future life decisions on this assumption. 
Next, please stop sending my mom bogus political things about how the other political party is trying to end the world. ALL political parties are trying to end the world and take all the money - stop confusing her. Also please stop sending me tests that no one but me can solve (unless of course it is for real and you are recruiting for a super think-tank where we get to save the world… then fair enough and I’m in!)

 Now for the love of all the monkeys, when something terrible happens in the world and people react showing their grief and solidarity, for instance, changing their profile picture to honor the people who tragically lost their lives in France, don’t yell at us that we aren’t mad about all the other bad things happening in the world.  Don’t have a little temper tantrum claiming you are better than everyone because you care about other things that are also terrible. Just because people did not know about other terrible things, does not mean they wouldn’t care; clearly they do care because when they do know, they show their support. So how about, instead, you just calmly show your support to what everyone is sad about and then kindly share what you also support so we can be sad with you? But stop assuming you are a better person because you know additional terrible things happening in the world; that just proves you watched or read an obscure news story - not that you are a better person because of it. (It also just proves the media is biased which we all already knew...) It makes you seem mean and ignorant which is what you are accusing the rest of us of. Just stop it. Save your holier-than-thou rants for things that really matter, like stopping everyone from fighting each other. Clearly, in light of recent events, we should be finding what we have in common not what tears us apart. Right? And on top of that, showing empathy should not be a complicated or a divisive issue.  Also, if you haven’t noticed, something terrible is happening ALL THE TIME; should we not show our outrage and support when the next tragedy strikes because last week there was a tragedy in France? No. Even better, how about we use our powers-of-social-media-discussion to find a way to prevent the next tragedy from occurring until they all become a distant memory; but then, we would ALL have to stop yelling at each other! SO please Facebook let’s do our part - keep relevant discussions going BUT keep it civil.

However, you may continue to send me funny stories with babies, puppies or people falling down or dancing that I would not get to see otherwise. (You can send me video of people falling down while dancing if you have one... or babies or puppies falling down... or babies and puppies dancing...) You can send me minion memes but they better be good. None of that passive aggressive crap where the minion is really mad about a conversation you had with your friend last night; or you are using the minion to disown friends; or the angry religious fight hiding behind the cute minion. Minions can’t speak English, they are particularly fond of kitsch music, and they are good at cleaning, so they can’t possibly represent prejudices or have the final say on complicated religious beliefs. Also, I am not opposed to pictures of food if you can certify that it is organic, free range, environmentally responsible AND I can buy it.

Thank you for your time.

Barbeque Sauce

There is a thing. When life gets hard from injury or illness people bring meals. It’s not just in the bad times either. It can be exciting - like a new baby. However, no matter how happy it is, you still have no energy and are quite possibly crying all the time; so meals are appropriate in these situations as well. I have participated in this making-of-the-meals ceremony many times. I was even a little cocky about my ability to bring delicious food. Lately you have heard me talk about my friend Liz.  That’s because I love her and she is in most of my life. And, in my life, I get up to all sorts of things as you all know… Anyway I got a text with this picture late on Thursday night.

 

 

Her oldest daughter had severely broken her leg and was possibly going to have surgery. This is very sad news; I saw, stretching out in front of them, difficult nights sleeping and long processes just to get a shower. Now since Liz is one of “those" friends - the kind of friend who you can count on, I wanted to be the same for her and wanted to make a meal. Now as recently as six months ago, this would have been no problem: a trip to the supermarket, some scrounging of Campbell’s canned soup from the pantry and viola: a cheesy-comfort-food rice and chicken casserole would have been produced proudly on her doorstep. A very humble "It was no trouble"  would be my answer as they drooled and showered me with praise over my delicious food. Also, I would have made extra so I wouldn't have to cook again for multiple nights. However, about six months ago Al and I discovered several foods that make our stupid bodies worse. Gluten for him and chicken and cheese for me. As a side note here, what the heck is the problem with chicken and cheese? I mean why not protein and dairy products? Don't get me wrong, I’m not complaining that I can still drink milk but it seems odd that I can have milk but not a milk product, right?!  It seems like my body might be lying, like when a kid tells you they are allergic to broccoli and you think something is amiss but you are babysitting and accusing them of lying would be a bad idea. And why chicken and not beef which has always had more inflammatory properties “according to the research”. Anyway this is where it all goes wrong – the research. Recently I have acquired Netflix. (Quite the novelty in this country) and I have started watching documentaries - like, a lot. I am in research mode for my thesis and after watching one documentary, Netflix tells me I would also like “this one” and they are right; I do like that one too and so on. So I am learning heaps!  What I have learned so far is: The governments are completely corrupt; they are trying to kill us; in order to kill us they are poisoning our food, water and cleaning products. Also they want all the money; which is why they are trying to kill us. So this time, when I went to make a meal, I could not think of an easy meal that I could also make for us (they have dietary restrictions as well) that did not also contain poison. I stood in front of the fridge and pantry mentally searching for a go-to recipe. Nothing - just blank space in my head. Then I looked at our messy kitchen and decided I couldn’t clean it in order to cook in it because that would poison us , them and the planet.

 In the end I made barbeque sauce. Yep I mixed together some spices, ketchup and tomato sauce and stuck it in a Tupperware (BPA free Tupperware of course which apparently is not my entire plastics drawer - to my horror. Apparently I just assumed that once everyone knew BPA was dangerous they stopped putting it in plastic – according to the documentaries, NO!). Now this may not have been odd had I put the barbeque sauce in a little jar with a cute checkered cloth lid; but I put it in a Tupperware which then had a tumultuous journey to their house. So it had splashed up the sides and looked a mess.

