Ritual Begging

       Halloween: Originally based on the fire festival of Samhain, “All Hallows’ Even” is an ancient pagan celebration honoring the dead. The veil between the worlds was believed to be thinnest on this day and, as evil spirits would occasionally surface, people wore disguises to protect themselves, and scare off the demons. They would also leave treats on their doorsteps with the hope of appeasing the wayward spirits….(which I suppose could be seen as an appropriate parallel for some children today….)

       Do my kids know this? The meaning of the madness? I have indeed spoken to them about the origin of the day, but they looked perplexed and a little anxious, as if I was a crazy witch just trying to take the fun out of the whole event. Party pooper. Killjoy.

        “Maybe in your day mom, but these days it’s so different. You wouldn’t understand. No one sets their table for their dead grandmother. We just go out and get butt-loads of candy.”

       Butt-loads? Costumes aren’t even really that important to them, because the outfit doesn’t have anything to do with who scores the most goodies. (Location, location, location, my friends, is not just for real estate anymore.) Not that I want them to go around sacrificing animals in big bonfires or anything, but shouldn’t there be more to the night than raiding neighborhoods, ritualistic begging, and eating chocolate until you throw up? Maybe not. Could be worse.

       But where the kids lack in costume enthusiasm, the adults seem to fill the gap just fine. I guess disguising yourself as a witch, cat or the mother from Psycho can break the boredom and add some adventure to the situation, but I find it so amusing to see where and when people join in. It doesn’t happen just on October 31^st, but during the entire week leading up to the big day people are taking on altered roles, adorning fantastical outfits and pretending to be someone or something else. It’s a practice that’s fine if you’re headed to a costume party, but I saw this older lady in the gym a couple of days ago, wearing a gigantic, stuffed furry spider in her hair. There she was…on the recumbent bike, spinning away….with that upholstered, natty thing bouncing all over the place. The eight black fuzzy legs chaotically flapped up and down as she peddled, and I couldn’t help but wonder how the heck her scalp would feel after her work out. Okay, so she was in the spirit of it all, but the venue and occasion for her display was a little ridiculous. Besides, it was 4 days before Halloween. Did that spider live in her hair for those 4 days? She must have been waiting all year just to adorn that arachnid.

       I saw several other people walking around in strange outfits this last week too. Probably wouldn’t have batted an eye if I were in San Francisco, but seeing the guy in the 1978 green pick up truck, dressed as a bumble bee, was a little freaky. I was really hoping there was a party going on somewhere…at 10am…at the lumber yard….because I truly feared for his masculinity. And I can’t imagine how serious the bank meeting would be when the CEO is dressed up as a sumo wrestler. Maybe as adults we look for any outlet to break free from our mundane lives…and relish the idea of trying on a new persona. (Guess that guy has always wondered what it would be like to be a queen…..bee.)

       And when did buying costumes become the way to outfit for the ghoulish night? Whether Kmart, Albertsons or the corner store, there are piles of poorly made synthetic costumes stacked up and ready to wear. Where’s the creativity in that? If you’re supposed to be fending off demon spirits, wouldn’t you want to put a little more effort into the process? One store I went into had five aisles dedicated to Halloween paraphernalia  …..enough to clothe a few orphanages in China…where the stuff was probably manufactured to begin with.

       I got into a ‘discussion’ with my kids the other day because I wouldn’t buy them any sort of pre-thought out costume. I told them that they could create and design costumes themselves, with the stuff that is in the three costume boxes that we have. With all the disguises and props, I was sure a little tweaking and creativity could yield something fabulous! “That’s not how things are done these days”, I was told…again, and would I be willing to spend a maximum of $10 for a sequined devil tail? Sequined devil tail? Have devils gone disco now?

       In my trick or treating days, our costumes were made. Perhaps it was my rural upbringing, but I don’t ever remember going to a store to buy Halloween costumes or props. It was clear: you and your mother selected from the few standard acceptable choices: Pirate, Cowboy, Indian, Old Lady or Devil, straying slightly from the stereotypes in order to be a true original. And if you got to the big night without a costume, you’d throw an old sheet over your head, cut out some eye-holes and away you’d go. Simple, yet still homemade. I remember my mother sewing, stuffing and painting us up, to create a fat farmer or a bulging old lady. We excitedly worked on our get-ups for days, hoping that ours would be the best and trigger a lot of ‘wows, oohs and aahhs’, but knew that at least we’d be absolutely unique. And it was fun to look at peoples costumes too….because they were all different… even though the subject matter may have sometimes been a little repetitious and cliché. Has our youth culture become so uninspired and inartistic that they rely on some overseas sweatshop to tell them what they should dress as for Halloween? Come on kids….find that imagination that existed prior to computers dousing your creativity. I shouldn’t complain….I hate to sew….

       And the candy thing? We didn’t have a lot of trick or treat options to begin with, living in a remote lake area, and after my mom would drive us from house to house (too far apart to walk), we’d come home bored and frozen and with not much to show for our efforts. My goody bag was usually barely filled with caramel apples, home baked cookies or bars, and those horrid hard candies that tasted like butterscotch and dirt. . Occasionally I’d get a chocolate bar…a regular big one….or some Sweet Tarts, but those were up there on the trading scale, which was how we always ended our night. I loved the caramel apples the best, until some creep in Detroit had to put razor blades in some kid’s apple, effectively ruining it for all of us. After that, my mom would throw out anything not pre-packaged or sealed, which would render us nearly candy-less after it was all said and done. I suppose there was some relief when, after my brother fell off of a ledge one Halloween night.....knocking himself unconscious, and necessitating an emergency room visit....we opted not to struggle with the event anymore. Our jobs then became to dole out candy to the 2 or 3 kids that made it to our house in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes to raise the level of excitement, my brother and I would dress up in our finest gothic creations and wield bread knives and fireplace pokers when we’d answer the door, hoping to scare the pants off of some poor kid. Good times. Maybe that’s why only a few kids ever showed up…..

       So tonight, I inspected the kids as they left the house. I noticed my daughter had the perfect mixture of a homemade costume and pre-fab props (I didn’t have any sequins….!), and my son was disguised as a Peruvian dancer?….a masked Greek?.....a robber? They definitely looked original, and by no means like anything I saw in the stores. I was proud of them. And as I saw them out the door and handed them huge canvas bags for their goodies, I looked them in the eyes….and with the encouragement of a professional coach said, “Make sure you get an extra big butt-loads of chocolate bars guys! I’m counting on you…!”

       And they will. They’re not stupid: They know what makes Mama happy...

Lena’s Leverage

     I’ve finally figured out who really controls the world…

     It’s customer service representatives.

     I had to call Direct TV with some issue that, due to ‘scheduled site maintenance’, I was sadly not able to address online. After listening to what felt like an endless list of prompts, none of which addressed my needs, I opted not to press any buttons and patiently wait for an operator. Somehow, my ‘no-prompt’ prompt didn’t register however, and I was treated to a repeat of the original prompts, preceded with an automated alto-voiced female asking me “Are you still there?” Had I not been frustrated, and impatient at this point, I’m sure I would have laughed out loud. Does the computer care if I’m still there? Who came up with that lame attempt at personalizing the machine? Did they throw that one in for people who lose interest and doze off while the recordings drone on and on?

