My Halloween Resolutions

1. I will not eat more than one piece of candy per day...unless it is a special
occasion...like today, for example...but, even then I will not eat as much as
the four year old Spiderman next door.

2. I will cease all witchiness. I will not screech at, cackle in the face of, or
cast evil spells on The Man with the exception of magic potions which
I will continue to concoct.

3. I will be nice to ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety beasties and
other things that go bump in my local Walmart

4. I will not sit around on my big fat pumpkin. I will exercise like a banshee.

5. I will clean out the other half of our creepy, haunted cellar within the next 30
days. I will remove the giant-sized cobwebs, even the one that says "Save Wilbur,"
and all those other mysterious things lurking there, like the dried-up, petrified
osage oranges that The Man put around down there more than five years ago to
deter spiders...yeah, right! I will use my broom for something other than flying
EVEN THOUGH THIS PART OF THE BASEMENT IS FULL OF THE MAN'S STUFF
THAT HE HAS NEVER ORGANIZED AND NOW IT'S ALL A MESS AND THERE'S
OLD RUSTY, GREASY TOOLS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT ALL.

6. I will devote more time each day to reading and studying in an attempt to learn
new tricks, like la lingua italiana, for one. E un incubo! Che fatiga!

7. I will work on being more open-minded, leaving all paths open for thought...
even those crossed by black cats.

8. I will keep my spirits up, glowing like a full moon in the face of perceived
horrors that come my way.

9. I will take time each day to sit in quiet solitude unfazed by the wailing and
moaning and thumping of The Man because he wants his lunch.

10. I will memorize something every other month, starting with the following
quote from Shakespeare's Macbeth which I will recite the next time I make
dinner for guests:

Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

Okay, everybody! Let's eat!!

Food Fighter

Last night we went to see the Guru of Food, the
Grand Poobah of Poly Farming, the Oligarch of
Omnivores, the Champion of Chow, the Bruce
Springsteen of Sustainable Food Production.

I'm talking about Michael Pollen. Author of
The Botany of Desire, In Defense of Food:
An Eater’s Manifesto, The Omnivore's Dilemma:
A Natural History of Four Meals, named one of
the ten best books of 2006 by the New York
Times and the Washington Post. Most recently
the New York Times Magazine published his 8000
word letter to Mr. Next President entitled: Farmer
In Chief. It's long, but well worth the read.

This guy is no slacker.

He didn't speak here in Lime Plant City. No way! Are you kidding?! If he ever
came to LPC he'd choke and gag and pass out from all the lime dust and mono-
farming around here. No, we had to drive to see him. We drove many miles and
4 light years away to the town of Oberlin, home of Oberlin College; a bastion
of bicycle riding, progressively thinking, culturally diverse people coexisting
in a community of music, art, and funkally-dressed, dread-locked, really, really
smart kids who are our future and who, as you look at them, make you proud,
not because they like to eat locally grown food from sustainable farms and hang
out in coffee bars, but because they are so doggone earnest and energetic and,
well, smart.

So, off we went. Us! The Man and I! In the dark! At night! Wow!

I had been planning on this event since last June, so there was nothing that
was going to stop me...except for the probability of forgetting all about it,
which almost happened, but thanks to The Man didn't. We drove in the dark
through sleet and hail. I asked the blizzard expert riding next to me if we should
turn back, but he said no it wasn't snow it was only albino rain.

We got there and were immediately amazed by and then excited by all the people
on the streets, the people streaming into Finney Chapel, the evening's venue. It
was really crowded. We quickly parked and made our way inside. It was packed
and getting packedier every minute. People, young and old, were happily talking to
each other, everyone seemed excited to be there, the room buzzed with anticipation.

Promptly at 8:00 Mr. Pollen walked onto the stage and the auditorium erupted
in loud applause and cheers. The people were actually woohooing him. He was
treated to a rockstar's welcome by this room full of informed, excited, and alert
groupies. They listened. They reacted. They were with him every minute for the
next hour or so - and still with him for the question and answer period afterward.

Michael Pollen, aside from being a dynamic writer, is a very good lecturer. First
of all, he's extremely brilliant. Secondly, he has a commanding stage presence,
relaxed and confident and, thirdly, his material was well prepared and delivered
with a passion.

Dear Mr. Pollen:

I don't want to marry you. I just want to be your neighbor. I want to stand
and look over the fence and stare at you. I want to follow you around your
garden. I'd even carry your stuff. I'd be your minion.

You could come over and yell at me because I'm mowing my lawn when I
should be planting broccoli there instead.

