What a Month!

Last year, I had the worst Christmas ever. No kidding, it was the worst that I can remember. Mr. Vagabond was sour, and eventually I turned sour as well. We didn't even give each other presents! The whole thing was a great beg *meh.* Because I didn't want a repeat, I emailed him in October with details about how this year we'd do Christmas my way. 

My way includes no "I don't care one way or the other" comments about a Christmas tree, and there'd also be no Bah Humbugs when I played Christmas music. He replied to my email quickly. The first line said, "It isn't even Halloween yet!" Afterward, he said, "I am suddenly plum full up with Christmas spirit… because I know what's good for me." I think there was a "Yes ma'am" in there somewhere, as well. 

So I was all set to deck the halls and sing Jingle Bells, bake Christmas goodies and essentially have a rockin' Christmas this year. 

And then it happened. 

I developed a thing. We shall only refer to this thing as a thing, because really and truly that is all you wanna know. I had to have minor, outpatient surgery on this thing. The minor part ended abruptly when after five attempts at local anesthesia, everyone in three counties understood that anesthesia wasn't going to work. Because he was out of town, like he usually is, and I drove myself, like I usually do, there was no hope for stronger meds. My solution was to alternate between blood-curdling screams and trying in vain to bite the pillow on the doctor's table in half while she basically cut off my leg with a dull chainsaw. Really. 

Ok, not really. She didn't cut off my leg. The dull chainsaw part remains to be determined since that's exactly what it felt like.

After two hours of the fun and games, I was sent home with a prescription for mind-altering pain meds and antibiotics, both of which consumed the lining of my stomach. More fun. I was broken on the inside and the outside.

So there I was, my hubby plum full up with Christmas spirit, and me whining on the couch and unable to even set up the tree. The clock was ticking.

After about a week, I did manage to get Fred set up and decked out. You remember Fred, my dependable little 4-footer. I added more decorations throughout the house and took pictures in between snoring episodes on the couch. Mr. V. came home and we had a reasonably nice Christmas, even though I was still barely ambulatory.

The day after Christmas, he had a dr. appointment of his own. Because I am super awesome, I went with him. It only took about five minutes in the waiting room to remember that doctors' waiting rooms in wintertime are no place for any healthy human being to be. And yet there we were, breathing in every germ-laden sneeze and cough inside that stylishly decorated room.

They should really issue HazMat suits to everyone who walks through the door.



Lying in bed approximately 48 hours later, I sneezed. I rarely sneeze, so this was noteworthy. When I sneezed again, I felt his eyes bearing down on the side of my head. I pretended not to notice. And then I coughed. And then I pulled the covers over my head and demanded, "I AM NOT SICK!"

"You'd better not be."

He's such a sweetie. Ha.

So here we are on December 30, trading swallows from the NyQuil bottle and chasing them with Motrin. We have three flavors of cough drops and enough chicken soup in the house to feed a small country.

I still won't accept responsibility for bringing the plague into the house. If I did catch it first, that's only because I was a goodly wife and accompanied him to the doctor. I do think I need to reassess my Christmas plans for next year, though. Christmas My Way doesn't seem to be anything like what I'd hoped.

I hope your holidays have been much kinder to you!

(It's worse than I thought. The cat just sneezed, too!)

Fred, the Christmas Tree

With so much sadness and anger in our country right now, I decided, instead, to offer just a bit of a smile.  

_______________________________________________________________

In a season filled with magnificent trees with branches bowed from decorations, I have Fred. Fred the Christmas Tree. Fred was not always my tree of choice, but I learned to appreciate him the way I learn everything else: The hard way.

Fred is very festive this year

My house was once a rest home for old, broken, discarded trees. My mother began the practice of handing down unwanted trees to me the year she began the questionable tradition of hanging ornaments on her Ficus tree. Family members followed her lead (not with the Ficus, mind you), and it seemed I was never without a tree in need of a hug. I took my job as caregiver seriously. As long as I had enough tinsel, electrical tape and a decent corner to hide missing branches, I could make almost any discarded tree look respectable for a while. However, I grew tired of patching pieces together and attaching splints to broken poles. I recalled the scent of pine. I wanted a fresh tree.

Epiphany was my first real tree. She was so-named because it took a great deal of imagination and inspiration to haul her well-developed self up three flights of steps to our apartment. At least the nice, young, college-age guys stepped aside to allow me to drag and huff and puff and gasp and drag and wheeze past on the stairwell. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to appreciate Epiphany. I spent that Christmas in bed recovering from two sprained ankles and a broken spirit. I hear she was lovely.