     Anyhow, after listening one more time to the original list of options, and confirming that none fit my concerns, I aggressively ripped the phone from my ear and with the palm of my hand, began repeatedly pressing all keys at once, ending with a series of over-exaggerated 0’s - since that used to mean ‘Operator’ in the good ol’ days. It worked. After only 8 additional minutes, I had received the “One moment please” acknowledgment and so with renewed hope, I listened excitedly for a real person to address me. My spirits were crushed though when that same uncompassionate and annoying computer lady came on and asked me to enter the number I was calling about, the last four digits of my social security number and my zip code. Jesus! Was I calling Iran? Pulling the phone from my ear once more, I systematically entered all the numbers uber-carefully to make sure I wouldn’t have to duplicate the request. “Thank you” I heard, and the Direct TV advertisements started blasting in my ear….for another 13 minutes…. in their attempt to brainwash me (since I’d already been beaten down) and lure me into signing up for ‘The Bullfighting Channel” or something.  I think I pulled out a clump of hair.

     Suddenly, just as I was fading in and out of consciousness, and starting to believe that I needed that bullfighting package, I heard

     “Hello. My name is Lena. For verification purposes, can I have the phone number you are calling about with the area code first, please?”

     “Didn’t I already press those numbers into the phone?” I ask accusingly.

     “I’m sorry.” She says in a completely rehearsed and non-emotional manner, “Our system didn’t register the number. Please give me the number, area code first.”

     UGGH! I gave her the number.

     “Thank you. May I ask who I’m speaking with?” Lena says.

     “I don’t know any more!” I wanted to scream. “I’ve been on this phone for 24 minutes and I’ve accomplished nothing!”

     “Thank you.” She drones, strangely computer-like after I give her what she wants, and then continues to ask me things for ‘security purposes’; like the other name on the account, the last four digits of my social security number (again), my mother’s maiden name, my date of birth, and my husbands date of birth.  For god’s sake!  What else did she want to know? How many teeth I’ve had pulled and if I have all my toes? What in the world is Direct TV worried about…that someone might call up pretending to be me and cancel my hockey package, god forbid?

     So I started thinking that all these places that have telephone customer service people, must be like little sub-stations for the leaders of our Universe. Branches of the big office in the sky…..helpers for the Omniscient… These people who know answers to all our personal questions….are like deity elves…with a phone and a computer. They know where we live, our social security number, our age, our telephone numbers, and the answer to secret questions like ‘What’s your favorite food?’ or ‘What’s the name of your first pet?’ They know whether we pay our bills on time, what our credit card and bank numbers are, and probably even what political affiliations we have. Does my photo come up with my profile too?

     I’ve never met these people, they could be in Iowa or Bangladesh for all I know, but they know a lot about me….and that makes me a little uneasy. It’s a one-sided relationship with the customer service supremacy having access to things that my closest friends don’t have even have the privilege of knowing. I’m waiting for the time I get a rep named “Allah” or “Emmanuel”…..

     I imagine them enjoying their advantaged status while sitting around playing with their big eye in the sky screens. They most likely look up their neighbor’s account, keep an eye on that peculiar dental assistant, and I’m sure they must play special customer service games too. I can see it….a competition based on analyzing people’s personal information and preferences; something akin to a treasure hunt…like who can find the most bizarre profile:

     “Hey Sally! I’ve got a 72 year-old guy who lives in Connecticut who flips between ‘The Playboy Channel’ and the ‘Curling Channel’ for 5 hours a night! He’s also a member of the Masons and he just had his chest waxed. Top that!”

     Maybe if I could at least see those junior-demi-gods-in-training I’d feel a little more comfortable. I often try to visualize what the voice at the other end looks like. What’s their culture, hair color, age? Are they in sweat pants? A suit? In drag? I think that if I could just have a crumb of information, I’d feel a little more at ease divulging personal information. Maybe I’d even be more polite….because usually by the time I get to the crux of my call, I’m so aggravated and discouraged that I sound like an impatient and unpleasant curmudgeon. Maybe if I knew a little more about Lena, I’d actually be cheery and friendly when - trying to fill dead air during her computer slump - she asks what the weather is generally like in Jackson Hole. Instead, I barely grunt, ‘It’s fine’, and ask what the hell is taking her so long. She, of all people, should know that I’m in a rush because my kids are getting off the bus at any moment and I have to rush to a doctor’s appointment. Isn’t that on her screen? No time for small talk, Lena.  Let’s get the show on the road.

     And to top of their all-knowing features, those mysterious go-betweens have supreme powers too. At any moment they feel the urge, they can simply press a button to add, alter or delete any part of your profile, which would ultimately render you helpless and lost in your current situation. Talk about control. Just picking up a phone to make a call like this means you must be ready to check your freedom and independence at the door. You are powerless and totally at their mercy, because even if Lena is a total numbskull, you have to maintain your patience and politeness to ensure she doesn’t put you on perma-hold, hang up on you, or purposefully screw up your preferences and features you’ve spent so much time organizing.

And what if Lena and her coworkers are in just as foul of a mood as you are? Then you really have to abandon all authority…..because now you have to acquiesce to a anesthetized and discourteous voice that you know is just waiting for an opportunity to attack and assault someone…anyone….even a lowly housewife in Wyoming. Asking for a supervisor in this case would be just plain ol’ dumb. Identity suicide. “Oops. Seems that everything has been deleted. You don’t exist. Thank you for calling Direct TV.” Click.

     So, what did I do? I suspended my hostile and hard lining approach and, digging my nails into my leg, I pretended to delight in my encounter with Queen Lena. She couldn’t tell that under that friendly façade lived a person who resembled the figure in Munch’s “The Scream”. After all, my life(time channel) was in her hands. She could cut off my head(line news) at any moment. Worse yet, the unpredictable and potentially reckless service rep could have forced an unnecessary service call….which would leave me struggling to deal with some incompetent former arcade attendant, who smells like cigarettes, burned coffee and asparagus pee….

     But that’s a whole other story…..

Intrapersonal Conversation

 

      I talk to myself.

      I have always been aware that I did, but I never realized that I actually vocalized out loud to myself, until today.

      I was driving to town and forgot to stop off at the store, then I completely missed the turn for the post office, and in acknowledging my unconscious behavior, I said out loud (shouted) “I’m losing my bloody mind! Where is my head? Focus! What is the problem?!” When I realized I was madly shouting at the windshield, I said, “I am losing my mind. I’m talking to myself….out loud!” Then I affirmed my madness by continuing with , “I am still talking to myself….I’m a freak!” and quickly turned on the radio….full blast.

      I guess we all do it sometimes (?) and I remember my grandfather mumbling to himself often. He’d shuffle around the house with a disturbed look… like he was angry with the Chinese, or missing a slipper or something, and I’d hear him barely audibly cursing and rambling on about the ‘kids today’ and the ‘God damn French’. Guess he never really spoke to himself out loud, although I did hear him loudly talking to the television one night as he praised the wonderful orchestral rendition of “Lara’s Theme”, and the lovely dance piece in an episode of the Lawrence Welk Show. I always figured it was a symptom of his age or loneliness, but now it occurs to me that it might be a congenital condition!

      I started paying attention to my unrestrained outbursts and realized that they were more often than I had originally suspected, only that I had ingeniously disguised them as conversation…..with my dog! I’ve gone bonkers. I obviously don’t expect my doggie to respond to my questions and concerns, but somehow I continue to speak.