And, you could come inside my house and be horrified by the bag of corn
chips on the counter and you could yell things at me like "do you know
how much petroleum is used to produce just one chip?!" And, I could say,
"Oh sure, lots. Want one?"

Nah, just kidding about that. Actually, I'd do everything you said. I'd be
a good and faithful follower...just like Lassie.

So, please forward your address and I'll see you soon. Oh, and can I bring
The Man, too? He doesn't know diddly about gardening or farming, but he
can act like he does. I think he even played a "farmer" once on t.v. But,
what he doesn't know he makes up for by just standing there looking good
and he is sort of an expert on frogs.

I look forward to hearing from you and, until then,
I remain

Your faithful servant,
Meridith Sender

P.S. Is bacon a bad thing?

Joe The Voter

This morning we voted.

I have a theory as to why people are voting early in record numbers.
They all have a sense that after they cast their ballot IT WILL ALL
BE OVER! It will FINALLY BE OVER!!! They won't have to endure
any more television advertisements and dinner-time tape-recorded
phone calls and they won't have to pull glossy candidate mailers out
of their mailboxes every single day.

Of course it's just a theory, but it illustrates how I felt this morning
after we went to the Bureau of Elections and did our civic duty.

When we arrived there was a good sized crowd of "early" voters
and it was a little scary and definitely depressing because, honestly,
a good percentage of them looked unqualified for the task. Twenty-five
per cent were, clinically, the walking dead. The majority of the rest
looked dazed and/or totally confused...which is pretty normal looking
for around here, actually.

We had to wait a little while before receiving our ballots and I ended
up next to a very elderly man who kept asking "How'd I get this pen
in my hand?" about fifty times and his adult grandson kept telling him,
"You filled out that form, remember?" I just sat there, but I wanted
to shout "Are you kidding? This guy doesn't even know what century
we're in! He's living on the planet LaLa! Hello!"

Seriously, he didn't even know where he was so how on earth was he
going to figure out what the heck the ballot was all about, let alone color
in the correct circles. Potentially, it was a case of voter fraud, if you
ask me, because someone was obviously going to have to fill in the
little circles for him.

They have a litmus test for political candidates. I think it's only fair
that the voters should be required to pass one as well.

The Emperor's New Clothes

Queen Elizabeth the First took a bath once a year...
whether she needed it or not!

It's the same sort of thing with The Man. Once a decade he goes clothes shopping...
whether he needs it or not!

If you could only see what I see. Oh, the horrors! Somewhere in there
he still has the beige western jeans that he wore on the day we got married
almost thirty years ago! And, don't even talk to me about "Ol' Greenie" the Shirt!

Yes, he names his clothes.

Anyway, today seemed like a good day to attack the shopping beast.
But, just to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible, I first suggested
we go get a bite to eat at Bob Evan's. We like to go there and sit at the counter
and watch all the dishes of food go by. We just sit there ooooing and ahhhing
and pointing at things and saying stuff like, "Oooo, what's that? I don't know,
but look at that! Chicken Pot Pie! Yeah, but look at those mashed potatoes
and gravy! Oh look, cherry blintzes! Mmmmm." We don't actually drool but
we do hyper-salivate. It's kind of disgusting. You'd think the waitresses would
mind but they don't, and they're more than willing to correct us when we guess
an item incorrectly. I have to say that Bob really knows how to put on a show
for the hungry and depressed plebeians of America.

After fueling up, The Man and I went shopping. No, let me rephrase that because
it's slightly misleading. I took The Man shopping to buy things for The Man. I didn't
get to shop at all. I had to stay completely focused throughout the entire ordeal
because The Man absolutely detests shopping of any kind. On an Enjoyment Scale,
he would put shopping somewhere between having a wisdom tooth extraction and
a prostate exam.

So, here's how it went down:

I drove him to the mall; walked him into the correct department store - I picked
J.C.Penney because I knew he would have latent memories of the Penney's smell
and he'd feel safe; I picked up and carried the items for him to try on (although
he did actually poke his finger on one shirt and said he would like that - but he
never actually held it in his hands - he just poked it); I made him locate the dressing
room all by himself; I fetched, folded and returned, fetched, folded and returned,
fetched, folded and returned pair after pair of blue jeans, narrowing it down slowly,
while The Man waited in the dressing room...he just sat in there and waited...he sat
there in his underwear waiting for me to return with the next pair of jeans for
Himself to try on, after which he would hurl the rejects out the door of the dressing
room for me to catch, fold and return to the racks.

