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What, Exactly, is in that Suitcase?
Blog in Review.
S'more Songs
Anyone?
Won't You be
My Neighbor?
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August 9, 2006
What, Exactly, is IN that
Suitcase?
I’m leaving late this afternoon for a three day writers’
conference in Philadelphia. I could have used this as an excuse not to
write a Wednesday blog entry, but dedication to my blog readership
compelled me to do so. You see, I don’t want to skip even one of my
trenchant entries for those of you who just hold your breath, waiting
for my next one. That, despite all the time I’m spending today checking
and rechecking my wardrobe, packing a suitcase large enough for a three
week trip, attempting to stuff myriad pairs of shoes into that suitcase
along with everything else from my closet, thinking about plenty of
healthy snacks, and counting vitamin pills. Now I need to decide if I
should take my jogging apparel.
Oh, wait.
This is a writers’ conference. That’s right. B-U-S-I-N-E-S-S. Okay. Let
me change my emphasis. Checking and rechecking my briefcase, laptop,
proposals, and business cards.
Done.
Now, back to my clothes. . . .
I’m glad I’m driving, not flying. I don’t have to plan as thoroughly or
make things as compact. I can just stuff plastic bags of things in the
crevices of my car. And best of all, with the exception of the initial
packing of the trunk, Brad won’t be there to make snide comments about
all my junk each time he heaves it all in and out of the car. Nope.
It’ll be me doing all the heaving while I make my own snide mental
comments about me, my shoes, and my apparent lack of good sense. (Self,
I’ll say. Why did
you think you needed twenty changes of underclothes for three days?
And wouldn't two
pair of shoes be enough?)
Okay, as an aside, I don’t consider myself a shoe freak, although
someone I live with (who isn’t the bird or the dog) thinks I am. I do
have quite a few shoes, though, and would own more if I had the income
to do so. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of an acquaintance. The
shoe collecting habit is an infectious disease. I was helping her move,
and after thirty minutes of stacking boxes of shoes in her closet, I
began to think it might be fun to have such an amazing array of foot
accessories. I got the disease because I touched all her stuff. (And no,
I haven’t totally succumbed, despite occasional comments from
you-know-who
about my crowded closet floor.)
So, now I must continue pondering my trip until the minute before I
leave. There are a number of important things to consider. Is there
enough in the refrigerator for Brad to eat while I’m gone? Will the bird
miss me bad enough to pluck the feathers off his legs? Will I want the
one pair of shoes I decided to leave behind? But those issues aside, I
have one, major, earth shaking question. Are there any songs written
about Philadelphia? Like, for example,
I Left my Heart in
San Francisco.
Does Philadelphia inspire singing? Since I don’t live there, I can’t
answer that with authority, although based on my experience with the
traffic and the drivers, I’d say one might be inspired to write a heavy
metal/rap mix. I would call it,
W-W-W-Why Do I Need
My B-B-B-Brake Pads R-R-R-Replaced After a W-W-W-Weekend in Philly?
And, in case that is offensive to anyone, please note that the same song
could be written for where I live, as well—near D.C.
But I won’t be leaving my heart in Philly. Nope. I’m a homebody. My
heart is always at home. And I’m not even staying in Philly’s heart. The
conference is on the north side of the city, a rather suburban enclave,
at a very nice Bible College facility. The grounds are beautiful. Paved
roads, large trees, and perfect. . .for jogging.
Hey! That’s it. That answers my question. I’ll add my jogging apparel to
my suitcase.
That means I have to somehow find room for my running shoes amongst all
my other stuff. I’d better go. This could take a while.
(Oh, and no worries. I’ll be home in time to post my Sunday evening blog.
The one about the septic. I know everyone is just waiting with bated
breath to find out if I will end up with poopy water all over my kitchen
floor.)
August 16, 2006
Blog in Review
Today I’m doing a bit of review for your reading pleasure. A blog
review. Specifically about a couple of the comments that were left by
people I know.