      “Wow, Hamlet, it sure is cold out. Should I go get a coat? You stay there and I’ll be back in a minute. Do I need sunglasses?” (As if my canine knows what the hell a minute is, or gives a hoot about my eyeballs.) He just wants to go poop in the woods on our walk. And when I tell him to watch the house while I’m gone, do I really think that he knows what I’m saying? What would I do to him if my house was robbed? Lecture him on staying more focused and listening more carefully next time? Why don’t I just ask him to put in a load of laundry and start making dinner? Maybe he could even help with math homework as things progressed. Come to think of it, I once saw a dog on “60 Minutes” that counted….

      But it goes beyond those simple chitchats as well, because I even confer with him about certain important issues.

     “Ham, I have to do something about the new curriculum at school. I’ll be calling someone. You watch, heads are gonna roll!” Or “I can’t figure out the banking statement, bud! Something is awry. What could be wrong?” And “Is it just me, or does my hair look dull today?” I do it a lot…shoot the breeze with my dog…..because I think he listens….and he definitely never complains. I could yak at him all day long (fyi – I don’t), in a pooch parley, and he’d only look at me with doggie love and total dedication. What a pal. What a buddy. What an excuse for my insanity….

     So there you have it. I chew the fat with my dog.

Say It In A Song

               “Well I never been to Spain

                But I kinda like the music

                Say the ladies are insane there

                And they sure know how to use it

                They don't abuse it

                Never gonna lose it

                I can't refuse it”

       We were singing along to the classic song, when my daughter pauses the iPod and says,

      “….sure know how to use what? What are they singing about? What do the ladies in Spain use?”

       For the first time really acknowledging the meaning of the line, I glanced over at her and proceeded to skirt the subject by replying with a very lame and elusive  “I don’t know.”

       She shrugged, started playing the music, and when the chorus repeated, she asked again…

       “What would they be using? They must have been thinking of something when they wrote the lyrics.”

        So, I guess now I have to start parenting through song lyrics…

       I sighed….looked over at her once more and quickly contemplated getting into details of what the Spanish women could be ‘using’ and what the band Three Dog Night ‘can’t refuse’.

       She is 13, I thought, but do I really want to explain the whole sexual intention of those lyrics? Do I ruin the innocence of the song for her (and for me) by providing sexual images for the words? If I do that, she’ll never be able to sing that song again without those images popping up. And we were having such a nice innocent time…!

       Besides, I was driving, and I didn’t feel that an intense discussion of human sexuality could be properly explored in the car. Shouldn’t there be eye contact, and maybe even a brochure or something? Today, with web-site access, sexting, chat-rooms and online predators, I wanted to have a much more in-depth discussion regarding boundaries and educated choices.

       So I said, “They’re were just trying to rhyme. That’s all. None of the song really makes sense…..You know… ‘use it’, ‘abuse it’, ‘refuse it’, ‘music’….” I thought for sure that would buy me some time until we could sit down at home and talk…..but being the inquisitive and unrelenting type that she is, my determined mini-me couldn’t let it go. Unmistakably dissatisfied, she paused the iPod again, slapped her hand against her thigh and bemoaned,

       “It really bothers me! Use what?!”

       “Okay…” I relented. She was clearly not going to let this go, and I thought at least she should hear it from her mom and not some testosterone thumping 14 year old boy who is gyrating while he’s singing to her….

        I plainly told her,  “I’m guessing it must have something to do with seductiveness and sexuality….flirting and stuff… I’d like to talk more about this at home, okay?”

       “Oh” she says, understanding exactly what I meant, and not being the least bit uneasy. “I know all about that ‘stuff’. Just a song, Mom. Can I turn it back on? You don’t need to give me the talk….again. I am 13….I knew those things when I was 7.”

       And then, switching subjects, she started talking about her math test….

       What do kids know at this age? What do they think they know?  The questions exploding in my mind were like 4^th of July fireworks, and I knew that I absolutely had to have the talk….again….probably purely for my own peace of mind.

       So - a few songs will precede tonight’s discussion. I’m thinking something like The Beach Boys’ “California Girls”, The Beatles’ “She’s Leaving Home”, Ella Fitzgerald signing “Making Whoopee” and of course Sir-Mix-a-Lot’s rap “I Like Big Butts”.

      Maybe tomorrow we’ll hear The Everly Brothers’ “Wake Up Little Susie” and Bob Marley’s “Is This Love”…..

       Who would have thought it could be this much fun?!

       My poor kids are going to wish I would have just handed them the booklet from the doctor’s office….

I'm Thinking

      I wonder if I over-analyze things?

It’s Just Not Write

     Over dinner tonight, my 12 year-old son was lamenting about how long it was taking him to do his history homework. As is usual, I began my discourse on remaining focused and not being distracted by Lacrosse balls or books like “Tom Sawyer”, or the guitar. But even before I could get to the crux section of my speech, he interrupted me with

     “No, Mom. I’m not distracted. It’s just taking so long because I’m writing my responses in cursive.”

     “In cursive?” I asked totally bewildered. “Why the hell would you do that?  Is your computer broken?  Do you not like printing anymore?  What is the problem?”

     “I just wanted to try it again” he said. “But I’ve forgotten how to write some of the capitals, so I have to look them up…and it’s killing my hand! That’s what’s taking so long.”

     Does he like to suffer? I asked myself. Why was he writing in cursive? Oh ya – my thrill seeking boy – his way of making history homework an adventure, I guess.

     So, I started wondering….why is cursive even taught anymore? Under what circumstances would that curly and complicated form of communication be necessary? And how much time is spent in the early school years learning the pretty letters, when it might be better to focus on other things like languages, nutrition and family dynamics? Seriously, I don’t see how writing will aid in my children’s education, or provide them with any advantages in their future. All it does is waste time, and give the babysitters (I mean teachers) something to do.

     I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: our public teaching system is antiquated, thoughtless and almost irresponsible. We are supposed to be an advanced society but we continue to teach our children with outdated and irrelevant methods….and then we expect that they will be the leaders and saviors of our future. Are we giving them a fair chance? Do we even know what we are doing? At what point do we admit the system is broken and move towards a solution????

     But tonight, I simply nodded when my son said he would continue writing his homework. For now, I thought, I’ll consider it practice for reading cursive….for reading the sweet cards he receives from his grandmother….who was taught the same way….using the same methods of education….with the same claustrophobic and controlled structural outlines….75 years ago.

     Some things never change….

     Rip Van Winkle would feel right at home.

Attention Kmart Shoppers….

     I had to go into Kmart today. An odd store that I usually try to avoid, the items I needed were unavailable anywhere else in this podunk-one-‘superstore’-town….and I didn’t have time to wait for an internet order, or drive 3 hours to a more urban area.

     Before entering the unpleasant building, I fully prepared myself, in order to avoid more time than necessary in the place. I made notes, memorized my itemized list and strategized the route once inside. I knew even before I entered the store, what kind of cart or basket I’d be getting, and on what side of the store I would start. I was as organized and equipped as possible because it’s all about strategy when going into ‘Area K’. It’s all about tactics….and focus….and patience….

      ….because that place is just not right.

     I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’ve entered a strange land when I go through those poorly functioning and filthy glass doors. Every time I make it just beyond the real world, and I’m standing completely shrouded with bad Kmart lighting, my mind goes blank for about 15 endless seconds. I stall, and stand there dumbfounded and lost, forgetting why I went in there to begin with. And even though I’ve memorized my list and planned my route, I can not for the life of me retrieve it from my dulled mind. My plan of attack has vanished from my brain, my senses have been zapped, and I often feel a little lightheaded. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a brain-sucking and energy-sapping vortex….that smells like old lady and vanilla-peach scented candles. It’s the Kmart Abyss….and it’s horrible….and I sometimes even feel a little panicky for the first few seconds, until I am able to remind myself that this always happens and I that I always come out unscathed.