Yeah, I know. It wasn't really shopping, it was more like a fitting for His Mightiness
The King. I, on the other hand, had turned into some harried, miserable scullery
maid scurrying around uttering things like, "Yes, m'Lord." "Oh, righty-o, Yer
Worshipfo'ness" and "Watch out fer them bloomin' straight pins, Yer Bleedin' 'ighness!

Do you have any idea how much I would PAY to have someone do this for ME?!
I mean, when I think of all the hours I have spent shopping ALONE, dragging
armload after armload of clothes into dressing rooms, stripping, trying on,
re-dressing and returning over and over ad nauseam until I'm faint and sweaty,
my hands are black with coat hanger dirt and my hair's sticking straight out from
the polyester electrical shock!

When I leave the store I look like I've been struck by lightening!

But, not The Man. No sirree! As I paid the cashier (Yes, I had to do that part, too),
I looked at him and he looked pretty good. He wasn't perky, but he looked fairly fresh.
He was even standing up straight. Usually, even before we walk through a department
store doorway, The Man assumes the "back slash" position, he starts leaning back
attempting to remain as far away as possible for as long as possible from the actual act
of shopping. I'm not joking. His feet usually end up a good 12 inches ahead of his face.
And, these little retractable nails extend out from the heels of his shoes and dig into
the floor making groove marks in the linoleum. It's embarrassing.

All in all it was a successful day.

I think The Man was very pleased. I would ask him but I don't want to interrupt.
He's upstairs introducing his new articles of clothing to Ol' Greenie. After that, he'll
hide away his old, worn-out, filthy, stained, ripped and moldy jeans, assuring them
that "I'll never let her find you. I'll never let her take you away from me. Don't you
worry Jeanies. You just rest right here, in the bottom drawer, way back in the dark.

The Volvo Mechanic From Outer Space

I'm just writing to inform everyone that aliens do exist. I've seen them.

It all started innocently enough. I simply got out of bed, stretched and said,
"It's a beautiful day. Let's get in the car and drive south to see the colors."

The Man gave me one of those who-is-this-woman-and-why-is-she-in-my-house
kind of looks. Then he said, "when I was growing up we never went anywhere to
'see the colors.' The leaves changed that's all. Only Californians go to see the colors."

Are you going with me, or not? I asked.

Before he could think of some excuse like the need for an emergency root canal
he agreed to go.

I had decided to go to a place we haven't seen for awhile, a store called Lehman's
in a little town called Kidron. It's in the heart of Amish country. Lehman's sells
all kinds of non-electric home goods, specifically for the Amish and Mennonite
communities. They have a huge selection of wood stoves, cast-iron cook stoves,
kerosene lamps, and all sorts of kitchen items for canning and preserving, like
apple corers and meat grinders, butter churners and milk pails, all things old
fashioned for simple living. All these goods are housed in a huge barn-like structure
with wooden floors and rafters. It was here several years ago that The Man got
the inspiration for the staircase he designed and had built in our house.

Anyway, I thought this would all be such fun. I never once had an iota of
hesitation, no intuition at all that I was about to single handedly score enough
points to win the BAD MOVE award for 2008.

So, we started out. I drove. The Man rode shotgun, silently, like one of the Sacketts.
And, let me just say that the Sackett brothers may have been great to have around
to rastle up some grub, or during some "gun play," or to shuck out'a town in a hurry,
but otherwise they're really boring guys who say little and think a lot...as in silent
company...as in dull...as in humming to yourself over and over the music to the song
"99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer..."

And, on top of that, the drive was rough going. Somehow I missed it, but apparently
the government had issued an edict proclaiming that on this day all people who
had miserably failed their driver's exam should get out on the road and cause as much
mayhem as possible. We were like the Grand Marshals in the Knucklehead Parade.

And, on top of that, the colors were virtually non-existent. For whatever reason, this
year the trees did not put on a spectacular show. In fact, the trees are much brighter
and prettier right here in Lime Plant City.

And, on top of that, when we finally got to the Lehman store I had to do a triple blink
to keep my eyeballs from falling out of my head because it was so crowded. The little
road was filled with SUV's and Amish buggies and big, round people wallowing around.
They had a flea market going on outside at a livestock auction ground that was full of
overpriced "junktiques." $33 for a two-pint blue canning jar?! What a joke. Did they
think we'd just fallen off the Pumpkin Truck, or what?

We made our way into the Lehman's store and were immediately engulfed in some
kind of sick conga line that weaved and strutted its way through the aisles. I kept
looking back for The Man yelping his name because I knew that if I lost him he'd
be gone for good.