        As I got in the car I thought to myself how far I had fallen. And I didn’t even manage to make safe food; there is enough sugar in the barbeque sauce to cover their requirements for a year. But I could not come empty handed. I presented her with my ghetto bbq sauce which she accepted gratefully, although, slightly confused. Then she prepared sandwiches for everyone for lunch and a delicious-nutritious-bone-broth-based beef stew for dinner. That had no allergens. So in case this blog is hard to follow: My friend had a difficult week – I made her barbeque sauce – sat at her house all day while she and her husband made me delicious coffee and nutritious food. Thanks a lot Netflix, now, with all the knowledge you have given me, I am a delinquent friend.

 

Puppy School

You get a puppy and people tell you it’s not the puppy that needs training it’s you… I am not convinced this is entirely true.  It seems like for the most part I am perfectly trained. I can go to the bathroom where I should - behind closed doors and into a receptacle that makes it all disappear. Often, not always, I find I am able to greet strangers without jumping on them. Next I feel like, and correct me if I am wrong, if I grab something that isn’t mine and start chewing on it and you say, “Hey that’s mine! Stop chewing on it!” I would stop. If I don’t (maybe I think you are being unreasonable or something and I should be allowed to chew on your stuff) I know for sure that if you are mad at me and try to take the thing I have not stopped chewing on, I would not start a new game where you have to chase me for an hour. Yet I have been told I am the one that needs training.

I have never had a dog so I am willing to admit that everyone else may be right but I am growing suspicious that there is a new conspiracy. Puppies. They came along so cute and the face!! And so much love!! And they are so excited about a teaspoon of peanut butter… or treat… or a stick… or a rock… heck a bit of dirt is AMAZING. So there we are, minding our own business, with our semi-functional lives and the puppy comes along and goes I AM SOOO CUTE! And we are like, you are so cute; and then, when we are all sleeping (sort of because the puppy loves us so much he wants to see us all night) the puppies play subliminal messages that say yooouuu neeeeed trrraaiinniinng… noootttt meeeeee. And we wake up and book “puppy school”.

Now this seems to be a misnomer because I have spent a good deal of my adult life in what we traditionally call a “school”; there is order, assignments and I rarely get any treats. However puppy “school” seems to be an entirely different place. Our new puppy, Sir Percival Bryan Jones, has taken us to puppy school. Now we were told it is a bit difficult for the puppies the first day; they can be quite afraid and tend to hide between their “master’s” legs. I put quotation marks around master because who are we kidding… really? So our new puppy arrives and runs up to the teacher to say hello which means jumping on her and nipping at her pants. Then he spends the next ten minutes, while all the other normal shy puppies arrive, barking and trying to get off his leash to go meet them. Now the other puppies are pretty sure their owners have brought them to the horrible dog place with tiny scary puppies. Then I spend the next five minutes hoping the other people don’t know I came in with this particular puppy by hiding my face in my hands. Thinking if I can’t see them then they can’t see me. Later, it occurs to me if I had convinced them I did not come with Sir Percival they must have been wondering why someone with no puppy came to puppy school. Maybe they thought I was taking it all very seriously and everyone, even those with no puppies, need training. Because clearly we have all been brainwashed. Anyway, all my trying to blend into the background was for naught because they had us sitting on tiny benches like ones for small kittens and my stupid body is in rare stupidity form at the moment; so every time I had to get up or down, Al had to try and control our “enthusiastic” (teacher’s word) puppy and lift me up and down off the hobbit bench until finally they offered me a chair. I kept saying I was fine but apparently I’m not as convincing as I used to be. Or perhaps it was because I was saying I was fine with my face in Al’s chest because I had toppled forward after he helped me up. So it sounded more like mmm firn. Which, as we all know, means please bring me a chair in martyr language.  So now I will be known as the demanding person who brings her own servant to lift her off things with the “enthusiastic” dog.  

           Otherwise what we learned at puppy school (and this is where the conspiracy really starts to take shape) is that treats are for all things. They get treats when they sit and when they lie down. Now this in-and-of-itself should be enough evidence of a conspiracy because really, sitting and lying down are so much of a reward already. So you would have to have a pretty significant network of conspirators and years of planning to achieve this coup. I mean, if I could swing it, every time I sit or lie down I would have little cookies or chocolates hand fed to me. This clearly is an excellent start to a conspiratorial plan. But it got worse and this is where it all was confirmed - a conspiracy in world domination proportions. As they were playing, we had to walk up to the puppies, grab their collar, give them a treat and then let them go play again “immediately” (teacher’s word). So now they were getting food delivered while playing. We humans have things like this but usually we don’t make the delivery people pay for it as well as bring it. In the end though we did learn a little about our puppy; it seems he is the perfect sibling for Amelia. He had to make sure every puppy knew that this place was not puppy school as advertised but a secret puppy Disney Land and he was not satisfied until EVERY puppy had experienced the full epicness of this utopia. There was a very scared and shy puppy that would have been quite happy hiding the entire class. We were told to please not approach her as she had a very bad start to life and approaching her might just send her over the edge of insanity. Percy, pretending not to understand English (as he does often with words like “no”), decided this was a stupid rule and despite terrible starts in life (he himself was rescued from a dumpster at one week old) everything should be fun from now on and he managed to get even her to play. Every once in a while, (between knocking over all the other puppies; it was like his own personal bowling alley) he would sneak into her hiding place and coax her out. Once that job was done and it was time to go, we walked to our car and our little guy planted his butt firmly on the ground refusing to get in the car. They did not teach us what to do with this scenario and we had no treats because they were supplied by the school. Plus we understood his dilemma: he didn't know if he was ever going to return to this Shangri La and staying seemed way better than leaving. So Amelia and I stood guard so the other students (people and puppies) could not see us pleading with our tiny lump of fur to get in the car. In the end we remembered we were bigger than him and Al quickly scooped him up and placed him in the car.

So what did we learn in our first day of puppy school? We weren’t giving him enough treats. So now he gets more treats everyday as we try and coax him into believing we are the masters here. Treats for sitting; treats for coming inside; treats for getting in the crate for a nap; treats for lying on the couch. They have us all fooled I’m telling you. But I must say if you have this unbridled power to control the species at the top of the food chain and you decide to use these powers to get more cuddles, yummy treats, and eventual championship title holders for man’s best friend you can hardly be considered evil. In fact we could all learn something from these guys. Yes I am talking specifically to you cats and corrupt corporations (I see no distinctions between the two species). Why must you always use your powers for evil? What is your problem exactly? 