     This particular time, I was able to gather myself rather quickly however, because instead of stuffing my list in my pocket, I entered the building armed with it in my hand. No fidgeting or fumbling was necessary since my survival code was readily available, and I simply flexed my arm and focused on the paper, easily breaking the paralyzing trance that was affecting me.

     What is it in there? Is it the lighting? The layout? That nauseating and caustic synthetic candle smell?

     I can’t pinpoint it, but something is definitely awry in the K. And the staff appears to have been sucked into the turbulent ‘corporate K’ gyre too. They all have that glazed over and hypnotized look, and they move in a rusty robotic fashion….seemingly unaware of anyone or anything around them. They appear almost alien…or lacking oxygen…and they never look you in the eye. Are they being held captive in that strange place? Do they need air? Do they need my help?

     It’s truly the only store in this town that gives me the creeps.

     And didn’t they go bankrupt anyway?

     And don’t they sell stuff produced by some felon?

     Anyhow, you’ve never seen anyone walk with such hurried excitement as when I’m heading toward the Kmart exit. I look desperate and overly enthusiastic.  I feel as if I'm almost running out of air, drowning in there, and I have to surface outside in order to breathe….in order to survive another day.   And it occurs to me right now that maybe that’s even a grounded sensation!…. Maybe someone needs to check the O2 level in that place!

   ....something is just wrong in there.

   …something is just simply off-Target…. (he he)

The Song Remains The Same

            Ever get a song stuck in your head?

            Ever get a song that you loathe stuck in your head?

            Why the hell I woke up Thursday morning singing “Karma Chameleon” is a cruel mystery to me. I never liked like song, and I did not ever think that Culture Club or the freak Boy George were remotely pleasing….so I don’t know why I would even be familiar with the words! And honestly, to wake up from what I thought was a restful sleep with that horrible tune circulating in my brain? Quite upsetting. What the heck was I dreaming about? The 80”s? Haven’t I had enough of that bizarre era?

            I tried to shake it…(the tune and the image of that weirdo) from my head, but the more I tried to not think about it, the more I found that I actually was thinking about it. So then I had the groovy idea that if I started concentrating on another song, the obnoxious and tedious tune that was seemingly on a loop in my brain, would fade into the background. I tried, “You are my Sunshine”…as for some strange reason it was the first one that surfaced……“You Are My Sunshine”? A song from the 1940’s? I don’t even think there was a drum track on that tune. How would that trump the insidious 80’s noise? (Maybe it was the first song I ever learned and so during my conscious retrieval of music, my brain organized all songs, and that one took a priority position…sound reasonable?) In any case, as sweet a song as it is, chirping ♪“you make me happy when skies are grey….”♪ did nothing to lessen my pain and “Karma Chameleon” kept coming back.

            ♪“…you come and go…you come and goooo-o…”♪

            Next, I thought singing out loud might purge the nuisance from my system, so at 6:15 a.m., while walking down the hall, I crooned ♪“Every day is like survival…..You’re my lover, not my r-i-val.”♪ That didn’t work…and just about made me sick, so I started doing the Boy George dance thing too, supposing that a full exorcism might require some physical pain as well, in order to be effective. Imagine me in am oversized wrinkled housecoat with my hair askew, shuffling down the dark hallway singing a really dreadful song….off tune. Not pretty. Thank god I was the only one up at that time.

            After a cup of coffee and getting the kids to the bus, my brain was still direct-wired to 1983, so after seriously thinking that a lobotomy might be the only solution to my problem, I went back to bed with the thought that I might be able to reboot if I could only disconnect… Able to endure only a few more minutes of hell however, I got up with new resolve and did what anyone else would have done in this horrible and frustrating situation: I Googled it. 114,000,000 results popped up for ‘how to get a song out of your head’…….so I started at the top. One article told me to do exactly what I had already done (sing out loud, sign another song), one told me to drink a bunch of water (think they got mixed up with hiccups), and one told me that I probably had some spiritual connection to the song, singer, or time in which the song was originally heard, and that I should acknowledge the connection and meditate. Do people actually believe that stuff? Was that a joke? They were obviously not talking about me. Just in case, I contemplated stabbing an ice pick into my frontal lobe….

            Friday morning, I woke up with Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” monopolizing my mind. Much better! That tune I gladly welcomed with enthusiasm and was voluntarily and happily dancing and singing in the kitchen while getting my son ready for school. At one point, he even joined in and we paraded down the hall singing our duet…on our way to the car…. Today would be a good day, I thought, as I practiced my best low Johnny Cash voice. Thank god my brain got it right that time.

            So, how do these songs get stuck in our heads…especially the ones we wake up with? Or is it only me?! Does anyone else wake up beleaguered by a song? Do I have a Crooning Condition? A Ditty Disorder? A Melody Malady?

            These music mind moments have been happening to me since I was a child, and although they didn’t happen all that frequently, on the occasions they did, I used to think it was pretty cool. At first I thought it was my brain’s way of setting the tone of the day, and I’d go along with it - articulating the selected number as long as it was circulating, but as I got older and more inquisitive, I began to search for rationalizations, explanations and solutions for my tuneful troubles.

            When I had braces on my teeth, I adopted the supposition that the radio could somehow be intercepted by the metal in my mouth, the waves conducted through the wires and songs played from within. Several authorities denied the validity of that belief, but how else would a naive and gullible teenager explain music in her brain as she woke up? I thought that maybe the radio had played that song and it stayed in my head because it originally was in my head…. I remember opening my mouth near my friend’s ear and asking her if she could hear it too. Bending close, and trying not to breathe for fear that the sound of my breath would mute the presumed station; I leaned forward and opened my mouth wide. After about five attempts of standing just centimeters away from her ear with my jaw extended to the maximum, we abandoned the experiment, as she heard nothing but the gurgling sounds in the back of my throat, and my jaw ached terribly. Only a certain degree of torture a person can tolerate. So much for that theory.

            My next ridiculous hypothesis came during my ‘occult’ phase (didn’t everyone have one?), when I believed that hearing music in my head meant dead people were trying to contact me: Dead people that apparently had a message to relay in songs such as “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” and “Every Breath You Take” (?). I guess I thought that the veil between worlds must be thinnest when there was music streaming…providing a seamless avenue in which different planes could connect. Whoa. Embarrassing phase.

            More recent song speculation came during the Bush administration when I mulled over the scary possibility that the government was manipulating my thoughts….. It made sense at the time, with the increase in constitutional-breaking and freedom-bashing surveillance operations….and the new and unusual beeping noises on my phone. Of course the fact that no one in my family suppressed their views of disgust and contempt regarding our pathetic leaders…and that the immoral and corrupt Vice President lived just down the street, also made me a little wary. But when songs like “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue” filled my head, my suspicions grew….until one day I woke up singing Sam Cooke’s “What a Wonderful World”

           

            ♪“Don't know much about history

            Don't know much biology

            Don't know much about a science book

            Don't know much about the French I took” ♪

and I knew it must be ‘W’ talking to me…

            Besides, who’s to say that the “Matrix” type of movies weren’t based on some privileged and hidden ‘top secret’ facts? Even in the 1800’s Lord Byron acknowledged and understood “….truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.”