It was bad. I mean, what is going on in the world. This is a town with only one
blinking street light, for crying out loud! This didn't look like Main Street, Kidron
but, rather, Main Street, Disneyland...on a Saturday in June...with free admission!

We left. I felt defeated and depressed. I was also tired and hungry. And irritable.
Scowly and mad. Pouty. I was so upset that for the first time I didn't even want to
be Amish anymore. Usually when we see the Amish people I think how great it would
be to be one of them, work the land, preserve the harvest, milk the cows, hang the
clothes on the clothesline, make quilts, wear plain dark dresses with matching capes
and cute little bonnets, serve cold drinks to the men folk when there's a barn raising,
meet up with Harrison Ford who is actually an undercover policeman and who will
save us from the bad guys and who will fall madly in love with me but be hardly able
to consummate the relationship because we're just so good...well, you get the picture.

So, we get in the car, drive about a mile out of town and our car breaks down. Not
good little Geoie, but our other car, The Van, rhymes with The Man. It wouldn't
shift into any higher gears and the odometer wasn't working.

Minor panic and major yelling ensued, but the car didn't blow up so we kept driving.
We could go, we just couldn't go fast. We finally made it to some god-forsaken
little town where a kid at some god-forsaken gas station told us to go up to the next
god-forsaken town to a place called "Volvos."

Now, we were driving about 25 miles per hour with the flashers on. We turned on
the flasher so that the other drivers (remember the governmental edict I mentioned
earlier?) would know that something was wrong and that they should just go around
us. Well, this whole set up seemed to confuse about 98 per cent of the flunkies on the
road. They just sat back there behind us looking totally perplexed. It was so irritating.

I finally pulled off the road, stopped the car, got out and walked around the car waving
my arms over my head saying, "That's it! I've had it! I can't take anymore!!" Interestingly,
as I was having my hissy fit I happened to look up and see the sign "Volvos." We were
there. We'd made it!

The place looked closed but The Man told me to go over and try the door. I marched
over and grabbed the door thinking it would be locked but it wasn't and it flew open. I
looked in and saw two "men" standing there in a dimly lit garage under the wheel
of a car up on a lift. The sudden opening of the door caused the two men to whirl in
my direction seeing only a huge siloutte against the backdrop of bright sunshine blaring
its way into their workspace. I was as surprised as they were by my intrusion. The door
I'd opened plainly said "Employees Only" so I apologized and then told them we had an
emergency situation, our car was doing this and that and blah, blah, blah. I was very
aware of my mouth making sounds, but I wasn't really in control of what I was saying.
The "men" were just staring at me and not saying anything or even grunting like they
understood me, like they didn't hear English very often. Finally, I ended with can you
check out our car please. The older of the two "men" said that he would have a look at it.

The Man drove the car over and opened the hood. Meanwhile the "men" just stood there
looking at the engine. They didn't move forward or touch anything, they didn't jangle any
wires, and most notably, they did NOT make ANY small talk. They just stood there. The
older "man," who we assumed was the owner of "Volvos" just stared and the younger man
was a full, outright Amish "man" about 25 years old. He was wearing the traditional Amish
outfit, complete with the long-beard-without-mustache combo that the Amish men favor.

I was suspicious of this because everyone knows that the Amish absolutely prohibit
the use of any electrical devices and automotive machinery of any kind. "So what,"
I wondered, "was he doing working here in a car repair shop?" And, was the older
"man" some kind of Amish reject? Had he gotten kicked out for some reason? Except
for his clothing and clean-shaven face, he could've been one of them.

Let me wrap this up by saying that the entire experience was VERY strange. I mean,
most auto garage experiences are a little bizarre, but this was extremely far out. There
was no dialogue. The older "man" did something with some kind of sensor device and
mumbled that we needed some kind of a part then he went back inside his garage and
firmly closed the door. We stood around and waited. Finally The Man went inside where
he was promptly told to please go around to the front of the garage (we didn't know there
was a front) to wait because he was in the employee area. I followed him in and then inside
this darkened garage I found him and said, "what are we doing?" The Man said, "he can't
get the part today." I looked over and the owner "man" and the Amish "man" were both
back under that car's wheel on the lift. I said again, "what are we doing?" The Man said
"I don't know." I said, "Well, then, let's get out of here before they eat us." He said, "Okay."

We left.

They were aliens. I'm so convinced of this. They have infiltrated the questionably-loyal
Amish people and are working on the rest. Think about it. How perfect. You take an
accepted, but very segregated and somewhat mysterious group of people, and you worm
your way in. Today the Amish, tomorrow the Walmart Shoppers.