One regular commenter on my blog is
Owl Lover/Anonymous,
otherwise known as my daughter, Elizabeth. In case you were wondering,
the story about her and the owl is absolutely true. And because of that
incident, owls feature regularly in things I do to/for her. For example,
I made a photo album for her several years ago. . .sort of a scrapbook
celebration of her life. I included things like the lyrics from the
theme song for the television show,
In The Heat of the
Night, which I used to sing at the top of my lungs while I
chased her around the house. (Ask me if you see me. I might do a
rendition for you if you catch me at the right time.) But, of course, my
very favorite was the page on which I placed an owl picture with the
caption, Who,
Who, Who Saves the Owls.
Now, in case you think that I’m the cruelest mommy ever to walk the
earth given that it appears my goal in life is to torment my daughter,
you need to understand that the torture is inflicted by both sides. For
instance, as a sailor in the Navy, she has the dubious opportunity to
learn things that I don’t know about (ahem),
then she proceeds to share them with me. Believe me. They will not
appear in print here.
Here is the comment that Elizabeth left me after I wrote the owl blog
entry:
Thanks a lot mom,
I think I'm permanently damaged because you laughed at me that day!!!
Sigh, I will just never recover. Everything that goes wrong in my life
is all your fault!!! Are you feeling guilty yet?? Even a little?!!! :-)
You see? That’s called emotional manipulation. Of course, I was so moved
by her accusations that I proceeded to think of other ways I could
torment her. In fact, she’s going to be here this weekend, and. . .
Well, anyway, one of my blog articles was titled,
Cognitive Emotive Dissonance, which I
wrote because I absolutely loved the phrase. Here are two comments
someone left after that. I had no idea who
YM
was at the time.
YM said...
This is the way I feel when I try to wear that dress I bought tree years
ago.
ym said...See
I am so repulsed I can't even spell three.
Please understand that as a regular blogger, I always run the risk of
having some
weirdo freak post a comment, so I wondered who this was.
But since the comments were cute and not crude or otherwise offensive, I
let them go. However, two days later, my mother called me. During the
course of the conversation, she asked how my blog was going. I told her
about the comments from YM. She started to laugh.
YM. YOUR MOTHER.
You can probably tell by now that the TORMENT GENE runs in my family.
Not to leave anyone out, my sister has not left any comments, but she’s
threatened to. Something like,
I know where you
live. I know when you brush your teeth. I know what your pajamas look
like. But she decided that that might not be a good thing
for the blog of a Christian writer. Perhaps not. But it would have been
funny. At least, once I figured out who did it.
Yep. I love my blog. I love to write these articles. And I love
comments. Hey, be sure to come back on Sunday for the third part of my
nail-biting story,
Breakin’ Up (a clog)
is Hard to Do.
August 23, 2006
S'More Songs Anyone?
One day, not too long ago, I got to thinking about camping and
singing campfire songs. Specifically,
Make New Friends and
Keep the Old Ones. I’m not exactly sure why. But anyone who has been to Girl Scout camp or
any kind of kids’ camp knows about the song. It’s usually sung over and
over again as a round, ad nauseum, sometimes with acoustic guitar
accompaniment (like
Row, Row, Row Your Boat and
Three Blind Mice).
Most adults would rate the song down there with
Kumbaya
and Little Bunny
Foofoo.
And if you’re not familiar with
Little Bunny Foofoo,
that’s okay. It’s all about Little Bunny Foofoo hopping through the
forest, scooping up the field mice and bopping them in the head.
Hmmmm.
Now that I think about it, it sounds like Bunny Foofoo is a serial
killer. That’s a rather scary thought. Well, anyway, next time you see
me, ask me and I’ll perform a solo version, complete with hand motions.
You know what? This whole topic brings back memories. Lots of them. I
might have to make camping a future blog topic, because of all my
scintillating camping experiences. Like how I had my very first kiss at
the age of twelve, at church camp, by a guy nicknamed Hound Dog. Or
maybe not. Suffice it to say, I wondered what all the hoopla over
kissing was because the experience was, shall we say,
icky.