The next year brought us Belle. Belle was even prettier than Epiphany, at least before I wrestled her, step by determined step, up the stairs. She had a thing about heights. After I broke free of her prickly headlock, I considered greasing her branches but decided against it. Tree trimmings wouldn’t be nearly as festive once they slid off into a heap on the floor. 

Fun Facts: 

• Turpentine removes pine sap from hair. 
• Turpentine is flammable. 
• So is hair.

The following year, Ingénue caught my eye. She was coy yet perky, and brimming with personality. The nice man at the store assured me that binding her limbs with twine would facilitate pulling her up the stairs at home. He was right, too. Only a few little needles were left on the steps. I only realized the danger once she was upright in the living room. The second I cut one section of twine, the rest followed suit--ping! ping! ping!--without my assistance. Her branches popped out with a force that discharged a barrage of pine needles throughout the house like a volley of ninja darts. She was a fresh-cut booby trap worthy of an action movie, or at least a B-grade martial arts film. Each of her offended appendages bounced wildly and then settled into an aggressive stance. If a tree had hips, her fists would have been planted on them. I hid all the cutlery before going to bed. Christmas had an entirely different tone that year.

Last year, after the attack of the Ingénue, I passed by many fresh trees while doing my Christmas shopping. Some called to me, but I fixed my gaze on Christmas cacti and Santa ornaments, pretending not to notice.

“Take me home! I will be a lovely addition!”

“Don’t take her; take me! She’s old and worn out. I’m fresh. See?” She lifted a flexible branch high to demonstrate her youth.

“Not on your life,” I thought. “I barely survived the last episode of battery by flexible branches.”

“Psst. Come here, lady,” one misshapen tree whispered. “I’ve got something to show ya.”

I scurried past. I think her name was Anita Fixx, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out for sure.

And then I spotted it. Only 4’ tall among giants, this artificial tree stood with a confidence that said, “I am fine with my stature. If I don’t suit your needs, I will suit someone else’s. Have a nice holiday, ma’am.” I think he even tipped his hat. Something about this tree was oddly attractive.

On the drive home, I learned that his name is Fred. From his perch on a table, Fred stood watch over our holiday festivities with a butler’s non-intrusive, quiet self-assurance, unlike those prissy, and sometimes scary, trees of years past. I had found my Prince Charming.

So you can have your Epiphanys, Belles and Ingénues, and dress them to impress. I’ll take good old artificial Fred. He is sturdy and dependable, requires no water and assembles in a snap. More important, he’s never hurled a needle in my direction.

Happiest of Holidays!











I wrote this piece in 2010 for the humor blog, An Army of Ermas

Apparently I Really Wanted to Vote

This past Tuesday, I voted. I understand that voting might not seem like an extraordinary feat, but it was for me. 

Mr. Vagabond fired up the big truck Sunday morning and headed back to New England. Storm aftermath or no storm aftermath, he had to go back to work. Approximately 15 minutes after he left, I picked up a ladder and promptly found myself on the floor, unable to even scream. I really wanted to scream. My mouth was open and my eyes were wide. My fists were clenched. All of the earmarks of a good scream were there, but it just wouldn’t happen. I did manage a few jagged gasps for breath. Now I have picked up ladders many times in my life. Not once has it resulted in me curled up on the floor. This time, it was special. This time, phantom metal rods had been jammed through my spine. My spine was not happy about the arrangement. 

I called Mr. V. to whine about my predicament as soon as I found my words.  

Because it was Sunday, I opted to hobble off to the sofa and feel sorry for myself until I could see my regular doctor on Monday. This hobbling was truly a spectacular feat. I could walk, sure, but only when I was bent over at the waist with my hands almost touching my toes. The dogs were confused, and tried to trip me at every opportunity. Monday arrived, and with it came a 40 mile drive to Knoxville, a series of X-rays and medication, and another 40 mile drive back home. Off to bed I went until Tuesday. 

Lumbar sprain. Awesome.

Back to Tuesday morning. I remembered that it was election day as soon as I opened my eyes. I had to vote, so I had to get out of bed. I, with my ridiculous lumbar sprain, anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers and pain meds, drove my shoulda-been-bedridden self to the poll and cast my vote like a good American. I even managed to put on jeans and a sweatshirt, which wasn’t easy to do. I was tempted to go in my jammies, but they didn’t match. A girl can’t to out among civilized folk wearing mismatched jammies. I also considered wearing a pair of Mr. V’s slip on shoes, but kayak isn’t the best look for me. 

