Back from Alabama. Sorry, no banjo.

I had an amazing four-day weekend with a dear friend in Alabama. I have much to share, from the cheese extravaganza to the vampire ballerina, but I'm exhausted and buried with work and life and other hazards right now. We hired two staffers this week, thank God! (Cue the applause and fireworks.) That means I can become one person again instead of three. Starting next Monday! One of the hires is a photographer I worked with at The Lubbock Avalanche-Journal. We made quite a team back then, and I'm looking forward to working with her again.

That's it for now. Pray for me, friends. I'm tired, body and soul.

Now who can resist a yodeling pickle?

If that doesn't strike your fancy, what about an Angry Mob Action Set? Better yet, try a Horrified B-Movie Victims action set. Too pedestrian for you? There's always the Albert Einstein Action Figure.

Next time I'm in Seattle, I'm going to have to stop by Archie McPhee. It's a novelty store that bills itself as "slightly less disappointing than other companies." I stumbled across a Travel Channel feature on the wacky enterprise, and I couldn't stop laughing. I know where I'm doing my Christmas shopping next year!

Here are some other gadgets "made by pixies," who obviously have lots of free time and a quirky sense of humor.

     

     * Cow acupuncture model

     * Gummy haggis

     * Pickle-pults (think catapults)

     * Mr. Bacon vs. Monsieur Tofu

     * Beef bandage assortment (including bacon strip bandages)

     * Commie mustache and beard set

     * Fiber optic mullet wig

     * Shroud of Turin Winky Jesus Card

There are too many great ones to list. Go check out their Web site, "where pickles yodel and lederhosen run free." And before you click your way over there, take a gander at one of their commercials. Who knew garden gnomes were so versatile?

Tapping the Spirit of Writing

Tonight this spoke to my weary writer's soul. Maybe it's time to go sweep behind the couch. 

"I, too, had a pen rolling about somewhere — the seldom-used, the reluctantly taken-up pen of a sailor ashore, the pen rugged with the dried ink of abandoned attempts, infinite reluctance, and put off suddenly till next day — till next week, as like as not! The neglected, uncared-for pen, flung away at the slightest provocation, and under the stress of dire necessity hunted for without enthusiasm, in a perfunctory, grumpy worry, in the "Where the devil IS the beastly thing gone to?" ungracious spirit. Where, indeed! It might have been reposing behind the sofa for a day or so. Or it might even be resting delicately poised on its point by the side of the table-leg, and when picked up show a gaping, inefficient beak which would have discouraged any man of literary instincts. But not me!"

— Joseph Conrad, 

Excerpted from A Personal Record, republished in 

The Spirit of Writing: Classic and Contemporary Essays 

          Celebrating the Writing Life

As I lay melting...

A local coffee shop gives poets the stage every Thursday night, and I was lucky enough to stumble into some vivid, enchanting and often hilarious readings last week. Some classic, some original, some in rhyme, others beating out their own strange rhythm. It reawakened me to the power of poetry to capture the essence of a moment. In honor of Waco hitting the 102-degree mark today, I give you a few lines on summer from Robert Louis Stevenson.

Summer Sun

By Robert Louis Stevenson

Great is the sun, and wide he goes

Through empty heaven with repose; 

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull

To keep the shady parlour cool,

Yet he will find a chink or two

To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad

He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;

And through the broken edge of tiles

Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around

He bares to all the garden ground

And sheds a warm and glittering look

Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,

Round the bright air with footing true,

To please the child, to paint the rose,

The gardener of the World, he goes.

Experiencing 3-D with Mamma mia

Mom and I had intended to see the new musical Mamma Mia this weekend, but the show sold out before we got to the front of the line. So we opted for the 3-D Brendan Fraser flick, Journey to the Center of the Earth. Despite being a child during the pinnacle of the 3-D  era, this was my first experience with three-dimensional filmography. I expected a great vehicle for Kraft product placement (It's the cheesiest!), but I was pleasantly surprised by a decent story line and solid acting. Not to mention very cool in-your-face graphics that made viewers duck and dodge tentacles, dinosaurs and glow-in-the-dark birds. This is one kids movie that the adults will enjoy, too. And if we're really lucky, a few moviegoers will crack their own copy of the Jules Verne classic. 