We made a 25 mile per hour beeline out of there and we didn't look back.

It took us a long time to get home. I remember thinking it would be nice if I made it
home in time to celebrate my next birthday...in April. I don't know if anyone out
there has recently driven any distance at such a slow speed, but let me tell you it is
mind altering and you constantly have to stop yourself from going into an hallucinogenic
state. You should try it.

We only made one stop and that was at a McDonald's Drive Through where we scarfed
down some really bad food that made us both sick (is it possible for a french fry to be
poisonous?), then we continued on home where we finally arrived, fell out of the car,
kissed the driveway, crawled inside, got in bed and through the covers over our heads.

Another delightful day.
By Meridith Sender

I'm on a fast.
Let me say that slowly.
I'm fasting.

It's just gotten to that point.
I am out of control.
Especially in the chocolate department.

So, today I'm going to fast in order to rid my body of toxins.
No sugar.
No cookies.
No chawwwwclet.
No nothin'.

Which means, of course, I'm thinking about food every second.

The Delphic Oracle has been on my mind, too.
Ancient Greeks made pilgrimage to the Temple at Delphi.
They went to consult the "Pythia," a prophetess.
(I know this stuff because I was a Theatre Arts major.)
These people were looking for serious answers.
Usually they wanted to know if they should go to war,
should they kill the neighbor's barking dog or not,
should they traverse the oceans looking for plunder,
who they should elect for president, etc.

Today we only have Google.
Google is our oracle.
"Goracle."

Lately Goracle has been sending me prophesies about my health.
First I come upon some story about how weighing less is good for the brain.
Thin people, aside from getting to wear the cutest clothes, get less Alzheimer's.

This morning I see this story about how fasting is good for you.
That fasting promotes reduced incidence of coronary artery disease and diabetes.
Less chocolatey goodness probably helps, too.

Anyway, I'm convinced that the Goracle is targeting me.
In it's own way, it's knocking on my head saying "Hello! Anybody home?"
Hence: The Great Fast

The Great Man is oblivious to all.
He doesn't give homage to oracles the way I do.
He thinks an oracle is a chocolate cookie with a creamy white center.
I keep telling him, "Ora-CULL! Not Ore-O!"

Anyway, all I have to do now is get through the next holiday.
I'll be the Goracle Grinch who stole Halloween.
"Trick or Treat?!"
"Bah Humbug, little kid, Bah Humbug!"

Nobama vs. McCain't

Yesterday the phone rang and The Man answered:

The Man: "Hello."

Caller: "Hi, I'm calling for John McCain..."

The Man: "He's not here right now."

And, he hung up the phone. Click!

Last night an Obama supporter called for me, but I told him I was just sitting down to dinner, "Can you call me back?" I asked.

We get a lot of unsolicited phone calls these days. All these people want to talk to us. They want to find out who we're going to vote for. I wish they'd just send me an email because I really don't like talking on the phone. I don't like to hear it ringing and I don't like running to grab the thing and stubbing my toe on the hutch and being interrupted to talk about things I don't feel like talking about at that particular moment. I'm usually busy and sometimes I'm taking a nap, but whatever the situation, I don't like strangers calling and acting like we're old buddies and they're so concerned with my health and whether or not I'm having a nice day.

And another thing I wonder about is what are we all going to do after the election is over? I mean, I think we should get ready for a big, national let-down funk. It'll be like after the World Series or the Superbowl only worse because THIS event has been going on FOR TWO YEARS. We won't know what to do with ourselves. As if things aren't depressing enough what with the economic situation and all, now we'll be sitting there in our naugahyde recliners wondering, "Well, what'll I do now?" "Isn't there some boring debate to try and stay awake through?" "I sure do miss those political ads!"

I think the pharmaceutical companies should get busy and come up with some new drug you can "ask your doctor about." Some new wonder pill in partisan colors, Red (for Republicans) and Blue (for Democrats) that will take away your Post Election Blues Syndrome, or PEBSY.

Or better still, they could put the drug in a new soft drink and we could just sit in our recliners and sip our PEBSY's thinking back on the good ol' days when the election was months in the future and we all felt like we were actually worth something, that we had some value, that the uppity ups over there in Washington D.C. really cared about us and were interested to know what we thought about, what our concerns were.

