Detritus

For the millionth time in my life, I have to clean out my refrigerator. I always end up throwing stuff away that we should have eaten that I didn’t get around to using it all because. . . . . . . .well, because.

Okay, yes, it’s true. Sometimes I let things in the fridge get slimy. I know for a fact I’m not the only one in the world. So, I go through this cleaning of the refrigerator about once every three months.

Throwing away food bothers me, but life happens. We all get busy and forget the mundane. Some weeks, I’m hard pressed to remember to call my mother and my daughter, let alone remember what leftovers I have in the fridge.

Things add up.

And that brings me to detritus. What remains. Leftovers. In the last three years, I’ve helped clean out the houses of two relatives, one who passed away unexpectedly and another who moved to an assisted living facility.

Here’s my big revelation. Over a lifetime, things really do add up. Weeks. Months. Years. But, when it’s time to clean it all out, the past is memory. What matters is what’s good right now.

Hmmm. For some who has studied the Bible, this sounds familiar. It’s a spiritual principle. Jesus said, Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. And there are many other Scriptures on this topic.

Notice that I didn’t digress into lifelong friendships, family, and relationships. Maybe I’ll address that in another blog, because I do believe that memories are important, if we aren’t living in the past. Certain memorabilia and photos are things we should keep. It’s deciding which is important. But those memories aren’t where we live.

My conclusion is this: What really matters is what we’re doing right now. The same goes for the refrigerator. Fresh food is what sustains us. Old stuff is inedible and can even make us sick. And you can’t buy food right now and expect it to last for six months.

In other words, if we live in the past, we die. If we live in the future, we aren’t satisfied. But if we live in the present, we are more likely to be content because we're not fighting possibilities that might happen in the future. And we're not living in a past that will never be again.

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December 6, 2006

Time for an Update

This would be a good time for an update. I’m sure all of you have been waiting and wondering about some of my blog entries, hoping I’ll follow up on some of the topics I introduced in the past.

So, here we go:

Electrolysis
Yes, I’m still getting electrolysis, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as it did. Pat, my electrologist, says it’s because she’s using less juice (read: electrical current), and a smaller needle. I like to think it’s because I’m developing a tolerance for pain and soon I’ll be as impervious to agony as Rocky was when he got smacked in the head in the boxing ring.

Exercise
I’ve mentioned this several times throughout this year’s blog, but not lately. I haven’t stopped exercising. In fact, I think the fact that I’m becoming an electrolysis Rambo-ette and can deal with all that pain is making me a tough exercise cookie. I’m now lifting weights, as well as the other stuff I was doing. Gee, nothing like deciding to be buff in middle age when the old body has already begun to acknowledge gravity. Things take longer to get into shape.

Zeus
Some of you might remember me mentioning the Maltese, Zeus, who is really not a dog at all. Well, for a while, he lived here because my daughter, Elizabeth, thought I would be a better doggy mommy. Not so. When I discovered that Zeus was really a cat disguised as a dog, only with all the issues that dogs have, I decided to give him back. I appreciate cats, but I don’t want to own one. And if I’m going to own a dog, the least I expect is that he will be a dog and go on a walk with me. Not Zeus. As soon as I put on my walking shoes, he would go hide from me. Passive aggression. That doesn’t go over well. But I’m happy to say that things worked out wonderfully. Elizabeth thinks all his idiosyncrasies are adorable. He adores her. And I’m happily dog-less.

So, those are my updates so far. I hope all my readers are enjoying their Christmas preparations and not stressed out like all the people who were in Walmart a couple days ago. I’ve never been rammed so many times in my life. I imagined them saying, Merry Christmas and get out of my way because I’m shopping for my family, dang it all, because we’re going to have a GOOD holiday as long as no one gets in front of me.

Okay, I guess that little Christmas comment had nothing to do with updates. Oh, well. I couldn’t help myself. Okay, more updates later.

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December 10, 2006

I've Got You Under My Skin

Six years ago I had a really bad experience. Something so horrible, it’s changed the way I think when I shop for clothes. And, of course, I’m going to tell you all about it.

Have I got your attention yet?

Good. Because once I share this with you, you'll be worried, too.

