Tom Swift

One of the assignments I never completed in my writing course was to record a conversation. Dialogue can be difficult to write and the instructor said that would be good practice. She was probably right.

There is a word-play game based on the dialogue found in Tom Swift books. (Tom Swift was a science fiction teenager dating back to 1910, but still popular in the 50's and 60's.) The characters in these books never said anything plainly; it was always “excitedly”, “slowly”, “laughingly”, and so on. The game is called Tom Swifties and goes like this:

“I’d like a martini,” Tom said dryly.
“I’d like ice in my drink,” Sue commanded coldly.
“I’d like milk,” John uttered.
“I’m a runner,” he said quickly.
“I prefer to walk,” she said slowly.
“I’m very sleepy,” Melissa said dreamily.
“Would you like a pillow?” Janet asked softly.
“Do stop and see me sometimes,” he said haltingly.
“Did you lose?” he asked winningly.
“I really like frogs,” Holly croaked.
“I like birds,” she chirped.
“You little devil!” she jeered evilly.

Here are some better ones from the web site http://www.jokesnjokes.net/:
"I forgot what to buy," Tom said listlessly.
"I need a home run hitter," Tom said ruthlessly.
"I need a pencil sharpener," said Tom bluntly.
"I only get Newsweek," said Tom timelessly.
"I don't like hot dogs," Tom said frankly.
"I'll try and dig it up for you," Tom said gravely.
"I'm back from my lobotomy," said Tom absentmindedly.

This one came from http://www.metafilter.com/mefi/27495 , a site with really bad (and some naughty) Swifties: "I dropped my toothpaste," said Tom, crestfallen.

“This is the end,” Martha finally wrote.

TV isn't really real

I hate to admit it but I watch “reality” TV. I resisted as long as I could, but they invaded the airwaves until I only had two alternatives – watch them or don’t watch TV. The latter is an unacceptable alternative to someone of my generation. The first generation to be plunked in front of a television every Saturday morning. The generation that invented “TV dinners”, TV trays, rabbit ears, and game shows.

So I watch reality shows. I don’t know why they’re called “reality”; King of the Hill and the Simpsons are more real than many scenarios you can watch on reality TV. When was the last time you were cast away on an island with a dozen strangers and two dozen TV cameras? When was the last time you vied for the attentions of a handsome bachelor? (and why didn’t you invite me?) When was the last time you ate maggots mixed with hissing roaches just before you put on a bikini to bike across a narrow beam suspended between two high rise buildings?

I have a handful of favorites. The Amazing Race, The Apprentice, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition; Endurance Hawaii, The Next Top Model (don’t ask).

I like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Nobody competes, everybody wins, and nobody lies, cheats, or steals. At least not as part of the show. Last night they were interviewing volunteers from a Florida organization called Builders Care. When asked why he volunteered his time after spending all day at work, one man replied, “I help my neighbor, he helps his neighbor, and this becomes a better world.”

Here’s to a better world!

High fives all around

Ask Wes what score he got on his calculus exam. And then say Congratulations! Well done! Impressive!

Then see if you can get him to do that dance again.

Did Hell freeze over?

When I went out to get the mail yesterday evening, I was assaulted by snow. Snow! It was 80 degrees less than a week ago and now it's snowing. Snowing!

Sometimes I have a hard time appreciating God's sense of humor.

Take a Detroit Left at the Light

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. After a week of restless nights in a hotel, I slept in my own bed last night. I was in bed by 10 and slept through till 6. I only woke up because some fool didn’t turn off the alarm. That fool would be me. I distinctly remember moving the switch on the alarm, but I must have been dreaming. To be quite truthful, I was in bed by 10, but fell asleep about 9.

It was a business trip. Not a “fun” trip, but we managed to have fun whenever we could. Through the years I have found the best way to tolerate, and even enjoy, anything associated with work is to make it as fun as possible. Often this means poking fun at the thing that is the most exasperating.