And no more cardboard spectacles with one red lens and one blue. The shades are much trendier these days. Still, having to wear shades on top of my regular glasses made me glad we were in a dark theater. My bespectacled readers will have to double up, too. Ever wonder what a 3-D movie looks like without the glasses? Much like watching a movie without your prescription glasses. Sure-fire recipe for a killer headache. Click the 3-D link above for a brief explanation of how the technology works. Coming to theaters soon: a 3-D CGI movie about flies on a journey into space. 

Another blast from the past? (Pardon the reference, Brendan.) I heard a piece on NPR this week about John Waters, the man behind Hairspray. Somehow I've made it 31 years without hearing of Odorama, which is how he filmed the 1981 movie Polyester. That's right. Scratch 'n' sniff cards that let you experience the full-bodied grossness of gym socks, dead fish and assorted nefarious bodily odors. It was an interesting interview. Learn all about Smellovision here.

That's really going to leave a mark

I'm not limping as much today, but I'm getting lots of sympathetic looks from passers-by because the bruises get uglier every day. I'm just waiting for someone to hand me a card for a battered women's shelter.

On a positive note, we're moving ahead with the interview process at work. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping I'll get some backup before the semester begins. If I have to go through another year like the last one, I may throw myself down the staircase again. This time on purpose.

Musings from the stairwell floor

Today's lesson, boys and girls, is brought to you by the letter B.

Balance has never been my strong suit. And that's in any context, whether we're talking physical equilibrium or the ephemeral balance between work and play, bliss and despair. I tend to be a woman of extremes. So I'm not surprised that I found myself yesterday afternoon at the bottom of a flight of concrete stairs. With my poor sense of balance, I always figured I'd one day go stair-diving; I just figured I'd be 75 and end up breaking a hip. Instead, I was 31 and clipped the edge of a dolly on the nearby rail. I went head-first down the staircase, a series of thuds punctuating each slam of my flesh on the unforgiving concrete. 

I am bruised aplenty and did quite a number on my ankle, but aside from stiffness and tenderness I'm not too worse for the wear. And my skin matches the lovely teal blouse I was wearing yesterday. (I do so like to blend.) The irony is that I had my back X-rayed not two hours before I took the spill. I think the accident actually knocked something back into place.  

I am reminded of when my car did a couple of 360s on Interstate 20 after I swerved to avoid a tire in the road. When it happened, I couldn't think about other people driving 70 mph behind me. All I could do is mentally chant: Don't flip the car. Don't flip the car. Don't flip the car. I managed to keep the car from flipping, and God protected us all on the interstate that day. I did a couple of donuts and slid harmlessly off the side of the highway into a ditch. Not a scratch on me, the car or the passers-by. In yesterday's embarrassing spill, I managed to protect my head and neck, letting my arms and legs take the brunt of the impact. Another deliverance from serious harm, thank God.

So what lessons did I learn from this?

1. Stair-diving isn't as fun as it looks. I should have read the rules first.

2. You can't will yourself upright when you're already at a 90-degree angle.

3. When circumstances pull your feet out from under you and there's nowhere to go but down, protect your head and let your body take the lumps. Bruises eventually heal.

If anybody asks about the beating I took, I'll tell them the truth. I got into a fight with some concrete stairs, but only one of us got up and walked away. That makes me the winner.

Texas meets the Big Apple

My sister and I traveled to New York City this spring for a visit that was part work, part play. I've pinpointed some of the highlights of the trip on the map below. I am experimenting with Google Maps, which is a handy application that my students will probably use this year. Click on the blue pins to see photos and comments. It's only a tiny bite of the Big Apple, but it's still pretty tasty.

You'll need to click on "view larger map" in order to see the balloons pop up. (You can navigate using the arrows in the upper left corner, but that's pretty annoying.) Not sure what the problem is. I'm sure there's a setting somewhere I'm missing. If you know how to fix it, gimme a shout.


View Larger Map

Sum, sum, summertime: Look on the bright side

It's official: Waco is melting. Today logged in at a sweltering 101 degrees, which makes it the hottest day of the year. So far, anyway. I am reminded of the hot Texas summers of my youth, and why I always dreamed of moving to the northeast when I grew up. You'll not find me soaking up the rays beside a pool when the mercury's rising. I'll be locked away somewhere under the chilly breeze of an air conditioner.

