opportunity of a lifetime

Everyone likely has an opportunity of a lifetime. The challenge is recognizing it as such and capitalizing on it.

For example, my sister got into a kerfuffle with an airline over the cost of her ticket. The details are unimportant. What IS important is that she was able to recognize and seize on an important opportunity, in fact, in all likelihood, the opportunity of a lifetime.

You see, once she was irritated, she demanded to talk to a customer service representative. And she was connected with one named Buster. Perfect. Excellent. Once he regurgitated the company spiel re cost of one-way v. round-trip flights, she was able to say, “Listen Buster . . . ”

Like I said, what an opportunity.

What do snow and adverbs have in common?

I know, I know. I’ve neglected you. It is not that I haven’t thought of “putting pen to paper,” rather every time I’ve considered it, I have filtered myself. (“I can’t write THAT! What if X reads it . . . “) You see? These are the problems of having a readership of a half dozen people.

So, this evening I decided I must write something. Let’s dispense with writing about the weather because it sucks. That is not a word I use often, rather it has crept into my vernacular having spent several years with younger people. But really, it is the word of the hour. It is April 22 and we are undergoing yet another major snowstorm. Really I don’t care about the snow or even the temperature, but the gray will do me in. Please Lord, a little sun is all I ask.

I have been thinking a lot about grammar lately. (Am now probably down to three readers.) In my freelance editing life, I am editing test questions for 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. Hope they know what an adverbial phrase is because I am not so sure. At the same time I am tutoring foreign speakers. In fact, I went hog wild and said I would help a Spanish speaker prepare for the GED. I taught her to write a 5-paragraph essay. She did a bang-up job, but now I need to tackle grammar. The organization is there, the content, but damn gerunds to hell.

My mother could wring her hands like the best of the Irish, and she wrung them plenty over the fact that I was never taught to diagram sentences. A horrible shortcoming. I distinctly remember weeping in grade school about my inability to identify adverbs. My mother assured me that knowledge would come with time.

Well, Mom, I am 54, it is snowing like crazy, and I don’t know how to diagram sentences. Life sucks.

“noise for the sake of noise”

I must credit my mother, not only for the title of this post, but for the concept. I will admit that as a young person, I did not understand her gripe, but now, at 54, I am with her — completely. At the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney . . .

What is with the nonstop music? Bad enough we had elevator music, but now stores have music, restaurants have music, malls have music, games have music. You can’t hear any conversation, much less hear yourself think.

do not go to a restaurant to listen to a CD. If I wanted to do that, I would have stayed home with earphones stuck in my ears. I came to 1. eat and 2. socialize and that stupid music makes both difficult (oh, okay, I can eat while the music blares.)

Which brings me to sporting events. What if one could go to a baseball game and the only thing to do was watch baseball? No rockin’ tunes, no t-shirts cannons, no free pizzas based on your seat or row, the number of walks or runs or score differential. No kiss cam, no individual running around in a costume acting stupid.

When we got annoyingly loud, my Mom complained that we were making “noise for the sake of noise.” We snickered but I am not snickering anymore. Bring on the silence.

my dog was a horse

It is quite clear to me, that in a former life, Hunter, my dog, was a horse.

The evidence is as follows:

  1. He rears up on his hind legs to greet people. I do not mean he jumps on them. Yes, this happens but he also just rears up, like an over-zealous uncle who screams, “WELCOME.”
  2. He rears up and uses his front paws to knock the leash from my hands when he is unhappy about my directional decisions. “NO, NO, NOT THAT WAY. I DO NOT WANT TO GO THAT WAY.”

Every time he executes his horse-move, I am reminded of one of the illustrations in my childhood copy of Black Beauty. (I believe it was when she (he?) had to be blindfolded because of a fire in the stable, but this image will do.)

black beauty

black beauty (futurely known as Hunter)

I liked BB (Black Beauty), Flicka was my friend, and I didn’t think Mr. Ed was a stupid show. In fact, I “rode” a chair in our living room, as well as some old tires in the backyard. These horses had various names, but all were loyal to a fault, initially wild beyond compare, but tamed by moi.

I was always torn between owning Flicka v. Lassie so I am grateful that in my old age, I have a dog who thinks he is a horse.

my life as a seamstress

Growing up, I longed to sew and made many efforts to further my dream.

  • I asked for and received a toy sewing machine for Christmas. Based on the television advertisement, I was certain I would create masterpieces in no time whatsoever.
  • A few years later, I asked my Aunt Mary to tutor me. She did, but please note that her claim to fame was sewing rectangular cloth bandages for some do-good organization. She did, however, own a sewing machine, circa 1916.
  • Yet later, I enrolled in classes at the uptown Singer store with my friend Carolyn. On the first day my teacher announced that we would all enter our creations in the Stylemaker’s Contest at the end of the course. She would regret that decision.
  • Finally, I took a sewing unit in home ec class in summer school. Other than the beach cover-up I made (detailed below), the most memorable moment was when I cut the t-shirt i was wearing right along with the fabric for my beach cover-up.