During our forays through the city, we all developed something in common – a deep and abiding disrespect for the Street Committee. There’s probably no such group, but it’s not hard to believe that a committee was responsible for the idiosyncrasies of the streets in that city.

It was our daily team-building activity to ridicule the streets and traffic system, identifying new annoyances and mocking yesterday's finds. For some reason the Street Committee had decreed that you should turn right to go left. U turns were not just legal, but encouraged (not that any of the guys needed that much encouragement.) Sometimes the left turn signal was a flashing red light. Not a yellow light meaning Yield! But a red light that in every normal community means Stop!

Cross streets were named one thing on one side of the street and something else on the other. Building numbers were odd on one side of the street and even on the other, but would sometimes switch sides for no apparent reason. Streets signs for North Wayne Street and South Wayne Street only said Wayne Street. Street signs were often hard to find and harder to read. It’s not that most streets didn’t have street signs, they were just hidden and too small to read without binoculars. One street became an interstate highway for just a few miles before becoming a street again. There were dirt roads near downtown. A lot of roads needed repaving. And on and on.

Well, I’m home again.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. My father used to say that when we got home after a trip. It's just one of those silly, half embarrassing, half endearing things that all fathers say to their children. One of those things that make you roll your eyes when you're a teenager. One of those things that you remember when you’re older and wish you could hear just one more time, but know you’ll never hear again, not from the same voice.

My father wouldn’t have liked that city. He didn’t believe in u-turns. He taught me to never turn around, to always keep going in the right direction. Sooner or later you’ll get where you’re going, he’d say. Just enjoy the ride and watch the scenery along the way.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jog.

It takes all kinds

I'm waiting on some friends. They are late as usual. Yesterday they told me about talking to some people with obvious needle tracks and other scars they didn't want to ask about. It reminded me of a man I used to know. A patient. When I was a student nurse he came into the hospital fairly frequently. I don't remember his name; I don't remember the problem that brought him into the hospital, but it was related to drug use.

I played cards with him whenever I had time. Back then, nursing was as much an art as a science and things like playing cards with your patients was considered therapeutic. It gave you an opportunity to learn as well as to teach. He told me about his drug habit, his drug of choice was heroin. He told me that he took heroin to escape the problems in his life, even knowing that when he came down from the high the problems would be worse, not gone. He just couldn't/wouldn't kick it.

One morning after we had finished our card game and I was leaving, he asked me if I could check to see if the doctor had ordered Methadone (a legal "heroin substitutue") and if he had, to have his nurse bring him a dose. I said, "Sure and if you don't have an order, I'll see that you get one." Then I remembered, so I turned to him and asked, "Today is Monday. You've been here all weekend. Why do you just now need the meth?" He laughed and replied, "I just now ran out of H."

I don't know where you are. Probably long gone. Drug addicts aren't know for their longevity. I still worry about you. You were an intelligent, articulate young man whose future was poured into drugs. I hope you know how much you taught me. Not just how to play cards. Not just about drug addiction. You taught me that it's easy to condemn the actions and not condemn the man.

Traveling

I’m taking a trip tomorrow – business, not pleasure. I don’t take many trips for pleasure anymore. Traveling lost its allure when the price of gas increased and the size of airline seats decreased. Coincidently, this happened about the same time my own seat width increased. Now I just stay at home and complain I never go anywhere anymore.

I have never been fond of airplane travel. The airports are too demanding. Go here to embark, go there to disembark. Put your luggage here, but don’t put it anywhere if it’s bigger than this. Let me see what’s in that bag before we leave. Sit in that seat. No, not that one! Fasten your seat belt. Sit up straight. It’s like traveling with your parents.

And besides, they won’t let me drive.

It takes forever. I know technically it doesn’t take as long as driving, but if you get tired of driving you just stop and do something else. Unless you’re traveling with men, then it’s a whole other story. Men don’t seem to understand the concept of “Stop the car, I want to see that museum.” “Stop the car, it’s making a funny noise.” “Stop the car, I have to pee. Yes, I know I had to pee this morning, but I have to pee again this afternoon. And no, I won’t try to hit that soda can while traveling at 80 miles an hour. Just stop this *&^% car! You know I didn't mean here. I'm not going to squat beside the car on the Interstate.”