When I arrived at the poll, I remembered the steep incline from the parking lot to the building. Dang. Hunched over as if I were Quasimodo’s long lost cousin, I made my way to the front door. This would be the same front door where a woman in a sleeveless blouse, tight polyester pants and huge plastic jewelry scurried to pass me up, and then closed the door in my face. Thanks a lot. I wasn’t going to say it, lady, but you have wobbly, fat arms, a dimpled butt and a really bad haircut. 

She asked for it. 

Inside the building, I presented my ID, signed the paper and hobbled up to the little machine. I cast my vote, but I didn’t even get a sticker. I really wanted a sticker. 

Driving home after voting was an interesting experience. There was a sense of exhilaration. Excitement. Or maybe it was the pain meds cocktail. Who knows. I did feel like I had participated in helping shape the future of our country. Luckily I only had to drive three blocks, and they were all sparsely populated back streets. I don’t think anyone noticed that I was driving 9 mph and peeking over the steering wheel the whole way. 

Tuesday evening, I switched on the TV and started watching the returns. I switched from PBS to CBS to ABC to NBC. I watched Diane Sawyer acting as though she may have been ever so slightly inebriated (still wondering what her deal was). I watched the Twitter feed scroll by. I read hopeful posts on Facebook, and I read just as many that predicted doom. 

And then finally it was over, and the President was re-elected. 

Voting is a privilege, and one that I ignored for many years. But now I look forward to it each election year. Maybe it’s because I am older, and maybe it’s because media and social media ensures that all of us are inundated with politics on all fronts at all times. I dunno. Although I wished this year that I had voted early, which would have allowed me to stay in bed on Tuesday, I will still likely show up at the poll in person in 2016. Whether or not it is an extraordinary physical feat for me next year, it is extraordinary that Americans are able to express our opinions in a way that counts. 

OMG, It's Election Terror: 2012

So it’s election season once again. If you hadn’t noticed, then I’d love to be you. This isn’t a typical political post. I won’t talk about any candidate. Pinkie swear. This post is about boundaries, manners and common sense. 

Every four years, Americans are browbeaten, encouraged, coerced, promised, threatened, warned and roused into either solidarity or discord. This manipulation is not always at the hands of some nameless stranger nor any ruler. More often, it’s inflicted by people we normally consider friends, at least when it’s not an election year. 

Elections do strange things to otherwise rational, civil people. 

First, there are so-called news articles that are easily found online. Sadly, some people tend to believe anything (and everything) that they read, especially if it supports something that they desperately want to believe is true. If it’s accompanied by a byline, then it’s all the more a trustworthy source, right? Hardly. In this age, almost anyone with an opinion and a reasonable grasp of the English language can snag a byline somewhere. 

Next we have Facebook. Facebook is loads of fun for socializing without actually have to be in the same room with another person. This is fantastic for people who live in remote areas, and it also works for people who prefer a wide margin between their person and another person’s... um... person. Facebook is also a colossal source of unsubstantiated rumors, misinformation, propaganda and good-old-fashioned soap box tirades. Anyone with a computer and an opinion can write up the lengthiest collection of words that they can muster, and then post it for all of their friends to read. If they post those words publicly, their friends can share them with other friends. 

Then there’s the old standby, email. Email is a wonderful invention, and it’s another gargantuan carrier of propaganda. In an email forum, a group of words that would otherwise be harnessed by character limits and a handy “report post” or “block user” button has the freedom to continue on and on and on. Randomly typing IN ALL CAPS and using BOLD, COLORFUL FONTS and *BULLET *POINTS is highly encouraged. For emphasis, of course. Gotta be sure that people are paying attention, right? 

Blogs are another source, but I’d wager that the vast majority of bloggers would agree: A blog post has about as much chance of reaching a huge audience as the post’s writer has of obtaining a book deal with a major publisher. 

So what’s wrong with sharing opinions? Absolutely nothing, when they are presented as opinions, and not hard, indisputable facts. Momma always told me, there’s your side and there’s my side, but the truth is usually located somewhere in the middle. Wanting to believe it’s true doesn’t change anything, except, perhaps, the intensity and persistence of the delivery. The problem is that the anonymity of Internet brings about the 10-feet-tall and bulletproof sensation. Most of us are guilty of typing out something that we would never say out loud in polite, flesh-and-blood company. At least those of us with a reasonably-developed sense of what’s rude and what isn’t, and those of us who actually care whether or not we are behaving like a temper-stomping child demanding attention. During an election season, it seems that the Internet makes many of us forget important social skills: Manners, tact, and simply behaving like a decent human being. 