When my daughter was a kid, she had the chicken pox twice. So, six years ago, when I started to get this itchy rash that became pox-like blisters, I figured I was getting chicken pox for the second time in my life.

When they spread to my legs, I went to see a doctor. I figured he’d confirm what I thought I already knew—I had some sort of virus and it was just about over, so I should just quit whining and go home.

However, my preconceptions were squashed shortly after the doc’s brief examination of my shoulders, and I lost the thread of conversation right after he said something about “body mites,” or scabies. His next several sentences were wasted breath because my mind was running amuck. I knew a mite was a bug. I had dealt with many a mite on plants in my gardens. And I knew what they did to plants. They sucked all the juice out of them, then the plants shriveled and died.

When I finally regained my senses, the doctor was giving me a prescription for a lotion for my body, and telling me what to do. He explained these bugs come from intimate contact (read: sex) or sharing clothing. Then he talked with my husband, and we left.

Okay, I hope I don’t have to clarify that I was in a monogamous relationship. We were at Bible College. I was working at the college while Brad went to school. I hadn’t gotten scabies from being indiscriminate. But despite the fact that I knew I was a good person, I felt horrible, icky, and unclean.

Back at home, a bit of quick research on the internet told me this is not uncommon. Children get them. It doesn’t mean I’m dirty or that I’d done anything wrong.

Then, from my reading, I found out the lotion I would be spreading all over my body was a pesticide. And I had to sleep with it on – at least ten hours. Me, who eats as much organic food as possible. I almost cried.

Did I sleep well in my bath of pesticide? No. I tossed and turned all night, waking every hour or so, thinking about chemicals eating away at my skin.

I survived my bath. I also washed every article of clothing I owned. But the itching continued. That was the bad news. The itching could last for up to a month after treatment because the bugs die under the skin and the body continues to send out allergy symptoms because it knows it’s been invaded.

That was a horrible thought. I had dead bugs under my skin. I really had trouble getting over that.

So, here was the conclusion. Eventually, I got better. The itching subsided. And I probably got the bugs from trying on clothes that someone with a very bad, untreated case of scabies had also tried on. The timing was right. I had done a whole lot of clothes shopping about two months before my scabies attack.

I have no answers for avoiding this in the future except shopping in a more upscale neighborhood. How can you not try on clothes before you buy? Still, when I go into a dressing room, my first thought now is always, who had this on before me?

Ick. Ick. Ick.

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December 13, 2006

We're Off to See the Wizard

Tonight I run the risk of offending my readers. That’s because I’m going to critique The Wizard of Oz. Not because of possible religious objections that some people have, like the fact that it has witches and stuff in it or because it scares the pants off of little kids (in my opinion, this is not a little kid movie). Nope. My problem is that after I was finished watching, I was left with an unresolved issue.

I blame the fact that I notice things like this on my writing. And because I sometimes do some editing for a publisher. My goal as a writer, as well as an editor is to make sure that all the questions raised in the beginning of a book are answered at the end. There’s nothing worse that finishing a book and thinking you’ve been gypped because the ending isn’t satisfactory.

The truth is, I was left with a big question at the end of The Wizard of Oz.

Okay. So, I watched the WHOLE movie. I think it’s the first time. I wasn’t allowed to watch it when I was little because I always had nightmares about monkeys, and my mother thought The Wizard of Oz was to blame. After that, I never bothered.

Anyway, so I settled in for a nice evening of movie watching. I figured that Dorothy and her companions would make great “blob out” material. And they did. Until afterwards when I began to think about things.

Here is my problem. The incident that precipitated everything is that Miss Gulch (who became the Wicked Witch of the West in Dorothy’s Oz dream/experience) was trying to take Toto away from Dorothy because the little dog kept running in her yard.

(As an aside, from a person who has had dogs become pests her own yard, I really can’t blame Miss Gulch for being upset.)

So, Miss Gulch is presented as a very bad woman because she comes to Dorothy’s house to pick up the dog in order to take it to the sheriff. And that is why Dorothy ran away and why she ended up being caught inside the house when the twister arrived.