Yeah, boy, I tell ya'. Those were some good ol' times, real sweet. We were riding high in the driver's seat calling the shots then, I mean it. We had those politicos hoppin' that's for sure. They couldn't turn somersaults fast enough for us back then. Yeah, those were some good days, yessiree. Hey, you gonna drink that? Yeah, pass me that PEBSY and I'll tell you some more stories about how good things used to be.

Ladybug on Board

Today I had to drive to the grocery store over in
a nearby town. I took the bypass - which is a name
I don't like since it makes me think of a bad heart.
I usually just refer to it as "the freeway," although
"freeways" don't exist here in The Land of O.

But, anyway, there we were, ol' Geo and I, positioned
in the slow lane just hitting our maximum speed of
60 mph. I had the radio on and was listening to some
violinist on the classical station. The fall colors were
casting an orange glow on the dashboard and the brilliant
blue sky was marred only by a few wisps of cloud.

I was enjoying my ride when, all of a sudden, I noticed something on my windshield.
Some kind of dot. I couldn't tell if it was inside the car or out because I can't see
diddly without my glasses anymore. I took off my sunglasses and fumbled around
for my eyeglasses to get a better look. It was a bug. A ladybug, to be exact.
Sitting there. Outside. On my windshield. Going 60 miles an hour.
Just sitting there.

I craned my neck forward and drove on, staring at it. I couldn't get over the fact
that it was there. I mean, what was holding it in place? It's little feelers were all
blown back on it's little head and I know it's little lips must have been all stretched
back from the G-force winds. Then, it occurred to me it might be dead. That it
must have died there and some bodily fluid leaked out and dried, effectively
gluing it to the window. I couldn't tell if it was breathing.

Meanwhile, the violinist is still playing like crazy. He's playing for all he's worth
and the music is getting more and more frenetic every minute. In fact, the music
is corresponding directly with my level of anxiety over the creature plastered to my
windshield. It was like watching some hideous nature documentary where you know
it's not going to end well for the animal because the music is so full of dissonants.

It's a good thing they don't have much traffic here in O because I was definitely
having a hard time paying attention. All the time I'm supposedly watching the
road I'm actually staring at this life or death drama playing out on my windshield
with wild musical accompaniment. I finally slowed down to 55, then 50 because
I didn't want the little bug to get swept away in what would amount to a
Category 10 hurricane in ladybug land.

I pulled off at my offramp, and not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I came
to a stop sign and then turned right. That's when the ladybug started moving.
SHE WAS ALIVE!!! Using her front legs she started cleaning her face. She
was grooming herself!! At this point I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd
turned to me and said, "God, I hate this commute. Is my hair okay?"

I parked my car and continued watching her. Very quickly she walked around
then flew away. I sat there thinking, "Did I just give a lift to a ladybug?" Based
on what I'd observed, the bug's behavior indicated that it knew exactly what it
was doing the whole time.

Then I had to bring myself back to the planet earth, figure out where I was and
what I was supposed to be doing there, etc. I tell you, it's a good thing I make
shopping lists because otherwise, what with all the adventure involved in getting
from here to there, I'd never remember what I went to the store for.

Atypical Conversation

Me: Why are you looking at me like that?

The Man: I wasn't looking at you. I was looking in your direction.
Kind of like when an actor looks toward the camera. He's not really looking at you.
I know you probably think he's really looking at you, but he's not.

Me: So that means when you're talking to me you're not really talking to me.
You're merely an actor saying his lines.

The Man: Well, yes, that's right.

Me: Hmmm. So, where's the OFF button.

The Man: What?

Me: The OFF button! If you're just an actor gazing in my direction and speaking
your lines, I want to turn this DVD O-F-F!...or at least change channels.


This is what I have to put up with ON A DAILY BASIS!

It's just like going to Duluth!

First thing this morning he says he's going to take a 25 hour bus ride.
Then, the next thing I know, I'm upstairs packing because I've decided
to drive him there to meet up with the Captain and The Isadora so that
maybe, if he makes up his addled mind, he will take the ship back to Spain,
then make his way to Rome. He could have caught the ship in Burns Harbor,
that's only a four hour drive from here, but NOoooo, he couldn't make up
his mind on that particular day, so he tells the Captain that he's NOT going
to make the trip. I figure the whole thing is a wash, but that was THREE
DAYS AGO and we're still MAKING UP HIS MIND!!

This movie needs a director!
And, who on earth wrote this script?!

The Stupidest Question EVER asked

Sirens are blaring out there.
I don't know why.
The Man just went out the back door grumbling "what's goin' on out there."
He called out "It sounds like Bugsy Malone just robbed The Third National Bank!"
which, visualizing that scene, made me laugh out loud.