Here are some photos they are blurry because Percy was moving at hypersonic speed and Amelia was trying to take photos on the sly.

You can see here: Percy barking and straining on the collar while all other puppies sit patiently waiting for orders

 

Anniversary Again...

My husband and I have been married 18 years this September. The big question is: how do we make it work? I'm not sure any of you asked how we make it work but when you have been married a long time it seems like something you get to comment on; like people who are over 90 get to just make general wise comments about the world and we all have to listen. And usually we all roll our eyes at them but then later when you get in your car you are like "Hey that was really wise!" Not that I am wise about marriage but this is quite an achievement; in Hollywood years that’s like 150. (Apparently in Hollywood years you also achieve immortality; which seems obvious; some of those people have been around a long time… also sometimes I think they just get more plastic surgery and come back as the next big thing. It explains why friends of mine have such a hard time breaking into the business… AND it explains why they have all these look-a-like things online!) So what's our secret? Well we certainly made it as difficult as possible. I was 18 when we got married and, as if this weren’t enough, we were from different corners of the Globe. I an American and he a Kiwi (New Zealander – but not a hobbit… I think… I’m not sure because I have been told that hobbits are sneaky and he can be very sneaky... also he has very strange feet...). This may not seem like a big deal after all they are both English speaking countries but it is a big deal. For one thing they are very far apart so family is not close at hand when you need a babysitter, or a mediator, or someone to agree your spouse is crazy. And for another thing, despite the fact we both speak English, we are not always saying the same thing. There are the obvious ones like boot for trunk and rubber for eraser (I have had to meticulously train our daughter not to mix these up in the States but it happens and people often do a double take when she begs me to buy her a rubber in the supermarket). But these are easily dismissed. It really gets tricky when he says things like “Happy as Larry…” and I accuse him of making up a simile. There is no such thing as Happy as Larry. Who is Larry and how do we know how happy he is? Seems like a conspiracy where Larry sits around drawing attention to all the happy people before he strikes with the plague! Or maybe a conspiracy where the Larry's got together and said "Hey we aren't winning at enough things. Maybe we could win at being happy?!" But they should know it is very hard to win at being happy - it can't be measured - I've tried. Also I should state for the record that I have no problem with making up similes; in fact making up similes makes me smart as Hildegard. But you can’t just make up similes and then say everyone knows that simile. This just makes everyone feel stupid or as confused as a slushy machine at the gym... Also it's like you are winning at something you should not be winning at - you know, cheating? You should really establish outright whether or not you are sure you have made up a simile or if you stole it, also, because of plagiarism!

 You would think over the years that we have gotten better at communicating through our language barrier. However, a couple days ago, I was trying to book tickets to the States. They are on sale so I called him at work to look at dates. He couldn’t talk right then so I kept searching until his lunch break rolled around; I called his cell, no answer; five minutes later no answer. When he finally calls me back he said he had to get a haircut. “Had to.” There was no other time this week or next that he could of done it - just right then today. He didn’t have an appointment or anything he just HAD TO walk across to the barber and get his hair buzz cut. I said, "that is ridiculous because I also had things I needed to get done today but instead I am trying to book tickets" and then he said he had to go and there was nothing he could do and then hung up. I nearly broke my hand slamming the phone down on the counter. (Surprisingly, the phone was fine and the counter is fine too… even more surprising was the amount of times I slammed it and it still survived. It was good though because I may have tried to throw it in his face when he walked in the door. I was planning a very elaborate ambush including the phone and haircutting scissors so this was  much less likely to end in jail time for me). The tickets still aren’t purchased. I am still weighing up jail time. So, in order to overcome these technical issues, stay married  and avoid afore mentioned jail time, certain rules must be established and adhered to at all times:

1.      You might have to bend on deal breakers – I often hear from single-dating types that when they are dating and getting serious there are certain “Deal breakers” for instance “I must have dogs.” Or “I must have dogs that dance.” Or “I must be able to wear tap shoes to the mall…” (you know, because they make a cool clicking sound on the polished shiny floors) Whatever it is, you get the picture. Although, I’m sure most people’s deal breakers don’t consist entirely of dancing requirements…The problem is deal breakers often come up after you have been married for a while. Usually because it didn’t occur to you to include them in a list of deal breakers… Like I didn't know that I had to mention before we got married that you are not allowed to admire people that speak derogatorily (I thought I made up that word but apparently not!) towards women. Let me explain. Recently while playing a game invented by our daughter we had to guess Alan’s top five most admired people. There were the usual: Nelson Mandela, various famous rugby players and then he says - Kanye West. The important thing to remember here is, sometimes when you have been married for this long you feel like your head might explode but you should wait because you also don’t want to waste a good head exploding on something you just misunderstood. This was one of those moments. I laughed giving him a chance to say “Only joking” but he was serious and my head nearly exploded. My problem was in the question. It was, if you recall, “Most admired”. This particular misogynistic-music writer could have been in any other category: most interesting; most influential; most likely to name his child after a map direction… Any of these would have been fine - a lively discussion might have ensued… but most admired? Someone you look up to? No.  He tried miserably and unsuccessfully to defend his choice, citing Kanye’s work ethic and how much he has done for African American people and civil rights. None of this, however, was enough to put the logical bits of my brain back into place. My point was, you can’t fight for one disenfranchised group while simultaneously setting women’s liberation back to the dark ages when we were used for sex and berry gathering. I tried to look up some lyrics for proof and there were so many to choose from and all of them were so bad I could not print them here.  We did not agree to disagree and now he listens to his rap music when I can’t see and I pretend he doesn’t even know who Kanye West is. Thus the deal breaker is put under the bed in a nice white box. Also we didn’t have to file for divorce citing irreconcilable directions where one is heading West and the other heading in normal equality directions.