And that is what leads to my big question. This event is big enough to precipitate a whole movie, but it isn’t resolved in the end. Dorothy wakes up from her adventure in Oz and no one ever mentions the dog or Miss Gulch.

I was left wondering IS SHE GOING TO TRY TO TAKE THE DOG AGAIN?

I’m afraid this question will never be answered. I have some other observations and questions about the movie, but I won’t mention them. And I’m sorry if I ruined anyone’s Wizard of Oz experience. But I wish I knew whether that little dog stayed out of Miss Gulch’s yard after all that. I hope so. For Miss Gulch’s sake.

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December 17, 2006

Passive Mispronunciation Confession

Today’s blog is about grammar and spelling. It’s also a little longer than normal. Oh, great, you say. That sounds about as exciting as watching moss grow on trees, and then you tell me you’re going to prattle on about it?

WAIT! DON’T TOUCH THAT DIAL. . .ER, MOUSE BUTTON! Please don’t go anywhere.

Usually, yes, I would agree with you. Grammar and spelling are not scintillating topics to read about—or write about. Neither are they terribly exciting in any other way, except maybe for English teachers or some of my friends named Joyce and Susan who shall remain last-nameless. But you know me. I like to take the mundane and twist it into absurdity. So, to make the topic palatable for all concerned, I’ve endeavored to make this entry as entertaining as possible.

Before I begin my little foray into this topic, please understand that in the past, grammar was a source of intimidation for me. Diagramming sentences was on a par with geometric formulas—I couldn’t ever get things quite right. Although everyone said that the rules were logical, they weren’t to me. (As an aside, I adored creative writing, algebra, psychology, business machines, art, and biology.)

Anyway, I was able to write well and speak correctly when I was younger due to environment, not purposefully learned knowledge. I was a voracious reader (reading good books that contain words larger than two syllables is a great way to build an impressive vocabulary without trying hard), and my immediate family members were well spoken. I wasn’t allowed to use words like ain’t. (Neither was I allowed to cuss or use the words shut up or dang it.)

Spelling, on the other hand, came more easily to me. That was something at which I usually excelled, and still aids me today in my writing, as well as making me a stickler for the correct pronunciation and use of words.

So, imagine my horror and embarrassment when I discovered that I’ve been mispronouncing a word all my life. I never meant to do it. I was ignorant. But ignorance is not an acceptable defense if you break the law, neither is it an excuse for mispronunciation, especially for someone like me for whom words are a career.

What’s the word? I knew you’d ask, so I’m ready to confess. Mischievous. All my life, I’ve pronounced that word mis-chee-vee-ous. Wrong, wrong, wrong! There is NO extra “I” or “E” in that last syllable. (Which, if there were, would make two syllables.)

And do you know what that means? I’ve also been mispronouncing mischievously.

How did I discover this? Working on a book, of course. I was trying to write the word and mispelled it because I was mispronouncing it. Word for Windows corrected me. Good old Word, which likes to correct everything I write. Most of the time, I’m grateful for the help. It has saved me from some humiliating mistakes (such as mischievous). However, there are times when I want to tell the spell and grammar check to SHUT UP. For instance, when it informs me like a big fat know-it-all that what I’ve written is in Passive Voice (consider revising). DANG IT. If I want to write in a passive voice, than just let me do it and quit nagging me. Okay, not really. All fiction writers should strive to avoid the passive voice.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about when I say Passive Voice, don’t feel bad. I didn’t either until fellow writers and grammar check started hounding me to correct myself.

Here’s an example:

PASSIVE: Sam remembered that Zach had been found wandering the streets in his pajamas. (The phrase, had been found makes that sentence passive.)

REWRITTEN ACTIVE: Sam remembered that several of his officers had found Zach wandering the streets in his pajamas.

So, that’s my blog for today except for one last quick comment. While I’m on this topic, I want to take the opportunity to complain, and since I have no idea where to officially lodge this, I’ll do it here for the record.

The word sergeant is not spelled like it sounds. I’ve always pronounced the word as though it began with a SAR. And so does everyone else I know. That’s not fair and whoever decided to spell it one way and pronounce it another should just shut up, dang it. Have you ever tried to look up a word that isn’t spelled like it sounds?

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