            So what about now? What about my latest melody mania? I haven’t a clue…and I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Someone told me that the phenomenon is called ‘earworms’ and it affects everyone to some degree or another. Apparently it’s even propelled some people to musical stardom…simply because they couldn’t get the tune out of their head and started composing. So, did Mozart have earworms? John Lennon? Mick Jagger? Is this a sign of a new vocation for me? Regardless, the thought of worms in my head, whether parasites or not, is a little unsettling. On the other hand…..maybe I should have paid more attention to the Doobie Brother’s when they sang ♪“Oh, oh…listen to the music…” ♪. Maybe my calling is something entirely different.....

           Just in case, I'll be all ears.

           Stay tuned.

I Repeat...

                It’s a fact: The days of pet rocks are completely over.

            Yesterday my daughter had her friend over for the entire afternoon…well it was virtually the entire afternoon. This little friend followed her around the house from the bedroom where they did homework together….to the outside deck where they read each other stories….to the den where they listened to their favorite music….and finally to the kitchen where the friend simply watched as my daughter made cookies. She didn’t even offer to help, but just voiced opinions and made comments…..because she couldn’t help….because she was only virtually there…. because she was just a talking head on the computer! Through ‘Skype’, they kept each other company all afternoon….cradling each other and carrying each other around…. until I finally got tired of hearing the distorted-poor-quality-speaker voice and I asked my daughter to turn her friend off.

            “Why?” She asked.

            “Because it’s time for her to sign off. I find it odd watching you lug her around everywhere. Close her head. Power her down. Or at least lower try to equalize her voice.” I sounded nuts. (And I thought those Tamagotchis were unsettling!)

            Forget friendship beads or bracelets….they’re a thing of the past. These days you can actually be reminded of your friend, not by looking at your wrist, but by having her pop up on your screen…in a cute little bubble, with little bubble sounds. And pen pals? Why bother….you don’t have to write…nor even email, because you can talk…in real time…virtually face to face.

            Who needs imaginary friends, when you can have imagery friends?

            Seemingly, you can spend entire days together as long as you have a long extension cord or fabulous battery life. And several of you can even get together at one time and have a virtual party. At one point, four girls – all home sick – were yammering away with each other. It was the easiest play date I’d ever hosted.

            Virtual reality has been popular in this culture for a long time, but it appears that it is getting even more prevalent and mainstream and not as fantastical. Schools commonly offer classes via Skype now, news reporters are often reporting via satellite and even talk show hosts sometimes have their guests visit via video conferencing. No wonder the airlines are having problems….we apparently don’t need them!

            And we think parenting is hard now…just wait until some dad finds out that his kid has been carrying around the ‘banished’ boyfriend on her ‘Skype-enabled’ keychain everywhere – against his knowledge. And Cyber-sex? Think it is a problem in today’s world? Oh boy. What about when holograms are more refined (and undoubtedly better than the CNN’s primitive attempt)? I see a whole new set of challenges presenting themselves with that groovy technology:

            You might think your little angel is in bed sleeping because you see him breathing and you can even hear him gently snoring….but really, he’s turned on his personal hologram and has climbed out the window and is at that unsupervised party with all the dishonorable kids! He’s mocked you by leaving a mock-up of himself! You’ve been hoodwinked by a hologram and conned by a copy. You’ve become the next ‘virtual victim’! You discover that your son is a ‘depiction degenerate’ and now you have to call the ‘portrayal police’ for help. Next time you’ll need better’ reflection protection’…..next time you’ll have to go see if your child has an actual texture…..

            Parents will then have to install or implant ‘cyber-chaperone’ chips in their kids bodies in order to keep on top of things. It’s not so far fetched when you think that we already have GPS capability in our phones and information chips that are commonly implanted in dogs. In fact, ‘crazy’ people claim to have had microchips implanted in them all the time, and blame external forces, like government, military or aliens for their behavior. Orwellian paranoia? I tend to think so…but maybe it’s true. Maybe these seemingly loopy people are not crazy at all. Maybe they are someone’s laptop voodoo doll. Maybe they are being manipulated by some twisted government cyber-employee with a series of computer codes…..and a joystick. Maybe we all are. (Now that I think about it, I do sometimes get strange twitches for no reason…..and I acted completely out of character the other day….)

            The sad part about this virtual explosion is that I see the genre of Science Fiction eventually dying out. How much more bizarre can our imagination get? “1984”, “Fahrenheit 451”, The Matrix”, “Star Trek , “Blade Runner” and even “Freaky Friday”…..I think we’ve almost envisioned it all….and have even applied and embraced some concepts. But what happens when real reality crosses over to virtual reality and quantum physics becomes a less esoteric and more common science? What if, as lines are blurred, so are molecules, and the existence we experience today becomes a nostalgic concept?

            “In person? Oh, that is so yesterday. I’ll just beam my molecules there…”

            I’m up for it. I’ll test the first human teleport machine. Just think, skiing one moment, then off to the beach to warm up and take a swim….then back in time for dinner. Fab. Who needs cloning? This is so much better and there is virtually no impact on the already overwhelming population problem.

            But the best news is that we’ll actually and incredibly be able to be two places at once. We’ll be able to go the dance recital and the hockey game. We’ll be able to tuck our kids into bed and be at the board meeting. And finally, we’ll be able to suitably answer the question that so many of us get asked yearly:

            “Yes” we’ll say, “Mom, Dad….we’ll be home for Christmas….virtually all of us!”

           How great is that?!

           And the Jetsons thought they had a good thing.

It Goes Without Saying

            I was already ‘fed up’ when my son ‘pushed me over the edge’ by continuing to ignore what I was asking him to do.

            I shouted from the kitchen “Answer me when I’m talking to you. It’s like talking to a brick wall!” Still hearing no response, I threatened…. “Do not make me go up there!”

            Just then, I turned around to see him bent over and balancing by his torso on the railing of the stairwell.

            “Get off of there before you break your neck!” I cried out. “You need your head examined!”

            “Take it easy.” he called back. “You’re such a worrywart!”

           Worrywart? Wart? Did he call me a wart?

            Where do all these peculiar sayings come from, or more importantly, why do we continue to use them? I am sure the origins are fascinating and enlightening, but what is curious to me is that no matter what era we’re living in, what style of parenting we believe in, or whom we are talking to, so many common yet unreasonable and even comical expressions are used so often in our daily lives. We all use them; probably more than we realize, and the irony I see is that because of their overuse, they’ve really lost their strength….their value….their pizzazz. The first time I told my kids to get down off of something ‘before they broke their necks’…they listened. My fear-based instruction had impact! They did not want to break their necks, and getting down seemed reasonable. But now, it’s just a tired expression…a bunch of nonsense words….and it’s not even remotely effective….even if it is true! Falling over the railing on the stairs really could cause you to break your neck…and your head…and an assortment of other things, but because I’ve said it flippantly so many times, the reaction I get is…..no reaction at all. It’s essentially as if I’ve been ‘crying wolf’ all these times.

            ‘To boot’, half of those old sayings don’t even make sense. Like, “You’d loose your head if it wasn’t screwed onto your neck.” What? My head is not screwed on to anything. Whoever came up with that one obviously ‘had no clue’ about human anatomy. And then there are those other outrageous sayings and ‘words of wisdom’ that we use too; those that I think must have originated from some neurotic (and ignorant) eccentric. Like: ‘Don’t cross your eyes or they’ll freeze that way.’ Or ‘Sitting too close to the television will make you have square eyes’. What is the foundation for those? Do you know anyone with square eyes?