2.      Only one person is allowed to be psychotic at a time. Now this usually works because one person tends to be a little more psychotic than the other. This is me. I generally run at a high level of adrenaline and cortisol for most of my day - stressing out over gas prices and whether ;or not we are causing irreparable damage to our daughter because she is an only child; or last night’s debacle - whether the wind would blow the grill into the bedroom door. Now this is normally fine (except for the fact that I am daily shortening my life expectancy because I can’t calm down about a B I got last semester… on one paper… which was a mistake which the teacher let me fix… I got an A- in the class just to be clear… the Master’s level class just to be clearer) However, this level of insanity requires a calm counterpoint to say, “Hey, you are freaking out about nothing… calm down.” If this counterpoint begins to lose his sense of laid-back-everything-will-be-fine attitude - puppies are purchased. Just before my daughter’s birthday, I decided that we were ruining her life because she does not have a sibling. So I decided RIGHT NOW it is time for a puppy! At first he remained calm just as he was supposed to do. And then, suddenly, I had convinced him and now we have a puppy keeping us up all night, peeing everywhere, in a rental, in trouble with our landlord and I am crying all the time because... who knows why I am crying - because puppies are what you think about when you are sad to make you happy. So why should looking at a puppy make me cry? And now Al is confused because I convinced him to have a puppy and now I am crying. I said, “what was supposed to happen was, I would say we should get a puppy, panic, dance around, panic more and you are supposed to say ‘grrr I don’t think now is a good time’ and I pout and say,  you don’t get to make the decisions around here! And I am clearly right because of these well thought out and wise 6 - 8 reasons!” and then you say ‘can we talk about this later?’ which we never do and then I relent but blame you. Clearly!” To which he responded as the puppy spun in circles at our feet trying to bite our shoes, “Hmm I’m not sure what happened. I think I went a little nuts too!” To which I said “What?? You are the stable one! It’s your claim to fame in this marriage. It’s what you do! It’s your job.”  So now we have a puppy and our child won’t grow up crazy and alone but we have agreed - no more psychotic episodes at the same time.

There seems like there are more rules that help keep us married, but I still can’t see through the psychotic rage at the barber shop thing. Who suddenly-right-now-no-appointment has to have his hair cut? It really doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t had my hair cut for over a year and I’m ok. I will survive. This is a "Happy as Larry" thing isn’t it?

Noona's Visit

 

So Noona came to visit... here are some highlights of the trip so far:

This is how we make her ride around:

 

 

Why go out for tea when we make better ones at home?

 

Only save yourself from the freak wave - Yelling "OH NO!!!"- leaving  Noona to fend for herself:

 

If Amelia needs milk tops for school tell Noona!

 

 

This however does not explain why she is taking the tabs off Pepsi cans to take home (internationally... on a plane... through customs...)for Breast Cancer Research SOLIDARITY!

The Sphynx Cat

So as you know, I turned in my final essay for my second Masters class. And as you know, from this post  or this post there was a significant amount of stress. Apparently the way my body and mind handle stress is sort of like being possessed. Stress just keeps circulating until it finds something to focus on. While I am in school or working, it possesses things like essays or stupid bosses. When I get a moment when I don’t have a deadline, it starts worrying that I will exorcise it so it tries to appear useful. (You may be getting a bit confused at this point, I sure am. I think I used up all of my ability to explain myself on my final essay… It may or may not be useful for you to continue reading. I also used up all of my ability to sort relevance on my last essay. I am sure, at some point, I will make sense and hopefully make you laugh if you hang in there. If you are bored though, call me for coffee because I probably haven’t had time to catch up with you and now I do. Although, you should know, I have lost all ability to filter my words; so whatever I am thinking just flies out of my mouth… depending on who you are this could be great fun! Back to the stress-demon-possession metaphor that is clearly not working.) For example, the day after I finished my final essay, I awakened at three am in a panic because I had left some clothes at Liz’s house. At first it was just because they have a small house and they are trying to use their garage to run a business. So I was freaking out that we had made their life difficult by not taking the clothes. But then, because they are outside, (sort of not really) I suddenly thought they would all go moldy. This is strange for several reasons. First, because I normally care very little for material possessions. (Not because I am some sort of oh-aren’t-we-cool-we-don’t-need-stuff people but mainly because I hate dusting, so most of our stuff is in our garage.) And second because clothes don’t just go moldy.

Then as if the two thoughts were connected, my stress decided that all of the other soccer moms were having a secret meeting in which they discuss how loud I am when cheering at soccer games and also that I am too hard on Amelia when she makes a bad play. They were meeting in a church basement with dim lighting and coffee brewing in one of those industrial size silver thingys with the spout. There were, of course, no donuts because they are all better than me at eating well too. Probably perfecting the paleo diet… They were discussing what a terrible mother I am and were planning their next meeting where they would call me in for an intervention. (If they do call me, I am going to insist that my I-am-a-mean-mom-intervention has donuts. First because I love donuts and second because then they will all fail at their paleo diets and I can secretly laugh at them. And it will give me a chance to say, “well I may be a bad mom but you all just failed at health”. Although, now that I think of it, it could backfire because I would say this with donut in my mouth so then I am failing at health AND mother things… damn the loop holes in diabolical plans!!!)

Now I must say, that this was not some half-asleep thing; this was eyes open, staring into the void, cold (because it is freezing here, by freezing, I mean - the cold chases you like a serial killer obsessed. It is everywhere you go even inside…) terror.  I thought about a way I could text every soccer mom and apologize but I couldn’t work out what exactly to apologize for… Also because I have no filtering system at the moment I may accuse them of failing their paleo diet… so the apology would have gone: “Hey all soccer moms before you host a intervention without donuts for me, you should know that I am sorry for being a bad mom, also you should know you all are annoying. Stop being better at everything, this is annoying. And eat a damn donut!”