And besides, they won’t let me drive.

I know I’m generalizing. Some men will let you drive.

My sister won’t. Unless she thinks there’s a speed trap ahead - then it's my turn at the wheel. Don’t ask me how she knows – if I could figure it out, I’d be selling it on eBay.

If you don't mind an old lady giving advice: As you travel through life, stop and pee when you see a restroom. You never know when you'll get another chance.

Looking for a new job?

I worked as a nurse for several years, but I just didn’t have the patience for the job.

I was a cowboy for a short while, till the boss caught me horsing around.

I thought I wanted to be a plumber, but I found the job too draining.

I shined as an astronomer until I mooned my manager.

I once thought I had found my calling as a telephone operator.

I wanted to be a butcher, but found I couldn’t cut it.

I tried to be a professional nanny, but couldn’t stop kidding around.

I worked as a carpenter till I got bored.

I didn’t have the sense to be a banker.

I used to work at the IRS, but the job was too taxing.

I worked as a piano salesman until somebody changed the keys and I couldn’t get in the office.

I got fired from my job with the circus because I couldn’t quit clowning around.

I tried to be a real estate agent but could never land a job.

I tried to be a pilot but could never land a job.

I work as a secretary when the boss is short-handed.

I tried to be a seamstress, but felt hemmed in.

I tried to be a tailor, but didn’t fit in.

I trained to be an engineer.

I used to be a data analyst, but I knew my days at that job were numbered so I left to be an investigator. I got fired when the manager discovered I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do.

You Are My Hero

I have had many fictional heroines in my life that have shaped my character as much as any living woman has. Through decades of television, my heroines have changed at the whim of network programming directors, but their lessons have remained with me.

The first one I can remember is Annie Oakley who had her own Saturday morning television series (starring Gail Davis). Although Ms. Oakley was an independent cowgirl who took nothing off nobody, she always took care of her baby brother, Tagg. My own baby brother, John, owes her a world of thanks.

The women on television through the 60’s were, for the most part, mild mannered, can’t-do-a-thing-without-the-help-of-a-man, stay-at-home moms – too real and not real enough to be heroes.

But in the 70’s, Betty Jones joined her father-in-law, Barnaby, in his detective agency. Not one to shrink in a corner during a fight like most secretaries, Betty would wade right in and smack the bad guy up side the head with a lamp. (Never mess with a former beauty queen. Apparently, they have issues.)

Before the 70’s were over, along came Miss Piggy. Underneath that sexy façade was a woman of steel who knew who she was and was proud of it. If you got in her way she’d just yell “HIYAHHH” and give you a swift kick, but she never let you forget she was a lady.

The Golden Girls came along in the 80’s to prove that women over 50 were not just existing, but exuberant, vibrant, and competent. Not your obvious heroes, they taught us about the curative powers of cheesecake,t hat strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet, and to embrace new adventures even into old age.

My heroine through the next decade was Murphy Brown. She didn’t always think before she acted, she was self-centered, she was opinionated. Dan Quayle thought she made a poor role model. She was passionate about her job, an advocate of justice, she accepted responsibility for her actions. You could do worse.

Sometimes you have to stand and fight. Xena, the Warrior Princess, taught me that. She also taught me to do the warrior yell. A blood curdling sound that scares your opponents so you don't have to use Miss Piggy's swift kick. Xena showed me that you always have options.

and Arithmetic

This is a fun little math exercise to demonstrate that in modern math 2 + 2 doesn’t always equal 4. I have found that it can amaze and confuse your mother, grade school kids, and math-impaired siblings. This works especially well on a computer spreadsheet where you can format the cells and change the numbers right before their eyes.