            But the most ridiculous thing that was ever said to me came from my grandmother: ‘Always wear clean underwear, in case you get into an accident”. Getting down to my level and staring me straight in the eye, the first time she said it to me, I must have been only a couple of years old. I don’t find any part of that sentence to be reassuring or confidence building, and as a small child who was a worrywart to begin with, my mind quickly went into panic mode every time I heard that phrase…. My mind raced: Was I about to get into an accident? Should I be afraid? What if my underwear are clean now, but by the time I get into the accident, they are slightly dirty on the bum because I was sitting in the sandbox playing quietly before the accident happened? And what if my underwear are clean now, but I soil them when the accident happens because I am so frightened. What if the elastic is a little worn…is that okay? Should I change my undies several times a day just to be safe?

            Fortunately, as I got older, I was able to rationalize the wacky nature of that absurd advice, and move away from the fear….of having an accident…and of whatever negative thoughts someone might have of my undies. Really, if someone is concerned about the state of my underwear after I’ve been in an accident, I think they may have bigger problems than I do.

            And to think my mother never understood the reason for my tireless underwear obsession…

            So then, why do we still use some of these outdated, mindless and senseless phrases, idioms and sayings? (Just to be clear, I never use the underwear one). Other than just for the fun of saying them (because they’re so funny), I use them when I’m at a ‘loss for words’ and I’m searching for something powerful to say, but I don’t have time to formulate my own brilliant sentence….(like when my son is hanging practically upside down off of a 12 foot railing, and is about to fall on his head). And even though I know the words are anything but meaningful, they pop up from the ‘Tried and True” file in my brain and are blurted out before I have a chance to review. I usually ‘roll my eyes’ because I am so pathetic and can’t believe what just came out of my mouth, yet the situation requires immediate mitigation and I do not have time be creative.

            I know what you’re thinking: ‘why re-invent the wheel?... but it seems a little silly and unconscious that in an era where we are advancing in so many other areas….even with language and communication…we continue to use sayings that are so unoriginal and even benign. They need modification and updating, and I’m dying for someone to come up with some new ones. Maybe instead of saying, “Money doesn’t grow on trees”, we could enhance that boring and obvious phrase by saying “Money doesn’t grow on trees…and apparently not in the bank either because greedy people have ruined our financial system.” Or instead of “I wasn’t born yesterday’, we say, “I know I look young thanks to that fancy new cream I’ve been using, but I do have years of experience in this department and I know what you’re up to”. That would get your childs attention, and maybe they’d even want to engage in dialogue with you regarding your purported experience. It could open up a whole new level of conversation with your kid. You could have a little ‘tips and tricks’ session…..

            Regardless of the others, we have to do something with ‘Because I said so.” Undoubtedly the lamest and least innovative of all sayings, I think we should use something a little more compelling and irrefutable. I’ve thought ‘long and hard ‘ about it, and every time I utter those feeble four words, my kids feel disregarded and I feel unfulfilled and unsatisfied myself. Predictably, that leads to further debating, questioning and squabbling….which I was trying to avoid to begin with….so the next time my child begs ‘why?’ or ‘why not?’, I’m going to respond with something that will ‘nip it in the bud’, and end the discussion altogether. Instead of saying ‘Because I said so’ I’m going to say……

          “Because, I think the government has us under surveillance!

            That ought to ‘give them something to cry about’.

Raising Cain

     Tsunami warning! Ship may be in danger!

     I run a tight ship……but even when my first officer is by my side, sometimes I feel like I’m the captain of a colossal and elaborate cruise ship….and all the support staff have gone overboard.
     The other day my daughter asked me if she could jump off the ship…or maybe it was a bridge…. In any case, I stood there contemplating the question as my parental training has been limited to observations and experiments only. Having read, researched and experienced certain parenting ‘styles’ however, I weighed the options:
     1) I could use the “Authoritarian” approach and simply say “No”. This I figured would inevitably launch my child into a tantrum of sorts where I would be compared to everyone else’s mom and labeled all kind of nasty things. Also, it would make me akin to a tyrannical leader, which I am not….most of the time.
     2) I could use the “Permissive” approach and say “Sure”. This, I thought, would appease the child, yet the resulting pain and suffering…and potential hospital visit (for child - and for me - for the unavoidable injury during the rescue mission) would be worse than the name calling as in the first option above. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”
     3)  I could use the “Democratic” approach and discuss the situation’s values, merits and drawbacks before taking a vote. Taking into account the limited experiences and skills that my child possesses at the undeveloped age of 13, I didn’t think that a rational and non-emotional discussion could occur. As well, statistics show that vocabulary limitations, lack of reasoning tools and poor judgment have sent many teenagers astray. This I thought left open the possibility of more severe results than in option 2.
     I decided to go with option 1……and then I ran out of the room.