But to be fair, there are a couple of summertime delights that I remember with fondness. 

* Lightning bugs. They gave a fairytale touch to a humid Texas night. Unfortunately, they never lived long in our baby food jars (we punctured the lids for air flow). They did, however, make great glow-in-the-dark badges when you squished them on your clothes. I hardly see lightning bugs anymore. Where, oh where, have all the fireflies gone?

* The Cooke County Library. This was the one place in town where you might want to bring a jacket in July. It was heavenly cold. You could escape from the heat while you escaped into a good book. Rows upon rows of adventure -- Nancy Drew, Sue Barton, The Happy Hollisters, Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, hundreds of assorted mysteries in nondescript hardback covers. I spent many happy hours in that building, and even now I can remember where my favorite books were located. Now, I'm sure, the card catalog has been replaced with computers and the little blue library cards replaced by scanners. Sigh...

* Fresh, sweet blackberries straight from the vine. (And the cobblers that follow.)

* The bittersweet buzz-clicking song of cicadas. Listen to it here.

 

What are your summer delights?

On being awake at an unnatural hour

Since I am awake at a frustratingly early hour, I needed something to make me smile. Hope it will make your day.

The Washington Post has a great slice-of-life site called onBeing. It's a project "based on the simple notion that we should get to know one another a little better. What you'll find here is a series of videos that takes you into the musings, passions, histories and quirks of all sorts of people. The essence of who they are, who we are."

I was introduced to little Gio on my spring jaunt to New York City, and since then I've returned to this page whenever I need a pick-me-up. You'll find him under the archives section. Browse through some others while you're there (creepy girl's definitely worth a look). It's a fascinating cross-section of America.

Until then, beware the snail of mercy.

Bella's new warning label

Just a quick note to let you know Bella is home, sans uterus. Sans hernia and puppy teeth, too, for that matter. I picked her up this evening and was given post-operative instructions with this disclaimer: "Your dog has been surgically altered." You'd think I had her stubby tail relocated to the top of her head. 

She appears to be doing well, but her energy level is very low -- especially for a schnauzer. I suspect that will revert to normal soon enough. The challenge will then be to keep her from jumping or running for 10 days, when she can have her sutures removed. Then she can frolic to her little heart's delight. 

Not much energy for other musings tonight. Peace, y'all.  

Nitrous oxide, Kenny G and a shot of Novacaine

The soothing tones of Kenny G's saxophone helped lull me into a mild state of stupor this morning, helped along by the steady stream of nitrous oxide being pumped into my lungs. Unfortunately it wasn't loud enough to drown out the miniature construction crew drilling the mercury out of my teeth, but I was pretty numbed up by then thanks to an extra shot of Novacaine. 

I think laughing gas can bring great insight if administered properly. You're conscious enough to know what's going on and react to the dentist's directions, but you're relaxed enough to let your mind wander where it will. Mine took a nice holiday, save the one moment when the drill dipped too close to a nerve. I gave the international sign for "aaoaooooooooowwww!!" (a frantic wave) because, of course, my mouth was full of silverware and could only register "gaaaagluggggergg," which can also be mistaken for  "I'm rather enjoying the sensation of flying." My brain, free but still alert, started screaming: "You're perilously close to a nerve! Perilously close! Perilously close!" Then it stepped back and realized what it was screaming. Who else but me would exclaim of "peril" instead of opting for a succinct #&!@? Note to self: Try not to laugh when you've been gagged with a Latex dropcloth and a man is holding a drill to your molar.

I can only hope Bella's experience was as enlightening as mine. She is having a sleepover with the vet tonight after being spayed, having an umbilical hernia repaired and having two puppy teeth pulled. I was going to post pictures, but then I thought she might be embarrassed to have her imperfections displayed for the whole world to see. I couldn't have that, especially when I'm already feeling guilty for denying her the experience of motherhood. But, as my Chicago friend says, "Her children would have been taken away from her anyway." Better to spare her, I suppose.