Candidates will never stop coming. With them come policies and ideas that we agree with, and others that we don’t. In well over 200 years, America hasn’t yet collapsed on its foundation, and it’s not likely to do so anytime soon. I know that at this point, some folks are likely shaking their heads and thinking that I just don’t understand how important this election is. How America is doomed, I say, doomed if so and so is elected into office. 

If you believe that current issues are so much more important and potentially life-altering than the issues of the past, think again. There was a time in America when a person couldn’t find a job simply because of his heritage. And this issue still exists in many places. How important would an equality issue be if you were an Irish immigrant, as my ancestors were, and had to change your name in order to secure a job to feed your family? What if you were a woman whose sex (not brains) only qualified you to wash a well-off person’s dirty laundry, sew in poor light inside a garment factory that was doomed to burn and kill you and your friends and family, or perhaps pluck feathers off chickens to feed the mouths of other people who could actually, you know, afford chicken for supper? 

What if your entire family, from the elderly to infants, were owned and eventually worked to death, often literally, by a person whose local policies agreed that such an arrangement was ok? Lets imagine that you’re in a married couple living in America, and the government had the right to decide whether you were allowed to use contraception. Or maybe you are living in a fledgling America, and another country had the right to take your money and possessions. 

Do you believe that any of those issues were critically important to the people who had to live in those times? Then it’s not a far stretch to imagine that the issues of today aren’t likely to make America crumble. Important? Absolutely. Remember, there were people on both sides of each of those problems that Americans faced. There were people who were just as opposed to or in support of each of them, just like you may agree or disagree with others about current issues. Thing is, America is still here. If a person believes that current issues are the highest pinnacle and can bring about the downfall of this nation, maybe it would serve them well to consider just how egocentric that really is in the broader sense. 

There is nothing new under the sun. Naturally living in these times means that current issues have a greater influence over our lives. But time will march on. One day, these things will be buried under thousands of newer ones. You will die. I will die. Just like generations that came before us. And once you and I are nothing besides a memory to some and a file at a courthouse to others, which would be a better thing to have left behind? Would it be an addiction to the ease of passing on as much caustic misinformation as possible, trying to change someone’s mind? Or would we be better remembered for behaving online the same way that we would if we were standing in front of the person we were trying to reach? 

Encouraging others to agree with our opinions is natural. What isn’t is resorting to scare tactics and outright lies to strong-arm or frighten people into believing what we have to say. If we can’t make a point without blindly grabbing at every mean-spirited, Photoshopped image and rumor, is it possible that we don’t have a real point to make in the first place, and are just inebriated with the ability to talk and be heard? 

September 11 - A Little Boy Gone

Updated September 11, 2016:  

Every September 11, I post this essay on Facebook and anywhere else that I can. It's not much. It's just my small contribution to ensuring that the events and victims of 9/11/2001 will never be lost to a hazy and muddled memory of airplanes and landmark buildings. That day was about the loss of precious human beings. 

I made a promise to myself and to the memory of this little boy that I would never forget him. He would be a young man now, if that day had turned it like it should.  I'll always wonder where his promising life could have taken him.

This is Rodney Dickens. 

Rodney was only 11 years old when he lost his life on September 11, 2001. And his will forever be the face I see when I think of that terrible day.

When photos started streaming across the TV screen in the hours after the terrorist attack, his little face gripped me. I remember standing in my bedroom, grabbing a pillow, clutching it to my chest and sitting down to stare at the TV. 

As a mother whose kids were close to Rodney's age, I couldn’t stop the barrage of thoughts running through my head. "Who was with this little boy? Was he traveling alone?" 

My little boys had already flown alone as a pair several times.

My heart ached when I wondered if he knew what was about to happen; that his life was about to come to an unreasonable end. Did anyone put their arms around Rodney, or did he face the those final moments as alone as any human being could ever be? Did he cry? Was he afraid? Did anyone hold his hand? Did he pray for God to rescue him? Did he call out for his mom and dad? Did he have dreams, goals, plans for his future? 

Was he even old enough to begin dreaming of what he would do when he was all grown up?

When I researched to find the name that belonged to this sweet little boy, I learned that Rodney was, indeed, traveling without his parents; he was with classmates. They were taking a school trip. It should have been a happy day. 

Again, parental instincts crept in and I sobbed thinking about his mother and his father. Were they watching as this all happened? How devastatingly helpless must have been the feeling, knowing that they were defenseless in protecting their child from the wickedness of these terrorists. 