Last Saturday we went to the Port of Cleveland to see our friend Captain Z
who had arrived aboard the Isadora, delivering steel from Ijmuiden Holland.
The ship is so familiar to us, the Bridge, the Captain's quarters, the stairways
and hallways looked and smelled the same. We had lunch in the dining room
and we sat in our regular seats with the Captain at the head of the table. Rafal,
the First Mate, was there, too. Of our three crossings, two were with Rafal.
We love him dearly. He's the hardest working, cheeriest man ever. Whenever
I felt afraid during bad weather, Rafal always gave me confidence and
reassured me that all was well.

During coffee in the Captain's suite, the Captain said that since it was the weekend
and no work was scheduled for Sunday, he could come to our house for the night.
This was wonderful news, but also a complete surprise to me and I began
hyperventilating about the state of our house, the dust, the disorder, Did I do
the dishes?, When's the last time I cleaned the bathroom?, What on earth
can I make for dinner?

I was unprepared, but all turned out well. We had a good time.

On Sunday afternoon we took the Captain to a shopping mall in downtown
Cleveland because he wanted to get some gifts. In particular, he wanted to buy
a Cleveland Cavaliers jersey for his son. We were looking around one sports shop
and I asked him, "who's your son's favorite player?" He said, "Lebron James."

I called out to the salesgirl "Is there some player on the Cavaliers named Lee Brown James?"

Two teenage boys were the only other customers in the store. You'd have thought
I'd lit off a firecracker by their reaction to my question. One jumped and shook
his head in disbelief and, I'll never forget the tinge of horror on his face. They both
were gasping and grabbing for each other. Then they hurriedly left the store, looking
back at me as if they were afraid I'd come after them.

I looked at the sales girl and asked, "What? Was that the stupidest question ever, or what?"
She grinned and sympathetically said, "Well, he is sort of famous."

I've mentioned this episode to friends and they all tell me the same things about this
basketball player, that he was drafted out of high school and that he played on the
Olympic team, etc., etc. They all end with, "He's the most famous player IN THE WORLD,"
with a silent "stupid!" at the end of the sentence.

I figure it's all okay. I can now add "stupid ol' white lady" to my curriculum vitae.

How To Build Community

Turn off your TV ~ Leave your house
Know your neighbors
Look up when you are walking
Greet People ~ Sit on your stoop
Plant flowers
Use your library ~ Play together
Buy from local merchants
Share what you have
Help a lost dog
Take children to the park
Garden together
Support neighborhood schools
Fix it even if you didn't break it
Have pot lucks ~ Honor elders
Pick up litter ~ Read stories aloud
Dance in the street
Talk to the mail carrier
Listen to the birds ~ Put up a swing
Help carry something heavy
Barter for your goods
Start a tradition ~ Ask a question
Hire young people for odd jobs
Organize a block party
Bake extra and share
Ask for help when you need it
Open your shades ~ Sing together
Share your skills
Take back the night
Turn down the music
Listen before your react to anger
Mediate a conflict
Seek to understand
Learn from new and
uncomfortable angles
Know that no one is silent
though many are not heard
work to change this


Poster #P470CW SCW1998. Text: Members of SCW Community. Karen Kerney, watercolor. Available laminated, also as a T-shirt, notecard, postcard, bookmark and in Spanish. TOOLS FOR CHANGE catalog from Syracuse Cultural Workers (SCW), box 6367, syracuse, NY 13217 USA 315.474.1132, www.syrculturalworkers.com. Also available: How to Build GLOBAL community. Printed by union labor on recycled paper containing postconsumer waste. 9/04

A Potter Gold

I just read that in 2007, J.K. Rowling made over 5 million dollars A WEEK.
Do you understand what that means?

• she can buy a pair of crocs in EVERY color.
• she doesn't hyperventilate when she realizes her library books are overdue.
• she won't notice the price of gas until it hits maybe $25,000 a gallon.
  
• she can have facelifts to avoid having a neck like the scarecrow in the wizard of oz.
  
• she can ignore the $100 water bill she got yesterday and not even tell her husband about it because if she did he'd just have a fit and tell her those plants are costing too much money and with climate change they're not going to last long anyway so you better just stop it and not bring us to rack and ruin by throwing good money down the drain!
• and, she NEVER, NEVER, NEVER NEVER has to fly coach.