1.6 + 1.6 = 3.2
1.9 + 1.9 = 3.8
2.4 + 2.4 = 4.8

Round the numbers in those equations to the nearest whole number and you get 3 different answers to 2 + 2:

2 + 2 = 3
2 + 2 = 4
2 + 2 = 5

Learning to Read

I recently read that the number of people in the US that list reading as a favorite leisure time activity has been increasing steadily for the past five years. I was reading long before it became popular. I read voraciously when I was a child, long before there were computers and video games.

A few years ago, I was at a funeral and ran into a cousin that I hadn’t seen since the last funeral. We discussed how long it had been and he lied about how good I looked and I commented that nobody seemed to recognize me any better than I recognized them. He replied, “You should have a book in your hand. Then everyone would know it was you.”

I have done my best to pass along my love for the written word to my young relatives and have had moderate success. I read the Mickey Mouse version of “Jack the Giant Killer” to my baby brother night after night after night. After night. I was thrilled when he learned to read (and thrilled to report that, as far as I know, he has never aspired to be like Jack).

I allowed my great niece to choose a book when we visited a mall book store. She wasn’t yet old enough to talk, could barely walk, but she insisted on “A Child’s First Dictionary.” Nothing I showed her enticed her away from her first selection, so that's what we bought. She insisted I read it to her over and over and over. And over. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to read a dictionary out loud, but once is enough.

Some of my nephew’s favorite books were the Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective series by Donald J. Sobol. Several years ago, I heard Mr. Sobol discuss writing at a book fair in Florida. He talked about getting the first book published. He sent it out again and again and again. And again. A gazillion times in total before he found a publisher and Encyclopedia Brown hasn’t been out of print since. I can’t remember the number of times, Mr. Sobol submitted his book to publishers; I just know it was unbelievable to me that he had that much perseverance, that much faith in his own ability.

Night after night after night. Over and over and over. Again and again and again. Perseverance. That's what it takes to learn to read.

Write On!

I’m sitting here on Saturday morning, half asleep, trying to think of something brilliant to write today. I’m taking a creative writing course and I’m suppose to write 5 or 10 minutes a day. I can’t remember which. It’s an on-line course and nobody knows if I’m goofing off or actually doing the assignments so for the first 3 weeks I wrote for 5 minutes. Not 5 minutes a day, just 5 minutes.

The fourth week, I started this blog as an incentive to write daily. In one of the course’s first classes, the instructor wrote about using imaginary “chair glue” to keep you stuck in your seat until you have completed your daily writing assignment. I don’t need it. I have no problems sitting here for 5 or 10 minutes. Especially when I’m half asleep. It’s the writing that’s hard. Especially when I’m half asleep.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. Like most people my age, I have years of stories to tell. Some of them aren’t interesting to anyone but family, some just aren’t interesting, and some are interesting, but just not suitable for a public forum.

Those are the ones you’re going to have to pay to read.

I Like Rock and Roll

My cousin laughs at me when I say “rock and roll.” He says I’m old fashioned, I tell him today’s music doesn’t have the same soul.

I woke up this morning singing “I like rock and roll the back of my neck gettn’ dirty and gritty I like rock and roll.’ (Yeah, that must have been some kind of dream.) I couldn’t remember either the dream or the actual words to either song, but I danced through my shower and that’s not a bad way to start the day.

My radio kicked on half way through brushing my teeth, just in time for me to hear Rod Stewart demand to know if I thought he was sexy and if I liked his body so I rocked to classic rock and roll all day. I just couldn’t get those &*^% songs out of my head.

The people in my unit like to sing. They have very eclectic tastes. I taught Mike the words to “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road”, but he’s still having trouble finding the tune. With a song like that, it doesn’t really matter.

Today I was serenaded by CJ singing “Deep and Wide” and Wes’s version of “If the Devil Doesn’t Like It, He Can Sit on A Tack.” I can’t remember why we held Bible School in my cube, but now I’m singing, “I like rock and roll. And if the devil doesn’t like it, he can hit the road.”

Thanks, guys. I owe you one.

Happy Birthday, Mom

I have been thinking of my mother this past week. As happens to most daughters, I have come to the age when I look into the mirror and occasionally see traces of my mother’s face staring back at me, mocking me.