I have had nightmares about Rodney crying out for his mother in the seconds before his life was brutally stolen away on what should have been a day filled with joy.

And then my emotions turned to rage. Correlations between this precious, innocent child and my own children filled me with so much anger, knowing that the terrorists would not have cared if my boys were on that plane. Regard for cherished human life was tossed aside like an unwanted object by those... I'm sorry, I cannot use the word "people." In fact, I don't have any other word for them besides terrorists. I feel that nothing appropriate even exists in the English language.

As I write this, my arms are covered in chills. My heart quakes again. My eyes are filled with tears. This child. This sweet-faced, perfectly innocent and promising little boy lost his life before he even had a chance to begin living.

Rodney, I never knew you. But I love you. With all of my heart, I love you.

And as long as I live, you will never be forgotten.

A Little Boy Gone on 9/11

Updated 9/11/16:  Fifteen years ago, I could never have guessed how much this little boy would shape a big part of my life. I think about him often. I hope that I always do. 

Every September 11, I post this essay again. It's not much. It's just my small contribution to ensuring another part of the world never, ever lets the horrifying events of that day and how they affected not just airplanes and landmark buildings, but very real human beings, slip into a hazy, muddled memory. 

I made a promise to myself and to the memory of this little boy that I would never forget him. He would be a grown man now, if only September 11, 2001 had happened the way that it should. 

This is Rodney Dickens. 

Rodney was only 11 years old when he lost his life on September 11, 2001. And his will forever be the face I see when I think of that terrible day.

When photos started streaming across the TV screen in the hours after the terrorist attack, his little face gripped me. I was standing in my bedroom, and I remember pulling a pillow to my chest and sitting down.  

As a mother whose kids were close to Rodney's age, I couldn’t stop the barrage of thoughts running through my head. "Who was with this little boy? Was he traveling alone?" 

My little boys had already flown alone as a pair several times.

My heart ached when I wondered if he knew what was about to happen; that his life was about to come to an unreasonable end. Did anyone put their arms around him, or did he face those final moments as alone as any human being could ever be? 

Did he cry? Was he afraid? Did anyone hold his hand? Did he pray for God to rescue him? Did he call out for his mom and dad? Did he have dreams, goals, plans for his future? Was he even old enough to begin dreaming of what he would do when he was all grown up?

When I researched to find the name that belonged to this sweet little boy, I learned that Rodney was, indeed, traveling without his parents; he was with his classmates. 

Again, parental instincts crept in and I sobbed thinking about his mother and his father. Were they watching as this all happened? How devastatingly helpless must have been the feeling, knowing that they were powerless to protect their child from the wickedness of these terrorists. I have had nightmares about Rodney crying out for his mother in the seconds before his life was brutally stolen away on what should have been a day filled with joy.

And then my emotions turned to rage. Correlations between this precious, innocent child and my own children filled me with so much anger, knowing that the terrorists would not have cared if my boys were on that plane. Regard for cherished human life was tossed aside like an unwanted object by those... I'm sorry, I cannot use the word "people." In fact, I don't have any other word for them besides terrorists. I believe that nothing appropriate even exists in the English language.

As I write this, my arms are covered in goose bumps. My heart lurches again. My eyes are filled with tears. This child. This sweet-faced little boy lost his life before he even had a chance to begin living.

Rodney, I never knew you. But I love you. With all of my heart, I love you.

And as long as I live, you will never be forgotten.

Favorite Things -- Salt Cellars

I'm weird. Pretend you didn't know that. While some people get a thrill from finding beautiful chachkies in a shiny, brightly lit store, my heart flutters while sorting through second-hand stuff at thrift shops, flea markets, salvage yards and garage sales.

There's just something exciting about digging through boxes of unloved, abandoned objects. It's a treasure hunt with a 90% chance of an allergy attack. That's part of the fun. 


I learned pretty quick to carry a bandana, a pack of tissues and a bottle of Purell at all times. 

One of my favorite castoff things is a set of dreamy, sea green porcelain salt cellars with gold trim. A former landlady gave them to me. Until about 6 years ago, I didn't even know what a salt cellar was.

A salt cellar is a small cup or bowl that is used to serve salt. Pretty simple. They were fairly common until the mid 1940s. A set usually includes tiny spoons. Either my spoons are missing, or the fluted edge was used to sprinkle the salt. I may never know.

The maker's mark on the bottom reads, "Epiag / Cecho-slovakia." It's listed on most pottery websites as "unidentified" with regard to the date.