Therefore, in lieu of this, poor Liz got the brunt of it when I asked her to go “check on the clothes”. Ever my patient friend, she reassured me that the clothes were fine but the basket was broken. (The basket arrived at her house broken of course because I am failing at even transporting clothes. Also I am failing at throwing away broken things because I always think at some point I will be magically good at fixing things but I never am.) It was as I was texting, that I realized how irrational I had become and thought back to my night of moldy-church-meeting terror.

What had woken me in the first place was a nightmare about a Sphynx cat. This was bad enough because these cats scare me even when I am wide awake and they are cuddling a teddy bear while sleeping. You never know what they could be planning for that poor innocent teddy bear. I am pretty sure sphynx cats in particular (because really it could be all cats but shpynx cats would be in charge) are always planning world domination. Starting with, putting me in a prison run by cats. It would be called Feline Dictatorship Rehabilitation Prison for Women. But this Sphynx cat was sort of pink and gray and looked like it had survived the Holocaust. I am not exaggerating or shamelessly using the holocaust here.  I have spent the last six weeks thinking, reading and writing about the Holocaust so now cats from my dreams have succumbed. Anyway, the Auschwitz cat had been sleeping inside one of my favorite (of course) green hoodies which was drying on the laundry line. It suddenly emerged like my zipped up hoodie was giving birth to a half-dead Sphynx cat. At one point, it looked like it was planning on wearing my hoodie, all zipped up and hood over its head like a gangster then it popped out and looked evilly at me as it walked past. (Not like, “Gee,  please help me nice lady! I’m hungry!” but like “Yeah, I’m a bad ass and even though I’m starving, I could destroy you.”)  This is what woke me up. The laundry component explains the worry about moldy clothes but I’m not sure about the soccer moms meeting in the church basement. In the end I guess I can blame my stress acting like a demon that possesses things. But then again, this could be because I watched a movie on TV to unwind. I thought it would be good because Denzel Washington plays a cop. I thought it was odd that I hadn’t seen it, as it was pretty old, as I usually see all the movies where Denzel plays a cop; or saves the day; or whatever. Turns out, I had probably decided not to see the movie when it was first released  because it was not a detective movie at all; it was a demon terrorizing New York movie in which Denzel (spoiler alert! although the movie is from 1998 so you all probably saw it already or if you didn’t you shouldn’t) DIES. Because he is trying to kill the Demon inside himself AND it doesn’t even work because the demon just possesses a cat… Now if I had seen the movie before the cat dream, we could be getting somewhere; unfortunately the movie only explains why I feel like my stress is possessing things. Not why I feel the need to obsess over clothing or soccer moms suddenly going to church because of my bad parenting.

I Would Like to Thank The Academy, Magical Fairies, and Friends who Help with Dead Birds

The final week for my Masters class arrived. I made it through! And there are a few people I wish to thank. First, I would like to thank the University for making sure that the semester was only 15 weeks.  One more week and I would have flown to Costa Rica to set up a stall selling bags. (I can’t make bags or anything but I seem to have accumulated enough. And if I run out, I figure I can always bedazzle the one million grocery bags that live under our sink. Who wouldn’t want a bedazzled grocery bag? I wouldn’t sell them for much; just enough so I could live in a tent on the beach and shower in a real shower… like at the hotel down the beach or something… I realize this seems overly thought out. This is because there were many moments that I thought this may be my only option. And even though I should have used the time I wasted on this to improve my essay, it is important to have a well thought out back-up plan.)

         Next, I would like to thank my professor for trying to teach me even though I never had any idea what she was saying. Third, I would like to thank a different professor for introducing me to the magical study room. I must be very cryptic here, because the room is not just for me; so if a fellow student reads this and takes it for themselves, the magic will be sucked out of it - never to return. So don’t expect very much description of the room. I realize description is important (because I learned this in my undergraduate courses) but not when a loss of magic will ensue. One day, a meeting with my professor about my essay (this is in addition to the meeting that inspired this post) did not go well. Basically, she read the short portion that I thought was my best work and said, “This is really good, you should just rewrite it all…” So, I was wondering if I should head home or hunker down in the library. I wondered this out loud (as I have been extremely prone to do over the last six weeks). A different professor said, “Here, how about you work in this room.” Then she produced a magical key and I entered the Magical Fairy Study Room. I logged on to the provided computer and began working. It was good but then the magic started. First, it had a window so  I could look out over other graduate students; I couldn’t really hear but they started doing some sort of acrobatics. Like my own private show! Then (and this is the most magical part) professors came and checked on my progress. If I said it was not going well, they offered suggestions like, “Subjects should always go at the front of your sentence” and “Yes, that is how you spell anti-Semitism” and “No, that paragraph does not make you sound like an anti-Semite." If they didn’t offer advice on my essay, they just stood there telling me how amazing I was and if I kept going (and didn’t move to Costa Rica) I would make it. It was a magical room; it even had a dictionary of literary terms so I could look up words my actual professor had said in our meeting like: “naratee” and “ecumenical” which really I should have known because she said this is the system of beliefs I seem to hold… Not naratee, which is just a character, but ecumenical. (Although by the time I looked it up, it was too late to tell her I do not subscribe to many ecumenical beliefs. But on second thought, it was probably for the best because it was 100% likely that I would have started raving about religion, standing to my feet in her small office, raging against the establishment and all the ways it pisses me off. Being that she is not ecumenical, this would have been a waste of BOTH of our time…) Also, (back to the magical room) the above mentioned postgraduate acrobats (one in particular, who I don’t have permission to mention here, but you know who you are) would suddenly show up and valiantly fight against the computer dragon (computer dragons are real in magical rooms) that kept messing with my format and Bibliography. So thanks to them as well. Anyway, it was magic and I am pretty sure it sprinkled magic dust on my essay too.