My efforts resulted in a couple of memorable creations:

  • I chose to make a pair of shorts under my Aunt Mary’s tutelage. The fabric featured red, white, and blue patriotic stripes, and with good luck, I was hoping to have them ready by 4th of July. Alas I missed the deadline which was just as well because when completed they were very, very tight. All right, I could not get them beyond my thighs.
  • For my Stylemaker’s contest entry, I also chose a patriotic theme but figured shorts were a problem, so went with a pattern for a “shift.” (I believe “shift” is a Latin term for the easiest possible dress to sew.) Once again, by the end, my efforts resulted in something way too small. I need to make clear to my readers, that at this point in my life, I was waif-like in appearance, so my size was not the issue. I believe the issue was that the whole pinning and measuring seemed laborious. Certain “I knew better,” I often went rogue on the fabric cutting. Although I was able to struggle into the dress, it was very, very short, even in a days of mini-skirts. When I exited the dressing room in the back of the Singer store, my teacher was stunned. Carolyn laughed until she cried.
  • You may think I was deterred but no, I made yet one more attempt. In middle school home ec class, I set my sights on a beach coverup, also striped. I was extremely generous with the fabric, learning from the earlier shorts and dress debacles. When finished, the cover-up was both ugly and uncomfortable. On the upside I was able to put it one without cutting off my circulation. Once donned, I realized how itchy and uncomfortable it was, so decided to wash it to “soften it up.” At the end of the wash cycle, I retrieved it, both pieces, front and back, which had come unstitched in the washing machine.

Sewing is not in God’s plan for me.

self-do not help

Today’s post belongs in the self-do not help section. This section is located adjacent to self-help.

Last night I had a wonderful four hours of sleep then woke to spend an hour of so honing my skill of worrying. I worry best about those things which I cannot control, which, at 4:00 am, seem perfect topics.

One of my unique skills is to take any situation and work it into an awful outcome. Often I am able to come up with a couple alternates as well. On a lucky night, I am able to identify a critical role I played in the disastrous outcome.

I do not worry about world events, even local events, rather restrict my efforts to situations involving those I care about. This is handy because along with panicking I also feel guilty for my role in the outcome that I have constructed out of whole cloth. (Note: This is the only thing I will ever construct out of whole cloth despite several efforts to learn how to sew. These efforts will need to be detailed in another post.)

Last night I followed the advice of every women’s magazine I’ve ever read and got up to read. Did I choose some light reading? No, sir, I went right to my laptop and used the Internet to not only enlarge the possibilities of crises but their dire outcome.

I woke this morning, groggy, and quickly slap myself around for being up in the middle of the night. Upon reflection, I am reminded that all I spent time on is either out of my control or not likely to end in disaster.

So why did I do it? My mother. This is when I like to blame someone else, and my mother was nothing if not a Grade-A worrier.

I console myself knowing that, at least in my children’s minds, I will experience eternal life, because they will think of me whenever they spend a night tossing and turning.

medical terminology

As a crossword devotee I am familiar with the “medical suffix” clue (i.e., -itis [as in “arthritis”], -osis [as in halitosis] etc.) See Mr. Wikepedia for more. And I am impressed by large, complicated, hard-to-pronounce illnesses. We all die sometime. Would your rather go due to a heart attack or due to a bad case of cystoureteropyelonephritis? No contest. The obit, the wake, the funeral luncheon — all more interesting if the latter.

So today’s ramble concerns the other terms medical sorts use. The ones that make me scratch my head. Here’s a few I’ve come across . . .

1. event – The last few years of my mother’s life were miserable. She was blind, nearly deaf, couldn’t walk, didn’t know us, was confused, incontinent. You get the picture. A few days before her death, her doctor phoned and announced that my mother had suffered “an event.” Like a circus? Broadway show? I know he didn’t know exactly what happened but . . .

2. void – Anyone who has ever been in the hospital knows how anxious everyone is that you void. They even measure how much voiding you voided. Don’t think of voiding then flushing your void into the void without letting them know.

3. insult – One of my favorites. Any organ, bodily system can feel insulted. Insults may stem from another organ or system e.g., your brain feels insulted from a lack of oxygen OR can suffer an insult through some outside force e.g., my head suffered an insult when I conked it on the sidewalk. I always  imagine the affected part sulking like a child. “Fine. You do that, then I do this.” Tit for tat.