Salt cellars are hard to find, at least in east Tennessee. This is the only set I have. But that's another great thing about being a lover of vintage things. As long as there are still people who clean out attics, closets and garages, the search will never be over. 


Zyrtec should pay me to shop. 

Physical Fatness

I received a most excellent phone call yesterday from my Mad Vagabond. He's coming home earlier than he anticipated, and before our anniversary!  


When I'm not working, I spend a lot of time daydreaming about when he comes home. Ok, I daydream about it even when I am working. 


That might explain a lot.

Deadlines are such pesky little things. I'll tend to them later.

Not only is he coming home early, I am heading back to California with him. YES! For as long as I want!  Double yes!! Back on the road again. Gypsy life agrees with me.


After hanging up the phone, I had a terrible realization. You see, I have been carrying on a sordid affair with chocolate since Mr. Vagabond left at the beginning of January. 

Just one taste.  Maybe two.

So while on the inside I've been feeling like this...

Hot-Cha-Cha!

the reality is something else altogether. 


What to do, what to do. 


At first, I thought what any reasonable person whose nightstand is covered with Twix wrappers might think. I need to go on a diet, and I will start exercising. 


Ok, maybe tomorrow. 


I have the best ideas when I falling asleep. Unfortunately, the cold light of morning exposes a harsh reality. Would I really exercise?

This looks fun!

Um, fun?

Maybe a spa!

Just like jail, but with more activity and worse food.

I'd exhausted all my ideas for physical activity, but I wasn't licked quite yet.

I thought about buying a super hot corset. Mr. Vagabond would LOVE that. 

Look at that tiny waist (And pay no attention to the squooshies coming out the top and bottom).

What the...

How does this thing WORK?

Fine. The corset is a no-go. Even if I could find a way to get the thing on, Mr. Vagabond is not known for his patience. 

I'm running out of ideas, here.

I have two weeks to shed the plumpage I've gained since January 4, and I need some inspiration.

Right after I finish this cherry danish. 

Reluctant Athlete

Anyone who has seen me in action knows that sports and I are not a safe combination. I am so uncoordinated, I make a bouncing football look like the Bolshoi. I once tried out for a softball team. After taking out half the outfield and three parents in the stands, the coach pulled me aside and suggested I try something a little less dangerous. Like competitive sleeping.

Turns out, the rules of dodge ball and softball are entirely different. 

With my history of deficient athletic prowess, voluntarily entering a sporting event is just about as appealing as a slab of bacon to a failed Atkins dieter. Unfortunately, every January I find myself in my own special Winter Triathlon.

Sidewalk Skating / Interpretive Dance Combo

I rarely salt, sweep or otherwise prepare my front steps or sidewalk for safe passage in winter. Of course the moment a perfect sheet of ice has formed outside, I remember something I absolutely must have. This means leaving the house. 

The top step launches me into a slipping, sliding, twisting convulsion down the sidewalk. My neighbors have posted scorecards in their front yards. Yesterday, I earned a perfect 10 for unsurpassed originality and the most successful flailing/flapping combo ever before seen. Good thing plowing into my car is considered a perfect landing.  

Gas Pump Jitterbug

If the temperature is below zero, it’s a safe bet you can find me at a gas pump without a coat, hat or gloves. Pumping gas is as fast and furious a winter sport as ice hockey, but not quite as fun as a puck upside the head. Points are earned for successfully inserting the nozzle into the gas tank with shaking hands, jumping up and down for warmth and keeping my frozen nose attached to my face until I am back in the car. I earn a Hat Trick for skating and interpretive dancing to the office window when my card doesn’t work at the pump. 

Grocery Store Slalom 

By far, the most competitive winter sport in my area is grocery shopping the night before a predicted snow. If it’s a flurry or a foot, the grocery store will be packed with people and buggies frantically stocking up and jockeying for position at the checkout. Two nights ago, a woman buying the entire produce section, 3 cows, 5 gallons of milk and three loaves of bread eyed me as I ducked past. I lunged into an opening at the speedy checkout, bought my frozen pizza and Pepsi and made it out of the store alive before her precision eye-darts hit me in the back. I earned extra points the next morning when the whole town woke to clear roads and sunshine.

So while softball is out of the question and I will never run a marathon, wintertime brings a triathlon of winter sports where even I can excel. As yet, emergency room visits have not been required, but the season is still young.

Reluctant Athlete was originally posted at An Army of Ermas on January 12, 2011. 

College Textbook Extortion

Like many of you, I paid dearly for a college education. Actually, I will be paying for many years to come. Yes, I received student loans. That just means the federal government fronted the bill. Repayment is my responsibility. The school has already been paid.