          Next, I would like to thank associated friends who I ignored, or did not ignore but stayed only long enough for them to caffeinate me while I complained about how this essay was trying to kill me. Or those I did not ignore, but showed up a half an hour late for most interactions - barely apologizing because I hadn’t even managed to shower; so getting there a half-hour late seemed like I had achieved something amazing. Also sometimes it wasn’t even my fault. One time, I was only running five minutes late, when I raced out to my car only to see a bit of bird fluff on the ground. I recoiled, afraid the cat had become a homicidal maniac and then realized the rest of the bird was sticking out of the grill of my car. I was tempted to leave it. However, it was a very cold day and I planned on using the heater on full blast and not knowing (or even caring to know) how cars work, I assumed I would be breathing in dead bird for 40 minutes of my drive. So I summoned my inner warrior goddess and found a stick. Thinking I could just scoop it out, I stuck the stick in behind the pile of feathers (and one yellow leg dangling in a very sad, dead way) and pulled. It squished a little, I almost threw up, and it did not budge. I tried again. Squish, gag, nothing. Then I realized its wing was caught so I tried to push that down. Poke, gag, poke, gag. Pull, squish, gag - nothing. I was now a half an hour late. I called Al at work, who was “busy”. (I do not believe he was busy but because I had so frantically asked for him, he could hear it and probably said to say he was “busy”.) So, as punishment, I made his colleague tell me if I could drive with a dead bird in my grill. (Which come to think of it, is punishing her not him... dang it.) Once she could understand the words I was squealing and sort of crying, (not really… it was a sort of moan that was helping me keep the vomit down…) she said it was fine. She also seemed to know enough things about cars that I could trust her. She said things like “radiator” which I know is in a car, I just have no idea what it does and possibly something about “intake” but I can’t be sure.  So off I drove. I tried not to use the heater (because Al's colleague had thought I was worried about the car, not the breathing in of bird fluff so she didn't say if it was bad to turn on the heater) but my hands were starting to go numb so I turned it on low. All I could think of was the little bits of dead bird fluff filling my lungs. So I tried to breathe with my head turned sideways and cough every few breaths or so. I arrived to meet my two friends thirty five minutes late now and told them my story. They promised to rescue me before I went to hot Yoga and after picking up some gloves from the science department at the university. Unfortunately, because I was late, we had to head straight to the car with no gloves and my friend who has already found her inner warrior got down on her knees and began her fight with the bird. All the while I was gagging.  And apologizing because my gagging was impeding her ability to picture herself on a lovely island somewhere or whatever she was doing to avoid throwing up too. Eventually the bird was freed. The evidence is below. So, thank you friends who rescue you from dead birds! I am sure I have forgotten someone. You know who you are. Thanks again! (As I read this back, for editing purposes which I rock at now (sort of), I am aware that my level of excitement, poor syntax, and Academy-Award-style of thanks may indicate that I have finished my master’s degree. This is untrue; it was just one class. But it felt like completing a Masters… this does not bode well since I haven’t even started my thesis…)

Glasses Vortex from Hell and Friends who Rescue You

So my glasses are broken. At some point they were stepped on; or sat on; or slammed in a door (probably all of the above)anyway they are askew. They have been misshapen for a while but now I am getting a callous on my nose where the metal rubs against it. The callous is good because before there was a callous, it was just hurting - now it is scar tissue, which feels no pain! Also one side is completely broken but because they are stylish-two-over-the-ear-thingys, I can still wear them and since glasses cost so much, I have been making them work. However, there was a coupon for an eye exam. Liz found it because Liz takes care of me even though she shouldn’t, because she has enough things and people to take care of. She knows how long I wear glasses that scratch my nose until I lose feeling and she buys my daughter clothes because I hate shopping. She also makes sure I eat yummy food and helps me with crazy harebrained ideas like “Let’s cater!!!” (This is not a comprehensive list - You know how cool you are Liz!) So off I went. What Liz doesn’t know (because last time I got glasses I was in the States) was that getting me to the eye appointment is the easy part. After that, I end up in the glasses vortex from hell.  (For those of you who do know me, glasses shopping is worse than me going shoe shopping… For those of you who have been shoe shopping with me - I'm sorry.  For those of you who have not been shoe shopping with me, it is like being trapped - on an airplane - where they are playing a skipping record over the intercom for four hours… I do realize how bad I am in a shoe store but I can’t seem to get any better… perhaps because I don’t practice because I HATE SHOPPING but I love shoes. It is a catastrophic combo really...) So Liz is at home, taking care of her family when her phone starts going beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep and instead of disowning me, we had a text conversation that went like:

 

 

Thanks Liz you have just won the Nobel Peace Prize for patience and friendship. In the end, I left and went to the movies. I snuck in a salad. I asked the lady at the ticket counter if it would be ok.. she said, "no"... I told her I would keep it in my bag... I didn't. I ate it and it was delicious and the movie was great but I still don't have any glasses that aren't trying to fall off my face...

Literary Rhetoric and The Guy with the Flags

Everyone needs an airport ground crew and air plane staff in their lives. (“Air plane staff” is not right… What do you call the group of people who work on a plane? Don’t answer that because I know there is an answer but I have been reading entire books on Irony and books like “The Act of Reading” which actually deconstructs what we do when we read… a whole book! Like, you know when you sit down to read and you string the words together… A whole book is written about that. So my brain can literally take in no new information. Even if you told me as a favor, I am so angry at the book about reading and the B+’s I am still getting despite all the reading, I would be rude about it. Just the other day I was rude to one of my best friends. It is indiscriminate though; I also decided it was fine to insult all redheads as well. I guess for a moment I thought it was okay because I live with two redheads. But this is like producing misogynistic music and saying it’s okay because you know a woman. It still doesn’t make sense though, because normally I try not to insult anybody… I blame the reading book. Any text that puts so much effort into making your mind feel like scrambled eggs should be banned, or at least sit unread on your shelf, making you look smart. Anyway, I severely digress.)