That icky kiss made that summer memorable for me, even though I never
heard from Hound Dog again despite two letters I wrote to him. That
wasn’t necessarily a bad thing since the kiss was so lousy. Really, what
did I expect from a guy with a nickname like that? The thing I DID enjoy
was all the hiking we did that week because we sang all the cool
campfire songs while we walked. I loved the campfire songs when I was a
kid. As an adult, I must admit that I still like them. Okay, I love
kids’ songs. I have a huge notebook filled with them, and I collect them
when I find new ones.
Songs like, My
Mommy Told Me Not to Put Beans in My Ears. And how about
that favorite, 99
Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Except if you’re at church
camp, it’s 99
Bottles of Pop on the Wall. And what about,
Once an Austrian Went
Yodeling.
What does this have to do with
Making New Friends?
Maybe you were expecting some lengthy dissertation on friendship? Like
how meaningful relationships are and how old ones can be just as
valuable as new ones?
Afraid not. I’m not thinking deep thoughts tonight due to too many
nights of hot flashes. That tends to render me senseless, so I’m just
rambling. But I do think I might want to pull out my notebook of
campfire songs. Maybe in time for that writers’ conference I’m going to
in September. That should win me contacts and help me influence people.
Hey, maybe I can propose a book about a serial killer dressed in a bunny
costume who gets rid of people by bopping them in the head and . .
.well,
August 27, 2006
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
I have great neighbors. Steve and Allan, the Antique Guys. They
work in a building next to our house, and they RESTORE furniture. They
don’t REFINISH it. Just so that’s clear even though it has nothing to do
with anything I’m going to say. (Also, they’ve read this article and
approved it for use on my blog.)
Visiting Steve and Allan is fun. They’re always working on new pieces of
furniture, some of which are older than the United States and cost more
than my house. Pieces they’ve worked on have been featured in those
fancy antique magazines and sold at big time auctions in places like NEW
YORK CITY.
I go over to visit at least once a week to check up on things and yak
for a while. I wander around and touch the furniture while I wonder who
in their right mind would pay that much for a hunk of wood (pretty or
not). Who cares if George Washington might have kept his underwear in
the drawers?
Sometimes, when I go to their shop, I take coffee with me and sit. They
laugh at my jokes, even when I’m not funny. On occasion, if I’m bummed
out about something, the guys let me scoot up to a workbench and lament.
I don’t even have to talk if I don’t want to. And believe it or not,
sometimes I don’t want to talk.
See, that’s the cool thing about visiting them. No pressure. Besides
which, they’re guy friends. They don’t care about how I’m dressed or
whether I missed a couple hairs on my upper lip when I waxed. Theirs is
a different perspective than many girl friends would have. Guys talk
about guns and snakes and tools, which are great topics of conversation,
and, honestly, more interesting than cake icing and wall paper. And they
don’t get offended easily. In fact, if I’m trying to insult one of them,
I have to spell it out. T-H-A-T W-A-S A-N I-N-S-U-L-T. To which they
reply, O-H. Then they laugh.
If I were in a typical suburban neighborhood, with typical girl
neighbors, I’d always worry about the catty things they were saying
about me when I left. Because a lot of girls do that. (Did
you SEE what she HAD ON today? Oh! My! Word!!! And her hips! Did you get
a load of those? Why, I think she’s gained at least twenty pounds in the
last two days. And did you hear about . . .) I can say that
because I am a girl, and I’ve had personal experience. Granted, I know
guys talk, too, and sometimes leeringly about body parts, but in
general, they’re not as catty as women. And once you become a guy’s
friend, you’re usually not subject to the overt leering body part thing.
Well, at least in my experience.
Anyway, Allan and I talk about books. He loves to read suspense like I
do. We share books. Sometimes, we have conversations about authors.
Steve, who doesn’t read mysteries or suspense, but doesn’t want to be
left out, will jump in when one of us takes a breath, and say, “Hey, did
you read the latest
Field and Stream?”
which, of course, I haven’t. I should get a copy and read it just so I
can shock him once by saying, yes. Then intelligently discuss one of the
articles. Yeah, that article about trout. Did you see where they’re
doing genetic engineering on them?
The guys have been right there, rooting for me and commiserating with me
for the last several years while I got rejection after rejection for my
books. And they respected me when I said bluntly, “I can’t talk about it
anymore. I’m too discouraged.” They’ve encouraged me by reading some of
my manuscripts and taking them home for their wives to read. Now they’re
happy for me because I’ve finally sold something.