Courthouse full of butter beans

I spent most of yesterday waiting in the McLennan County Courthouse. It was my first jury summons, and I was fascinated to watch our great legal system in action. I don't say that tongue in cheek, either. Even though many of the potential jurors had other places to be and other things to do, we all appeared to take our duty very seriously and weighed each question before answering. We were faced with a teenager who pleaded guilty to intoxication manslaughter, and we were to determine her sentence. The lawyers couldn't tell us the details, but we knew the person who died was in the defendant's car and they were returning from a party. (Turns out it was her 19-year-old cousin.) She could receive anywhere from probation to 20 years and up to a $10,000 fine. From the responses during voir dire*, it was evident that the potential jurors were concerned not only about punishment but about rehabilitation for the girl. Most seemed aware that while intoxication manslaughter sounds like an open-and-shut case, it's far more complicated. She was guilty - no question there - but how do you rate what punishment she deserves? Does it matter if she were salutatorian or if she had a reputation of a drunk? Would it make a difference if she had never drunk alcohol before that night or if she had a history of DWIs? What about if her blood-alcohol level was just over the legal limit as opposed to twice the limit? That is why the law allows so wide a swath of penalties. And 12 everyday folks like you and me get to weigh the facts and decide what punishment we think is appropriate.

Ultimately I was dismissed with the thanks of the court, as most of us were, but I can't say for sure how I feel about it. While I wouldn't want to be part of deciding anyone's fate, I would want someone like me on the jury if I were accused of a crime. But whatever the outcome, I know one thing. Far worse than any punishment the state could exact is having to live with yourself after causing someone's death. Especially someone you loved.

Before I move on, let me make one note about courtroom decorum: When the judge pulls the lawyers into his chambers for a tongue-lashing, be mindful of who is in the courtroom with you. An air of lightheartedness and laughter surfaced in the jury pool while a grieving family waited to hear their loved one's fate, and it was painful to watch their grim faces while those around me chatted and chortled. It was unintentional on the part of the jurors, but it was hurtful nonetheless.

The bright spot of the day was a vibrant 84-year-old World War II veteran and retired volunteer firefighter who helped corral the herd of potential jurors first thing in the morning. He was delightful and funny and even sang us a song while we waited. I wish you could have been there to hear it, but read the lyrics and use your imagination. It's to the tune of "Just A Closer Walk With Thee," if that helps. He said he wants his wife to bury him with a can of butter beans. And if she's not too mad at him, she just might throw in a can opener, too.

Butter Beans

Just a bowl of butter beans.

Pass the cornbread if you please.

I don't want no collard greens.

All I want is butter beans.

Just a piece of country ham,

Pass the butter and the jam

Pass the biscuits if you please

And some good ol' butter beans.

Red-eye gravy is all right.

Turnip sandwich a delight.

But my children all still scream

For another bowl of butter beans

Some folks think that corn-pone's best

Some likes grits more than the rest

But if I was a man of means

I'd just want good ol' butter beans.

See that lady over there

With the curlers in her hair.

She's not pregnant as she seems

She's just full of butter beans.

When they lay my bones to rest

Place no roses on my chest

Plant no blooming evergreens

All I want is butter beans.

____________________

* Voir dire is supposed to be said with a French accent, vwahr (with nearly silent r) deer. Here in Texas, everyone from journalism professors to prosecutors call it vor (like four) dire (with a very twangy Y in the middle). Reminds me of high school French, where we were taught to pronounce monsieur as me-shure. It's a little embarrassing.

Missing the good ol' animated days

Why don't they make cartoons like this anymore?

Happy Independence Day from me and my pup

I'm keeping it low-key in Waco this Independence Day. Most of the family is sweating it out in the country, riding four-wheelers and popping firecrackers and fishing, but the drive costs a pretty penny these days. So I'm chillin' here with my adorable pup and catching up on some things I've been wanting to do. Here are some pics of my precious Bella and some of her dawgs. I got Bella in January when she was a wee 13 weeks old. That makes her the third schnauzer in the family, behind Dad and Rae's Sadie (pictured) and Billy and Shirley's Baby, also fondly known as Doober. Bella's finally housebroken (mostly) and knows how to sit and come. Her favorite hobby is chewing on the neck of Junior, the pit bull-lab mix that belongs to a friend of mine. He's very patient with her, especially for a dog that could swallow her in a single gulp. Reminds me of the old cartoon Spike the Bulldog and Chester the Terrier, a big bulldog and the little yappy dog that keeps jumping back and forth over his head and carrying on a steady stream of conversation: What are we gonna do now, Spike? Huh? What do you want to do? You want I should find you a cat to chase? We're pals, ain' we, Spike? Huh? Huh? Huh?