There are several things that bug me about college. One of them is the overwhelming attitude among faculty and administration that the student is the least important cog in the wheel. There is a sad lack of respect shown to the kids and adults trying to gain a higher education. Students are, after all, the only reason any of them have their job to begin with.


I can't state this enough. Students are the only reason why any college or university exists. To treat them like an annoyance is not only unfair, it's pathetically poor business. Make no mistake, students are, indeed, customers. High-paying customers. 


Textbooks are probably my biggest pet peeve. Students have no choice about securing the required course material. Often, that means buying a shiny, new copy of the latest edition. For those of you who haven't bought college textbooks recently, the cost is insane. I went to a small community college for my paralegal degree, but I still spent more than $500 every semester for books alone. Law books ain't cheap. 


Now, I know what many of you are thinking. Buy used books!  Used books are a better alternative than new, but they are becoming more scarce. At the end of every semester, I attempted to sell back some of my books. I usually sold one, if any. New editions come out nearly ever year. Suddenly the $200 textbook that was absolutely essential for Law 101 is worthless. The bookstore won't even buy it back, and the attendant at the counter acts as though it's asinine to think I could. 


On the rare occasion that I could sell back a book, the buy-back price was shocking. I have one business law book on my shelf right now that remains the newest edition. I paid $270. My best buy-back offer is $20. Ok, we all know that buy-back prices are ridiculous. But what are they making off these used books? This particular one sells used for $190. That's a hell of a profit! It's also a hell of a racket.


In my opinion, the college textbook scene is dangerously close to extortion. Students certainly can't attend a class without the required course material. And if they arrive at the bookstore 5 minutes after it opens on the first day of registration, good luck finding used books. 


New editions kill me. In my last semester, which was spring of 2010, I bought a shiny, new copy of the latest edition for my domestic law class. Thank God the professor, who is also a local judge, told us on the first day of class to take the books back to the bookstore and get the older edition. The reason why is that the new edition only contained four -- FOUR pages of new material. Four little pages changed the value of the older edition to zero on buyback for the previous semester's students. Luckily, Amazon was brimming with that "valueless" book for less than $20.


So I have established my issues with textbooks, but what could be the solution? There are a few. 


First, new editions. Why not offer the new book, but also offer the old one AND a supplemental packet instead of a completely new book? That could be a money saver. 


Also, ebooks. I was fortunate enough to get an ebook for one of my anthropology classes, and it was just as useful as a hard-bound copy. Unfortunately, most of my professors would not allow laptops in the classroom, so ebooks would not be acceptable across the board. I know that's not the rule everywhere, but it was at my college. Ebooks can't be a solution if they are not universally acceptable. 


Book rentals. Now, there's an idea!  Rentals are becoming more common, but they're still far behind new book sales. 


Book swaps. How awesome would it be to see the parking lot packed full when registration opens and students exchanging their books. 


Book publishers would probably cringe at these suggestions. After all, anything that saves students money also cuts into their profits. As a writer, it might seem like I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. But we all have to change with the times. Students have always been at the mercy of colleges and the required course material. By and large, they have few choices about saving money. 


I graduated with a nice, tidy debt that I will be paying off for many years to come. And mine doesn't compare to people who earn bachelors and graduate degrees. Students need some power. At one time, college was what a person did if he or she wanted to have a better education, get a leg up in the job market or train for a special field. Now, it's basically a requirement for survival in the real world. 


I've seen job listings for secretarial positions that required a bachelor's degree. Are you kidding me? I am not implying that secretaries don't have a tough job. I've been there; I know how hard a secretarial job can be. But why would a bachelor's degree be required to perform it? Sales people at cell phone stores -- bachelor's degree. Cosmetic sales clerks at department stores -- bachelor's degree. Fast food -- associate's degree. Sadly, the pay scale for these jobs hasn't changed along with the education requirements. If anything, it dips lower when inflation is factored in. 


It's a good thing, at least in a way, that the United States in general expects prospective employees to have an education. But if that education becomes mandatory, students will have even less power in their lives. Instead of Johnny and Susie deciding to go to college to have a better life, they'll go to college to hopefully (maybe) stay off welfare. 


College tuition is already painfully high no matter where you go. I paid $1,700 per semester, and that's much lower than at a traditional university. My son, who just graduated with a BS in biomedical science, will head off to medical school soon. By the time he graduates, he will have a tremendous amount of debt. He worked very hard and had two academic scholarships for his undergrad work, but he still took out loans to pay for his books. He won't have scholarships in med school. 