We flew from O to SLC a week ago. It was such a great deal, a non-stop flight! I mean, I didn't think they even made non-stops anymore. And, what was really great is that my sister and brother-in-law actually live in Park City, only 30 minutes from SLC, so it wasn't like we took the flight just for the non-stoppish-ness. No, we went to visit family and we didn't have to do anything all day long except ride, ride, ride. The Man and I are championship riders. We have trophies and blue ribbons exaltating our ability to ride.

I had booked a window seat for The Man because he likes to look down during a flight and say "Lookie! Lookie!" about a million times and I had the aisle seat in the same row. Because of the emptiness of the plane I foresaw no problem with our arrangement...that is; until he came down the aisle.

Everyone was on the plane, all snug in their seats, water bottles at the ready, books and magazines set for action, cellular phones and other electronic devices turned off. We just sat there waiting. No one knew what we were waiting for...that is; until he came down the aisle.

The flight attendants had checked to make sure all our carry on bags were stowed under the seats in front of us and that our tray tables were in the upright and locked position. They closed all the overhead compartments, chatted amicably with the passengers...that is; until he came down the aisle.

He was wearing biker clothes, jeans, a t-shirt and a black leather vest. His arms were covered in tatoos, and his hair was cut short in the front in order to disguise that fact that there was actually a ponytail in the back.

He shouted to the flight attendant that he needed "13!" then he hacked like he wanted to spit but realized too late he couldn't.

I gulped.

He approached our row. Some ticketing agent had actually given him OUR middle seat. I told him I'd move over and sit in the middle, all the while wondering if anyone else could hear my brain which was screaming "Are you NUTS?! Are you out of your MIND?!"

He said he didn't care, "they're all the same to me" and he sat down and started hacking. I'd say "cough," but it really was so much more than a mere cough. It would definitely qualify as a "hack," the hack of an eight-pack-a-day smoker.

On my right, The Man's eyes were boring into me. Eyes that were saying, "What have you done? Why is this guy in OUR row?" and other absolutely worthless and irritating things. I refused to look at him, knowing that if I did I'd scream. Instead, I looked at my watch and announced to no one in particular, "Three hours and 20 minutes to go."

After we reached altitude I got up and walked down the aisle to the restroom. What I saw was astounding. People all stretched out with empty seats between them, everybody spread out, lying down in empty rows. One girl awoke with me just standing there looking down at her. I was thinking, "Why is she alone in this row and comfortable and sleeping?" She looked at me like "Who is this creepy woman and why is she staring at me?" I continued to the bathroom and intentionally banged my head against the door several times.

I squeezed back into my stupid middle seat and he started talking to me. He told me that he'd almost missed the flight because he went off to use the bathroom and to the bar (he nudged me in the arm) for a pre-flight drink (chuckle, chuckle), but when he got back to the gate his carry on bag was gone. The Airport Police had confiscated his unattended bag! The flight was boarding and he had to frantically run and find the Police Office. Once there they hassled him about leaving his bag. He was an ex-con and "you know how the cops are with ex-cons and all" and he lives in Reno. He had taken the bus from Reno to O to get some money he was owed. He showed me the envelope in his inside breast pocket, "about $8000 left," he said. He had just gotten out of jail a few weeks ago and found that his ol' lady had some friend of his, another guy, living at their house now and he didn't like that one bit. The story went on and on and the guy was still hacking and every time he hacked he smelled like a Burger King hamburger.

I sat there stunned, unable to get past the "ex-con" part of the story. I shook my head and muttered platitudes, but my mind was saying "He's an ex-con. You're sitting next to an ex-con. This guy's been in the big house." I started wondering about the proper etiquettie for conversing with a jailbird? Can I ask what he was "in" for?

By this time The Man had left his window seat and was out having his own adventures looking for another place to sit. He left me alone with the felon. I watched part of a movie, but I kept taking my earplugs out to listen to the guy tell me more about himself, about his five children who live in various states with their various grandparents because the mothers were in jail or just gone. I may have been flying to SLC, but my flight mate was taking me on a rocket ship to the moon.

By the end of the journey The Man was sitting up a few rows in a bulkhead seat, I was back in my original aisle seat, and the ex-con was in the window seat. He was looking down, then he turned to me and said, "How come the states don't have their names printed on them, you know, so you could tell where you are?" I thought that was a great idea. You fly over Nebraska and you see in big white letters N-E-B-R-A-S-K-A! Every state is easily identifiable. We laughed about it together. "At least they could put the first letter," he said. "Yeah," I said, "they should do that."

Then he said, "Oh look, a rainbow!"

I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaned over. We both looked out and, sure enough, there was a beautiful rainbow.

Which brings this story full circle, right back to J.K. Rowling and her Potter Gold.