Have a happy Fourth!

I kinda miss the dentist's spit basin

Ouch! A trip to the dentist really hurts the pocketbook. I'm not sure if it's my high-tech dentist with all his gizmos, or if every dentist is charging this much. Let's just say my upgrade is the equivalent of a couple of car payments on my 2008 Altima. And that's after insurance. And all to get rid of my 1980s mouth bling. That's right -- I won't be flashing those mercury fillings anymore.

Mercury fillings (technically called amalgam fillings) have been the subject of much debate because of the toxicity of mercury. However, the American Dental Association says mercury's toxicity is negated by the other minerals it is combined with: silver, tin, copper and possibly other metallic elements. My concern is not whether my flashy fillings are slowly poisoning me. What convinced me to have them replaced was when my dentist told me the life of a mercury filling is only supposed to be about 10 years. Mine are at least twice that old.

I brushed him off, but then he showed me pictures. Today's techno-dentistry uses a penlight-sized camera to take pictures of my teeth. The images are projected onto a computer monitor that swings around over my chair. Now I can see exactly what my dentist sees. Pretty cool. So I got my first look at those metal fillings I've had since I was a kid. You can see that they've cracked over time and even contracted. That is allowing seepage around the corners, which is bad news. (Those aren't pictures of my teeth, by the way. They're part of a press kit from the American Dental Association.)

So I gave it a shot. I had two replaced with composite fillings in December, and I can tell a huge difference. The teeth with the old mercury fillings are highly sensitive to cold, but I have no feeling at all from the composite fillings. That's proof enough for me. 

Another cool thing about my dentist is that he offers sedation dentistry. That means if you're terrified of dentists, you get to take a pill that induces short-term amnesia so you don't remember the visit. That's a little too freaky for me. Instead, I take the gas and the portable CD player with my choice of music. Dentistry has come a long, long way from the days of the spit basin.

More charisma than you can shake a stick at

You can lump me in with Jimmy Carter, Jane Fonda and Albert Schweitzer. No, they're not the historical figures I'd most like to invite to dinner. Evidently we share common personality traits. Let's make sure we're clear: We share personality traits, not political ideology.

My new job is revealing leadership characteristics that I've long possessed but never thought much about. While I've always cherished the creative side of my brain, I desperately need structure in order to function best. Yes, dear friends and family, that's the spontaneity gene I'm lacking. I like schedules, I like clearly defined roles, I like knowing what to expect, and I need time to wrap my mind around the unexpected. I hate surprises. 

That epiphany made me go back to the well-known Myers-Briggs personality test, or online derivations thereof. According to the Jung Typology Test, I am ISFJ: introverted, sensing, feeling, judging. We're characterized by our desire to serve others and "need to be needed." We're unappreciated — doormats, the results say — and hate confrontation, but we're loyal to the end. And our "unexplained moodiness" usually has a good cause; we just don't always articulate it.

So that puts me in the camp with Jane, Jimmy and Al. Not to mention Queen Elizabeth II, Robert E. Lee, Kristi Yamaguchi, Johnny Carson and literary greats Louisa May Alcott and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. My fictional counterparts are Melanie from "Gone With the Wind" and Ophelia. Wow. A dishrag and a suicide. I've got to do something about the company I keep.

There are a number of personality tests available on the web. If you don't have time for the Jung test, try this four-question test. That one labeled me a "protector guardian" along with Mother Teresa and George H.W. Bush. I'm not claiming to be either, but the overall description is fairly accurate. Check out the above hyperlink "ISFJ" for my full profile -- it's spot-on accurate. Uncanny.

Then there are the tests that tell you whether you're choleric, phlegmatic, sanguine or melancholy. Or the Winnie the Pooh equivalents: Rabbit, Pooh, Tigger and Eeyore.  Cholerics can either be bullies or great leaders.
Phlegmatics are the stable ones. Sanguines are the social butterflies. Melancholies are creative, introspective, analytical, oversensitive and prone to depression. So who am I in the Hundred Acre Wood?

Just call me Eeyore.

Who are you?