But one thing they did not appreciate was me offering to help them
organize their hardware. I wanted to sort all the little screws and
things into categories and put them in plastic drawers and label them.
That’s the secretary in me, always organizing things. That didn’t go
over well. Truthfully, it doesn’t go over well when I offer to do it for
my husband, either. So that begs the question, what is it with guys and
their stuff? Why, if they can’t organize something, do they not want
anyone else to organize it? (I’ll leave that topic for another blog
entry. I could have fun with it.)
So, all that to say, everyone should have neighbors like Steve and
Allen, the Antique Guys. I love seeing their trucks in the parking lot
because I know they’re there for me to visit. They perk me up on a
lonely day. They laugh at my jokes, and I laugh at theirs. All in all,
they make my life a little easier. Thanks guys.
August 30, 2006
Want S'more Songs?
A dear friend, Sue, commented last week about a song I mentioned
called, My Mommy
Told Me Not to Put Beans in My Ears. (To clarify, I need to
make it clear that we’re not talking about green beans or baked beans;
we’re talking about hard, dried beans.) Anyway, in Sue’s comments to my
blog, she made several interesting points, but the most fascinating was
that some of her family members have put beans up their noses, and it’s
hard to get the beans out. I know her family well, so I’m not at all
surprised that some of them put beans in their noses. However, I do have
a pressing question. If a bean is left long enough in a nose, does it
sprout? Does anybody really know the answer to that? Does anybody really
care? (Opinions welcome.)
So, back to s’more songs, I got to thinking it might be fun to do a
campfire song
review, along with a little creative writing. First, to
bring back memories or nightmares, as the case may be for some of you,
about camping and fires, and, perhaps, to begin new memories for those
of you never privileged to learn some of these fine campfire songs.
Second, I want to show off my dubious talent for taking a fact, a topic,
somebody’s offhand comment, or a song, and going on and on and on about
it in my typical, lengthy, facetious, rambling, fashion.
And don’t groan. This will be fun. You might learn something. CAVEAT
here to protect myself. None of the songs I’m using are subject to
copyright laws, so I don’t have to have permission to use them. They’re
either too old or they’re nonsense songs that have been around for
years, which means no one would ever want to take credit for them,
anyway.
My first choice is,
Sweetly Sings the
Donkey. The words go like this:
Sweetly sings the
donkey. At the break of day; if you do not feed him, this is what he’ll
say: Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw!
Yes, I really taught this to my girls’ groups, and we sang it, complete
with my handy guitar accompaniment. The song begs for understanding,
though. Anyone who has been subject to a donkey in the morning knows
perfectly well that donkeys don’t sing. They bray, which is not
sweet—and that’s putting it mildly. The sound of a donkey’s bray is on a
par with, say, the caws from a large flock of crows in a tree outside a
bedroom window at dawn. I imagine whoever wrote this song had been
subject to an early morning braying donkey and decided to write a song
as a catharsis. And when that didn’t work, they bought a shotgun, which
is why there isn’t a second verse.
Now, in case you aren’t as fond of these kinds of songs as I am, and,
furthermore, you wonder why a child should bother learning them and why
any sane adult would teach them, here’s proof that it’s not all a waste
of time. (And keep in mind that sanity is subjective.) Songs offer a
fine opportunity for learning foreign languages. At the Christian school
where I was the music teacher, I taught the children this song in Latin.
It’s called,
Dona Nobis.
Here are the words:
dona nobis pacern,
pacem, which means,
give us peace.
Despite the limited amount of words, this is perhaps one of the most
beautiful songs I ever taught the children. The phrase,
dona nobis pacern, pacem, is sung in three
separate musical melodies that are complimentary to each other and can
be sung in rounds. It’s not an easy song to teach or to sing, even for
adults, because of the difficulty of the music itself. However, it was
well worth the effort.
So, you see? Even in the midst of songs about serial killer bunnies (see
last Wednesday’s blog) and braying donkeys, there is hope for peace,
even when I’m talking about campfire songs.
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