     Sometimes I just don’t know how to parent. Especially when it comes to discipline. In today’s parenting world, we are encouraged to talk with our kids as if they are equals, include them in decisions, praise them often, and discipline them with a gentle hand. It sounds lovely, and I follow those recommendations most of the time, but what do you do when talking is irrational, their choices are ridiculous and they deserve anything but praise? Some people would like to say, “give them a swat”, but they are usually from an era where the rules were clear…and kids were spanked. Back then Spock’s revolutionary philosophies were barely being considered ‘mainstream parenting’ and not many people spared the rod…. This was especially true in our neighborhood in the countryside of Quebec, where people were very backwoods…. in both location and beliefs.
     My mother's favorite method of persuasion was the spatula. I remember that big, white 3-inch rubber thing, with a long fulcrum enhancing wooden handle. It was a multifunctional tool, functioning both in the baking department and also in a disciplinarian capacity. Brilliant design. The instrument lived the kitchen, the second drawer down in the counter near the door to the basement. We learned to fear that drawer, and my little bother and I developed an awareness for the sliding drawer sound. When the threats of "I’m going to get the spatula" started to feel like reality, we’d perk up our ears and listen intently for the familiar and powerful squeaking of wood against wood as my mother tugged on the metal handle. Then we would run. My mother would chase us all over the house, spatula in hand, and we would dart, dash and hide from her and her trusted weapon. I remember being chased around the dining room table and bluffing my direction, as my poor frustrated mother tried to anticipate my movements. Then crouching down and crawling under the table, in an attempt to avoid the inevitable, I’d slip away, only to be cornered against the washing machine or a closed closet door. I’d always end up defeated, and ‘taught a lesson’ but I would still do whatever I could to avoid…or at least postpone that stinging blow…and I think I might have even enjoyed the chase…..
     As I got older, and my bottom endured more thumping’s (I was quite difficult), my brother and I came up with schemes to intercept my mother’s methodology and ambush her technique. We began by relocating her spatula to other drawers and alternative areas within the kitchen. Then, as that became boring, and never granted us enough hiding time, we started removing the thing from the kitchen altogether. We planted it in under the couch in the den, behind the stereo cabinet, in between the cushions of the kitchen bench or in the dining room buffet. We were merely trying to protect our little bottoms, but the fact that my mother started questioning her sanity became a secret thrill. A little passive aggressive, I know, but back then children were not encouraged to speak their minds nor communicate as equals, and voicing concern for certain parenting customs was absolutely not accepted.  Our only power was to annoy our captor, and so some of our most victorious moments were listening to our mom bellow things like “Where’s my spatula?! I know I left it in here….where did you put it?” and “You little brats are going to get it….when I find it!”  We were brats.
     By no means a 'Joan Crawford’, my poor mom was simply trying to do her best, and raise courteous and considerate children. She never had a rule book either! Looking back, I feel sympathetic and sorry for being so contrary and such a troublemaker. How the heck was she supposed to know what to do with that? Walloping was what her parents had done, thwacking was what our school was doing (the strap), and smacking was what her friends participated in. It was appropriate that whipping us with a rubber contraption was accepted and even encouraged. Thinking about it and considering that the methodologies in my childhood were so opposed to accepted practices of today, I am actually amazed I did not end up doubting authority on an even larger level than I already do (ahem).
     But, I ‘turned out okay’, as my mom likes to claim. And I guess I did….although I often wonder if I’d have a nicer, rounder and more defined bum if it hadn’t been flattened with a spatula so often…..
     So, I’m obviously against the spanking thing. I just need options. Actually, I think my children are for the most part respectful, intelligent, kind, and clear regarding their boundaries, but when they act up...sigh…I sometimes end up frustrated and at a loss for solutions or appropriate actions.
     I usually try the ‘rational dialogue’ approach first, but this sometimes ends up in a ‘very loud discussion’ which then digresses into a ‘who can argue the most forcefully’ debate (yelling match). My tea bag once said “He who raises his voice first has lost the battle”, so I’m trying to respect that, (because it’s really good tea), but I do have Hungarian blood and I am really not that docile by nature…. Remember Attila?
     Then, when talking doesn’t work, and the problem continues to ruin our fun, I use my next best form of parenting…..I leverage. I try to make the punishment fit the crime, but sometimes there is no congruent consequence for unacceptable levels of mouthiness and disrespectful words. (Well, I guess there is always the ‘washing the mouth out with soap’ maneuver, but I’m pretty sure that went out the door with the spanking procedure.) So, I leverage….or threaten… like a unkind oppressor, and I’m getting very tired of having to play the role of Sergeant and Parole Officer. Can’t we just play and eat chocolate together under the perfectly sunny skies? And taking away a privilege sounds easy, but try explaining what a privilege is to someone who has grown up privileged and lives in a privileged community. They look at me as if I’m from another planet and think that I’d be depriving them of a basic necessity of life if I threaten to take away their phone or computer or disallow them from going to a slumber party. May as well put them in solitary confinement as far as they are concerned. (Okay….I can do that too…) My view is that we are not born with an entitlement to an iPod or cell phone….even if “everyone else in the whole world has one.” As well, if acting foul and disrespectful is general behavior after sleepovers, then we’ll have to revisit that liberty too. Am I just too unmerciful and harsh? I believe that the benefits that many kids see as ‘basics’ are what I see as gifts that should be earned. And my kids do earn them. But then they act undeserving at times and I want to take the valuable reward away…. because, considering my risks and trading power, this seems to be a fair payoff. Ugh.
     So I guess using consequences is my spatula, and my practices will probably be written about someday too. (Just remember, my intentions were honorable…..)
     So why is it so difficult to be a good parent, yet the process in which we become parents is so simple (…for most)? Hmm. Another flaw in the design, I suppose, and another example of someone stopping just short of the finish line. We were given the tools, the procreation instinct, and the vessel in which to grow a child….but then we are left to fend for ourselves. Where the hell are the 10 commandments of parenting? Should have focused on that rather than stuff about coveting neighbor’s donkeys and not choosing to follow other gods. (Wasn’t it evident that a monopoly always ends up having a negative effect on all involved?) And I am sure that at least a few religious groups would have been enlightened from verse within a manual of that supreme realm….
     Alas, as I feel the sea surging beneath me, I will try to maintain control of the ship, and hopefully avoid any major damages. I also intend to keep my hands on the wheel at all times, regardless of the effort involved, as I recognize that a long and bumpy hormone season is unmistakably on the way…..
     Maybe I should get out the life jackets.

Go Hog Wild!

Swine Flu has made it to our house.

     It’s time to party!

     

Come and pet the pretty little piggy, get the little piggy virus and be done with it.

We will play your favorite pig games such as “Pin The Tail On The Pig”, “Charlotte’s Spelling

Bee” and the ever-popular “This Little Piggy” toe game. There will be a special prize awarded

to the best house design, so come prepared to sketch! (A current list of acceptable building

codes will be provided).

Party favors will include Kleenex, Breath Easy Tea, Tylenol, and Grandma’s Chicken Soup recipe.

Please Note: A donation of $2 will be collected at the door to help cover the cost of the mud that we will at first be rolling in….then slinging at the CDC for the belated release of the vaccine.

     Let’s go hog wild!

(Special appearances by Miss Piggy and Porky!)

It Hounded Me

     It was an unusual fog, and walking along the levee felt almost surreal. Like a scene in a dream, everything was shrouded in whiteness and the moist (very unusual for Jackson) air was palpable. I could barely see more than 30 feet in front of me and had I not known it, I never would have guessed there was a river on my right. It was quiet and peaceful and I thought that my dog Hamlet and I were the only one’s out….

     Then, a few yards ahead, I see what appears to be a dark and menacing figure slowly walking towards us. Not yet able to make out the shape, I strained to see what the hell it was. All I could tell was that it was deliberate, slow, massive and that it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.  We got a little closer and the fog lessened in intensity, and to my horror, I realized it was a…… dog? Huge, this thing stood about 4 feet tall and was half as wide. It was black and mangy and edging forward in a stalking sort of gait. Hamlet looked up at me with his worried doggy eyes and we slowed our pace, stepping a little further towards the river, as the beast continued to intimidate us. I swear, I think I saw it bare its teeth. I suddenly felt as if I was in the moors of Devonshire in 1902 and I stopped in my tracks.

     
"A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog." 


     Was I in a remake of the “The Hound of the Baskervilles”? Watson, are you there?

     Just then I saw a lady running up behind that creepy creature and, analyzing the situation, I figured that  a) she was trying to catch up and grab ‘it’ before it ate us  b) she was just running for exercise or  c) she was running because there were more of the terrifying hounds coming behind her!

     I didn’t stop to ask. Ham and I bolted the rest of the way back to the car.

     Why do people have such massive dogs? Truly, that Baskerville hound was enormous.  I’d never seen a dog that big in my life….nor that unfriendly looking .  And unless you lived in a 500 square foot dog house, I don’t know where a monster like that would lie down and sleep. What if it had one of those doggy nightmares…with the barking and legs twitching and that ‘running’ thing they do? It would feel like a good sized earthquake in there! And how much food does something like that eat? Probably enough to feed a small suburb of Ft. Lauderdale. Holy Canine. Besides, scooping up after a dog like that would require….a backhoe, I guess. Just imagine the backyard.

     So, what motivates someone to get a house animal of that enormity? I don’t question something of a German Shepherd or even a Great Pyrenees size, but a pet of those mammoth proportions, with floppy horse-like qualities, I suspect takes a whole lot of time and commitment, and a different sort of love.  They can’t be fun to play with (they could crush you if they got too rowdy), they could take your head off if they just licked you too hard, they eat too much, they’d take up most of the space in your car, and they don’t stick around that long. Ever notice that it is mostly women who have these dogs? Maybe they get them for protection..... Or, maybe they’re thinking of the beast as a replacement for a husband.... Then I could somewhat understand the attraction.  I think I'd still rather have a companion that does more than pant though (?!), and who can comfort me and talk me through a crisis,…..and also help drive the kids to hockey.

     Hey, didn't a dog drive a car in "The Shaggy D.A."?

Bottled Up

     Daughter sick. Fever 103. She’s achy. Hope it’s not that pig-thing. Needs Ibuprofen.