          Back to the airline people: everybody needs them but there would have to be lots of them because they have to be specific to each person’s needs, on a case by case basis. For instance, I would specifically need people who fly me where I want to go and people to bring me tiny food whenever I want it. You may be thinking, I just want to be rich… and you would be right but my needs are very specific. I need to see my family whenever I want to. But also my metabolism runs roughly at the pace of an alarm clock: slowly ticking over one minute at a time… reliable enough to keep my heart beating but if I eat anything bigger than tiny prepackaged plastic food it freaks out and gains twenty pounds. It’s afraid I will soon be participating in a famine. However, what I really need is people driving my stuff around in tiny little cars with miniature little trailers behind them. You know the one’s with the cool spinny wheels so they can get in and out of tight spots. (It would be cool if they could also get you out of a metaphorical tight spot as well… I find myself in these way too often and it would be nice if they could drive you out of these too. But it would be hard to drive someone out of a metaphor... maybe in the future when we finally have flying cars.) Because I live forty minutes from the town where I spend the majority of my time, I have to take all of the things I may or may not need with me. Which is fine, until late one night in the library, I meet a lovely tiny lady in the elevator. We have a friendly impromptu conversation about how I am failing at life. (I am doing this everywhere so the conversation is not unique but the stranger partaking in it is… normally people just cut me off after the third time I beg them to understand how horrible it is that I am getting B’s in my Master’s class.) She is lovely but when she exits she says “oh, it’s raining…” and tries to make her small body smaller against the wind and rain. I offer her a ride but then must clear a space for her by moving the sixteen books (including the stupid book about reading) off the front seat, the cooler with bottled water (in case tap water is attempting to kill me… this is real - don’t judge me) the yoga mat, see this post. The pre-yoga clothes, the soaking wet post-yoga towel, the computer, the computer cord… Meanwhile, she says, “I could just sit in the back…” not realizing the back is covered in seven winter coats (yes, there are only three people in my family but I get cold! Not like “oh I’m a bit chilly…” it’s more like: “Oh my body uses energy to produce cold instead of heat …” Like a fridge; so they need one each and I may need to borrow their back up coat at any moment.)

This is why I want that guy in his tiny spinny car. He could follow me around and help me carry things.

          If I can’t have the guy in the tiny car, I at least need one of those guys with the flags that help the pilots park the plane. (Again I am sure they have a title but I have done too much research in the last two weeks and I am tired of finding meanings and spelling of words I should know - but don’t - IT MAKES ME FEEL STUPID!) Anyway, I want one of those guys because, over the last few weeks, Alan and I have had way too many “brilliant ideas” that needed to be waved off with a big X or even two flags shooing us to the left or right.

          First, Alan decided we should buy a house. These may seem like normal words to all of you reading it. They may even seem like they are in the right order. But ever since we owned a downtown apartment and went bankrupt and subsequently fled the country, (if a law enforcement agent reads this, we didn’t really flee the country, treat this as metaphor you literalist bastard - sorry that anger may be misdirected from the book about reading…), we are completely scared of houses. Now when we look at houses online we say, OOHH and AHHH appropriately and then we are mad at each other for at least two weeks, fighting over things like. “You are trying to torture me by telling me the electric blanket is on and then making me get into a cold bed.” (Remember, I feel like I live in a fridge most of the time.) Or this may just be me… but Alan is worse. He just sits in his room in the dark listening to rap music for two weeks and I accuse him of torturing me from the hallway. This is what happens to our psyche when we think about owing the bank money.

          But this time we didn’t get depressed right away. Which was strange. So he went to an actual bank to try and figure out what all the money things actually meant. (Not the bank we would use but another bank because I convinced him to go get all of our stupid questions out of the way before we went and saw the people we were going to actually ask for a loan. He said this was unnecessary and that we could just ask the loan people. But I told him they would laugh at us and then not give us a loan. I won this argument… with him rolling his eyes and sighing.) So, while I spent endless hours on the phone and doing math calculation that I am not good at, Alan went and asked questions which he is not good at. He asked things like, “can we have more money so we can make the house look like we want it to look?” As I clearly predicted she laughed at him and said, “No. Why don’t you just buy a house that looks the way you want it to look?” Then we went and saw the house again and realized it might fall down soon. Since we can’t even fix the safety chain on our door (please don’t see this as an invitation to rob us, think of it as metaphor) we thought we would be unqualified to fix a house that had fallen down. In this case, I needed the guy with the flags to make a big X. Perhaps he could live close by, in a little apartment. Then, when Al comes home and says we should buy this cute little house, flag guy could run in, blow a whistle and make an X with the flags. He wouldn’t even have to explain why he came bursting into our house; we would just know that he was there for our own good.

          Next, I decided I needed a job. Because of all the above mentioned reasons, I want money. Now you would think the people in my life would have said, “Hey, you just started walking again maybe you should hold off on the job thing for a while…” and by “people” I mean Alan. You should definitely blame him. He encouraged me to get the job and even talked to the manager for me. (Secretly, you should not blame him because I played the “I miss my family card” and I should be very careful when I use it because I get whatever I want when I play that card). I sold myself in the interview because I am (or was) a rock star nurse. And of course they hired me. So what do you think happened? Yep, four hours into my shift, I could not walk and the nurse orientating me kept saying “Are you tired?” as she stopped and waited for me while I took tiny tiny steps to disguise the limp. I laughed, “HAHA! Yes I am tired. Aren’t I pathetic?” Still hoping that the pain I was in was a fluke and I could keep the job. Also I did not want to tell her what was actually wrong. (Because I hate telling people what is wrong with me.) When I arrived home, Alan had to lift me out of the car. He said, “You have to quit this job.” I burst into tears and accused him of trying to kill me again. In this case, I needed the guy with the flags waving me to the right where I wait and see if I get a tutoring job next semester. A job where I sit and talk to people and secretly get the undergraduates to help me with the words in my Master’s classes that I don’t understand.  Please for the love of all of the monkeys will someone explain paleoprofitering!