4. eliminate – This is a cousin of void. The question that always causes me pause is, “When did you last eliminate?” Eliminate what? Oh, oh, yes.  Sometimes one’s elimination is referenced as if the individual is not present. Nurse looks directly at doctor and states, “She hasn’t eliminated since last Tuesday.”

I will stay alert for other disappointing medical references and keep you posted. Please do the same.

 

 

smart phone? I think not.

On Tuesday, I nearly caused my smart phone to have a stroke. You see I was on my way to meet a client. I pawed in my purse and retrieved my “smart” phone and typed in my destination. The woman inside the phone guided my way to the client’s office.

I arrived. We met. I left and decided to take a new route home. Got lost. Pawed in my purse. Retrieved her. Opened the map app and figured out where I was. Started driving. Now you may think the worst is over. Au contraire. Next I dropped her smartness and she slid waaaaay under the seat. As I approached the next intersection, she called out, “Turn right.”

Ha! You not-so-smart phone. I would only turn right if I were going TO the client. NOW I am driving HOME. I proceeded straight through the intersection. As I approached the next intersection, she wailed, “TURN RIGHT.” I proceeded. “TURN RIGHT! TURN RIGHT!”

I flailed under the seat to calm her to no avail. “TURN RIGHT!” I continued on my way, now on familiar ground. “TURN RIGHT. TURN RIGHT.” I grow fearful that she may

  1. quit
  2. have a stroke
  3. become angry
  4. get laryngitis
  5. suffer a loss of self-esteem from being ignored

After 20 minutes of her insistence that I “turn right,” I pull into the garage, find her and put her out of her misery.

those tricky office appliances

I am a real pencil devotee. Forget the mechanical pencil. The lead in those snaps off, they are too skinny, and the erasers fall out. Furthermore I am a fan of the “Ticonderoga #2” pencil. Blow past “Rose Art.” If you haven’t hung around the school supply area of Target you may not understand the reference. Essentially Ticonderogas are the pencils choosy pencil users choose.

Once I made this life-altering observation about my preferred writing utensil, I decided to go whole hog and get myself an electric pencil sharpener. No more of those lousy less-than-$1 sharpeners from grade school days. No, I went with the Cadillac and never regretted it. When it broke, I decided to treat myself to another, but then remember pausing to consider the battery-operated style.

Fast forward . . . months go by and I am happily replete with sharp Ticonderogas. But one day, the sharpener failed. I stuck in the Ticonderoga and the silence was deafening. I checked to see if the tray of shavings had backed up into the motor. No. Hmm. I then did what I do when most things break. Nothing. I let them sit as I go through a phase where I hope the item will just start working again. After awhile I drift into Phase 2 which is the I-really-should-get-that-fixed phase.

I have been in Phase 2 for several months as my pencils grow increasingly dull. From time to time I am at the store and think that I wish I knew what size battery to buy for the sharpener. Recently I went so far as to call home to ask my husband but he wasn’t there.

Well today was the day. I needed a pencil and without further delay, leapt into Phase 3. Action. I took the sharpener and went looking in the drawer designated for batteries, tacks, string, instruction manuals, miscellaneous buttons and loose change. I located a bevy of batteries and then examined the sharpener to find the battery compartment. I couldn’t find it! After several seconds, I noted the doohickey on the back to plug in a power cord. AHH!!

The memory came flooding back. Several weeks ago I discovered a cord plugged into the power strip under my desk and for the life of me, I had no idea what it was for. Neither did my husband. He advised me to throw it out. Because I am clever, I did not. So, after months of not having a sharpener I hightailed it to the cabinet designated for things we don’t know how or where to use and there was the mysterious cord.

Wouldn’t you know. I plugged one end into the sharpener, the other into the outlet and now VOILA my pencils are sharp. Too bad I am not …

 

mission

We all need a mission in life, and I have chosen one. You may think it is about law or justice, and it is, after a fashion. I have made justice my mantra as related to toilet paper and soap in the womens’ restroom. I have no shortage of work. It is a rare event to find a lady’s restroom with toilet paper AND soap AND paper towel.

My daughter observed me march from stall to cash register to inform the clerk that the ladys’ room was out of t.p. She was amused — the way we are amused when the elderly do something — but I told her she would thank me. Because of my crusade, the future looks good.

Most of my work is done at gas stations along the interstate. I visit the restroom, then without fail, note a deficiency, so hustle off to the front counter and let them know. Most of the time, they stare at me like, “What can I do about it?” Or worse, “Why would I care?” Because I then must continue the journey, I don’t know if the clerk wipes that stupid look of his/her face hustles in and makes amends, but I presume they do. Which makes me a hero. (heroine)