     I really tried to open that new bottle, and once I managed to rip through the protective plastic around the container, I couldn’t get the bloody cap off. One of those easier pill bottles to get into, I aligned the little arrows and thought I had it made, but even with both thumbs pushing against that thin plastic top, it wouldn’t move. Not even a smidgen. Tried the teeth, until I remembered that I just recently promised my dentist I’d stop using them as tools, during my last visit…while she was bonding a reoccurring chip. So, re-checking my arrow-alignment, I tried again…and again…until my thumbs were white from excessive pressure and lack of blood supply and my nails had been split up the center. Frustrated and infuriated, I put the bottle down, and called to my daughter, assuring her that I was on my way….Then I did what any reasonable person would do in an ongoing crisis: I violently banged the bottle hard against the counter and then re-assessed the situation. Packaging off. Arrows lined up. Push up on lid. Nothing. So then I started thinking that the ‘arrow liner-upper’ machine may have been a little off on the day this particular pill bottle was manufactured, so I began to slowly and systematically misalign the arrows in increments of millimeters and attempted to release the cap at each new position. After a series of attempts….around the entire circumference of that demon bottle, and an extra 10 minutes of aggravation, I gave up. “Maybe this is a trick bottle!” I actually thought. “Or maybe the guy at the factory thought he’d be funny and ‘crazy glue’ the tops down on the batch he was working on”. “ To hell with him!” I actually said out loud, I’m getting Tylenol!”

     All this brought back flooding memories of the irksome situation I encountered during my recent shoulder surgery. One of the most painful and limiting states I’ve ever been in, my right arm was permanently secured in a fixed and uncomfortable position for 4 weeks…..24 hours a day. Being that it was an extensive surgery and painful recovery, I was given pain medication….in little safety-lid bottles….with ‘push down and turn’ instructions imprinted on the top. What? With one arm? One of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard of is to give a person with one available arm a task that requires two arms…or at least super-human finger dexterity and strength. Seeing me attempt to open these buggers, you’d have thought I was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil or the role of an ape in an upcoming movie.

     My first solution to the problem was rather innocent and amateur, but I started thinking that maybe my knees could be of some use. I’d put the bottle between those knobby things, push in tightly and securely as if trying to steer an obstinate and petulant horse, and with my good arm, I’d push down on that cap and try to turn it at the precisely same time. Sometimes I’d just end up pushing the whole bottle out the back side of my knees onto the floor, sometimes it’d get stuck in between the folds of my pants, and on the good days, the lid would come off in my hand, but the little white and rolling tablets would spew all over the floor, wedging into every crevasse and behind or under every piece of furniture in the room. At least they were out.

     My second brilliant idea was to use my teeth…which explains the repeated visits to the dentist and the ensuing ‘I will not use my teeth as tools’ vow. It wasn’t particularly effective anyhow and probably even a little dangerous. Imagine putting a tipped pill bottle full of potentially lethal drugs into your mouth, and attempting to pop off the lid with a simultaneous push and turn motion, using just your teeth. And I thought tying a cherry stem was hard. Sheesh! I could have died if all those pills jetted out and were shot down my gullet when the top came off. Never mind choking on the lid as it was propelled back and down into the perfectly similarly sized esophagus. Probably not my most well thought out idea, nor the safest, but I was in pain for crying out loud. Who can think?

     Then, miraculously, I discovered the ever-so-clever and trouble-free method of using my feet. A little acrobatic, perhaps, but being that I am uber-loose and flexible (reason for my surgery to begin with), it worked beautifully for me. Sitting on the floor one day, after picking up about 30 pills from a successful knee-session, I noticed them….my feet. Movable parts. Strong. A pair. Excited, I put an unopened pill bottle between those feet, curled my toes around with confidence, and with my good arm, pushed and turned and ‘Eureka!’ the top came off with ease. How could I have not thought about my feet before? Why didn’t someone mention that possibility to me? (Like the unobservant pharmacist who blindly handed those tricky little bottles to me…..obviously unaware of the enormous bolster sling eclipsing my body). Hello?

     It was a revelation and a realization that feet are not just for walking and toes are not just for putting pretty nail polish on….feet are neat! Heck, according to science my ancestors had huge uses for them, and even though we’ve evolved to the point of not having ultra-movable and thumb-ish big toes, I don’t think feet are given enough credit or chance to reach their potential. I know that some religions even have rules against feet, but are they really aware of their versatility? Other than those terribly unfortunate armless people who use their feet as a replacement for hands, I don’t think anyone really even thinks about them, let alone appreciates them. Dancers might, although obviously not enough to revolt against wearing point shoes….which is akin to foot binding in my mind.

     So anyway, I became so advanced with the foot method of bottle ingress that I was able to engage in an efficient and spill-less maneuver every time, either sitting or even standing. By the time I was pain-free enough to go without meds, I was opening wine bottles and even soup cans with those extraordinary and complex bony pads. Bizarre, astonishing, incredible…I know. Ah yes, Plato, “Necessity, who is the mother of invention.” And basically when you really want soup, you really want soup.

     But back to the pill bottles.

     If we have the technology to re-assemble, remove, replant and replace human parts, certainly we can figure out a solution to the pill bottle problem. It’s almost as if the entire medical field stops just short of the finish line: They patch us up and put us together, write the prescription for the inevitable and all-consuming pain, give us the medication that’s supposed to alleviate that pain.…and then let us fend for ourselves. It’s all fine, if none of your ailments affect your upper body….and you have the appropriate ‘cap-coordination’ and ‘finger-force’….or a permanent lid-loosening nurse.

     I am aware, that ‘childproof’ caps were invented so that the substance would be childproofed, but did the architects of this design intend for them to be ‘old lady’ and ‘injured upper body’ proofed as well? Besides, research shows that more than a million kids are accidently poisoned every year, and mostly from products that were in childproof containers. Not only are the containers seemingly easier for kids than for me to open, but maybe parents then rely on this false sense of security and aren’t cautious with their medications, or mouthwash or whatever. Maybe a little more responsibility should lie with the parents who have these items in their possession….how original. And as far as the taste or color being attractive to a 4 year old, I know my pain pills certainly did not taste good and they were just a plain old boring white. But as far as over-the-counter meds go…for adults anyway… I really don’t see the need for ibuprofen that tastes like candy corn, so they can just discontinue the superfluous coating and eliminate that ‘attractive nuisance’ right now. And think about this: Is it possible that because bottles are so hard to open, people might be inclined to leave the cap off entirely, effectively defeating the whole purpose and intention of that lid in the first place?

     Did the cap geniuses think about that?

     And how come alcohol isn’t childproofed? Couldn’t that be just as detrimental? Pretty colors. Better flavor. Easy to swallow. Uncomplicated screw cap. And how about Oreo’s…..? Nothing good for anybody in those destructive disks.

     Could we have a meeting? I think a task force needs to be set up with the masterminds who invented these ‘people proof’ caps. Maybe childproof caps only for yummy and fun flavored children products-where an adult is required to be present to administer it anyway (hopefully someone who has working arms), and easier screw caps…or blister packs for adults who just need to take the damn things without the added pain. In any case, someone needs to talk to that group. I see a boardroom filled with mothers, people in slings, people with herniated disks and arthritis, some upper body mechanics doctors, and maybe even a few toddlers. I’d volunteer, although I won’t hold my breath for the call.

     Either that, or maybe we should start protesting outside of pharmacies…holding up signs….with our feet.