          Also you should all know I did catering again… the day before a five thousand word essay was due… where IS that guy with the flags? Although, to be fair, I was not at home when I agreed to cater so that would mean I need the guy with the flags to follow me everywhere. It could be weird but I think incredibly helpful. Because, he could stop me from saying yes to catering the day before a huge essay is due but he could also stand just in my peripheral view and wave me off if I start insulting people or asking questions I should not. Like when I asked my professor if I should include some quotes from Wolfgang Iser’s book “The Act of Reading”.

Are we Bluffing or Paleoprofitiering?

You know how, when you are a kid, all job possibilities are open to you? You fight with your friends over who is shopping and who is the shop keeper? And then later, you finally work in retail and before long the ding on the cash register makes you want to poke your eyes out? And then you get older and you rule out things like cowboy because riding on a horse all day seems glamorous but is really about lots of poop, mud and infrequent showering. Or astronaut, not because you are not smart enough (although, secretly, you have your doubts) but because the void of space seems claustrophobic from the isolation it brings. Plus astronauts in the movies are always floating away screaming into the abyss or having their face sucked out of their helmet. So you start narrowing your career opportunities to jobs where your feet stay on the ground and pressurized-oxygenated helmets are not required. Some would call this old age, I prefer maturity.

I seem to have gone through some sort of regression (I prefer this term to mid-life crisis) lately, thinking the whole world is still full of opportunities for me and I embarked on getting my Masters in English. Having received two Bachelor’s degrees, I thought it was about time to prove my brains and move up the intellectual food chain. At first, things seemed to be going well. I got an A- on my first assignment. Then I got the dreaded B (for me this is panic time) and of course I went running (yes, literally running) down the hall, waving the essay in my hand at the teacher. “What did I DO?” I asked. She had stated beside the grade that I had failed to include an annotated bibliography. This confused me because she wrote this on the page that I had titled “Bibliography”. She graciously stopped mid step (during a break in class) to explain annotated meant actually annotated. I needed a summary of my sources under each source. Whoops. It turns out most of my English degree was earned by taking Creative Writing and Screen And Media classes so I assumed ‘annotated’ was a metaphor. Or a fancy way of saying list…

Next, I had to do a presentation on Primo Levi’s If This Is A Man. Harrowing reading but plenty of things to ponder and discuss. My copy of the book looks like a kindergarten craft project, with all the little pink Post-Its flagging out the side. I had my outline and had started putting together my Power Point, but then I thought I’d better make an appointment to see the teacher, to make sure that “presentation” wasn’t just a fancy way of saying lecture…

I entered her office and laid out for her the main points in my presentation. Silence filled the room. She rubbed over her eyes the weary hand of a person who spends her days trying to pass on knowledge to deadpan faces and then proceeded to tell me gently and with excellent teaching skills where I had gone utterly wrong. This would have been great, seeing as I still had time (about an hour between soccer and laundry and dinner and “Mom look at this mine craft thing!”) to work on it before class but the professor began to speak another language. Well I am pretty sure it was English it was just all the words in the dictionary I had never heard of. There were entire sentences where I didn’t recognize a single word she was saying (I am pretty sure she didn’t even use a, an, or the). At first I just sat there staring but kept my face shaped in an “I’m listening and pondering” look (you know: crinkled forehead, leaning forward in my chair, chin on hand, finger tapping lips.) Then I thought, this is probably really important. So I began frantically scribbling these foreign words, spelling them based on how they sounded. Then our time was up. She wished me good luck and sent me on my way. The problem became evident when the only word I could find on Google was pedagogical; which I had managed a close enough spelling that Google worked it out for me. Unfortunately, none of the other words were recognized so I had to do my presentation without considering these important points; points such as Paranthenanialism,  prescriptionalinasetion, or irony which I knew how to spell but I had trouble defining because I really do think Alanis Morrisette’s song is ironic. So whenever I go to define it in my head, I think of a guy taking his first flight and the plane crashing and I am confused. (You may think I reference this song a lot and you would be right. It bothers me more than a little… although I will admit it is on my mind way too much.) In the end I showed a clip from The Office. You may be thinking, not really WWII related and I would agree but I needed to be reminded that it’s okay to laugh. I then launched into my actual presentation, sweat pouring from my armpits (Which I considered when picking my shirt in the morning but thought, Hey that is what “anti-perspirant” is for. Apparently the deodorant was scared of my presentation too and ran away. So my thin, light blue shirt looked like I had dipped my armpits in grey paint.) When I was finished one of the other students asked me “What was your point exactly?” To which I replied “Ummm I didn’t really have one…” thinking, maybe I should not be getting my Masters. But then, after a moment, I said “But I think that is what Primo Levi wanted. He wanted us to consider his book not just make a point about it.” Which at the time seemed a little weak, like, I was bluffing. But then I thought, that’s what has been bugging me all along: everyone seems to be bluffing all of the time or maybe not bluffing but getting all caught up in words like paleoprofitiering. And I don’t really care to second guess what the author is saying every other sentence. I want to get into the story. To taste the metaphors. To have the lessons that can only be learned through a story burrow into my heart making me better. Not to dissect every sentence saying, “this is what the author really meant.” I think the author may have meant what he spent hours and hours trying to get exactly right on the page. He analyzed and rewrote every sentence over and over till it said exactly what he wanted it to say. Or maybe he just slapped something amazing down and then said, “Gee I hope some English Master’s class figures out what I am trying to say here because I have no idea!”  Perhaps I should go back to science where the words all make sense. Words like, ventral striatum and locus coeruleus which, come to think of it, I still can’t pronounce. Alright, forget it. Will everyone please just Share or Repost or whatever it is kids do these days so I can have a real job writing? Because it looks like I will never make it as a scholar and my window for remembering Latin is slamming shut.

(P.S. I say, “Whatever it is kids do these days” because a fellow student informed me the other day that “Facebook is for old people…” I laughed and agreed and then cried in my car… Apparently maturity is not quite the right word.)