My mother would have been 85 today, but she died shortly after Christmas in 1999. She had been complaining of feeling ill for several months, but everyone – even her doctor – dismissed it as “old age”. Her other daughters urged her to get more exercise and stop complaining; I urged her to complain to her doctor until she was heard.

Eventually and quite by accident, she was seen by another physician who readily diagnosed her and gave her six months to live. Always the obedient patient, my mother died six months later. During those six months, my sisters and I took turns driving my mother, the doctors, the hospital, and each other crazy. It was a short trip for all of us.

My mother was almost 80 when she died and by many people’s reckoning, she lived a long life. But it wasn’t long enough.

Shortly before her diagnosis Mother had bought a computer and was learning to use the internet and email. She had volunteered to help disadvantaged children at a local school learn to use computers. She was afraid she didn’t have enough knowledge to offer them, that they would know more than she did, but she didn’t let her fears stop her. She was actually looking forward to entering that alien environment and was disappointed when she realized she was too ill to go.

My mother never got her chance to teach those kids, but I hope you learn at least three things from reading this:
Never accept old age as a reason.
Never give old age as an excuse.
No life is ever long enough, so while you’ve got the chance, live it.

Adult Humor

Did you ever notice that "Adult Humor" rarely is either?

I work in a place that gives new meaning to the term. It takes so little to amuse some of my co-workers. If you don't believe me, just break a little wind. It appears that nothing is so humorous as a good fart sound.

Mike keeps a can of ‘Fart Putty’ hidden on his desk. His manager gave it to him. (If you’ve never heard of ‘Fart Putty’, think of it as the red-neck version of silly putty.) Mike has become quite a virtuoso of Fart Putty sound effects and occasionally entertains us with an original arrangement of toots, blats, and other objectionable noises, but all it really takes is one little ‘pfutt’ to bring down the house.

Actually, you don’t have to make a sound or say the word. Just say, "But Aunt Fanny, we were using our arms!" CJ and Denise will be rolling in the aisles.

Sunday morning

It's Sunday morning. It's still early and very quiet.

One of the women I work with, Holly, went camping this week. It's a little cold to go camping yet, but she's young and is prepared for the adventure of freezing her rear off.

When you get old camping loses a lot of it's appeal, but I envy her this morning. I remember the routine. You crawl out of your sleeping bag, and shiver because it's just a little too cold, but somebody finally gets the fire going and it feels so good. You sip some hot chocolate because somebody else finally got the Coleman stove to work.

You talk in hushed voices, partly because you're not awake yet, partly because your neighbors aren't awake yet, and partly because it's so quiet it would seem sacrilegious to use more worldly tones.

One of the little kids wiggles out of a tent, blinks a few times, and curls up in your lap to steal your warmth and your chocolate. For a few minutes, all is right with the world and freezing your rear off seems like a good thing.

My New Blog

I am starting this blog today. Mainly so I can say I have a blog. Partly because I have a lot to say and nobody will listen to me in the real world. (Actual quote from a psych patient, "I don't mind visiting reality, but I don't want to live there.")

I am the oldest person in my department at work. I don't know when that happened. I don't know how. I haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up and I don't have much time left.

I work at a fun place. You know it's a fun place when you're blowing up a balloon and you hear somebody in the next cube say indignantly, "I'm making a necklace for my cow!"

It's going to tick Wes off that I'm not going to explain why he was making a necklace for his cow, but I'm old and the only real enjoyment I get out of life anymore is ticking people off.

I think I'm growing old graciously, but I do like to play the 'old lady' card. Like in, "I'm old, you do it.'

This blog will be a lot about growing old, but old people have wandering minds so it will include whatever I want to talk about.

Sometimes I will write about the people I work with. That threat will either keep them on their toes or encourage them to do things that might get posted.

Till the next posting, Mahantia! That means "May God give you everything you deserve." If you are a good person, it's a blessing, if you aren't, it's a curse. Either way, it's out of my hands and into God's. I don't want to judge you - I will, but I don't want to.