At the end of the day, student debt is sometimes debilitating. With the pathetic job market, some students will be behind on loan repayments within months of graduating.  Hardly anyone thinks about repayment when they are busy scheduling classes and buying outlandishly priced textbooks. But if even a small change can be implemented to help students, I think it should. 


Students need more choices. They need more respect in the college environment. They need someone to step up and call foul on the extortionist practices that encompass the mandatory, overpriced textbooks. 

Slacker Sunday - Pinterest

Happy Sunday!

The sun is shining, and January is oddly warm this year. So, what am I doing today? I'm curled up under a fluffy goosedown comforter playing with my latest favorite thing, Pinterest.

Two weeks ago, I'd never even heard of Pinterest. I saw an occasional Tweet or Facebook post, but I didn't pay much attention. One day last week, and I'm not sure which, I decided to register. I was immediately put on a waiting list.

I knew I should have given them a reference and three forms of ID.

A waiting list?  Really? To see whether I even wanted to mess with it at all?  Ok, now they had my attention.

What were they doing during this waiting period? Checking my credit? Contacting the FBI? Looking in my closets?  EEP!  Instinctively, I sat up straight in my chair all day. At one point, I considered covering the camera in my Macbook with a piece of foil.

You just can't be too careful about these things.

It took only a few hours for Pinterest to welcome me into the pinning fold, and I was already excited.

I'm IN, I'm IN!

I needed a few minutes to figure out what all the hubbub was, Bub. My page was barren and sad. So I scrolled through the pages of other Pinterest users to see if I could getting a running go at it.

Soon, my Pinterest page went from empty…

to this!

I have no idea why I am so excited. I just am!

Look!  I have boards!  And things pinned to those boards!  People are following me, liking my pins and even repinning some of them!

See?  Fun!

If Pinterest still seems confusing, this is the short of it. Create an account. Set up boards. Think of boards as bulletin boards in a special room of inspiration that is uniquely yours. You can name the boards anything you like, although you will have a few basic ones when your account is activated. Change the names of the boards, if you like. I have boards for food and wine, favorite books, favorite movies, renovation inspiration, favorite products, favorite music, and one catchall for tidbits that catch my eye.

Once your boards are set up, start pinning. I have discovered three different ways to pin.

If you see something on a website or blog that you love, copy the web address, go to Pinterest, click the "add" button and paste the address into the bar on the little window that pops up. Being a smart little feller, Pinterest will show you the image on that web page.  Select it. If there are several images, it will show them all. Select the one you want, choose which board you want to pin it to from the little drop-down menu and save it.

An easier way to pin is to install the Pin button on your web browser's toolbar. If you happen to see something wonderful online, all you have to do is click the pin button. Stars align and angels sing and the Pinterest window magically pops up. Choose and save the image as if you are logged into Pinterest.

The last way I have discovered to pin items to your boards is also one of the best elements of Pinterest. It wouldn't be any fun if you pinned all those lovelies and didn't have anyone to share them with, right?  That's like buying the coolest shoes ever, and then keeping them in your closet! If you click on the Pinterest logo at the top of the screen, you will be taken to the main feed. Look through the countless things other Pinners have pinned. If you see something you like, hover over the image, click "repin" and then you can add it to one of your own boards!  How fun is that? You can also "like" (with a <3 , of course) and leave a comment.

At the end of the day, Pinterest is a massive time suck for the terminally bored and easily distracted. If you thought you could lose years of your life at Facebook and Twitter, you ain't seen nothin, honey.

But that isn't the sum of Pinterest. It's also a wealth of inspiration. It's eye candy. If you're considering redecorating your bedroom, chances are pretty good that fellow Pinners have pinned beautiful images of expertly decorated rooms that can inspire you. It's also a great way to discover new, interesting things. Music, poetry, art, lifstyle, travel, food, old typewriters (wait -- is that just me?) -- you name it. If there is an interest, somebody is pinning really awesome stuff about it. You can find loads of pins on the main feed, or you can search for them. If you follow pinners, their pins will show up in your feed more often.

Something I have noticed that's relatively uncommon in this day and age is that everyone at Pinterest seems so darned polite!  Think about it. If you posted something that interests you on Facebook, you're as likely to get some sour-face making a snide comment as you are to get a positive reaction. For some reason, people on Pinterest seem to really mind their manners. I've seen no claws. No fangs. No snark. I don't know the potential for stalker activity on Pinterest, and that's a concern. A few friends and I were mulling over the possibilities and wondering whether there is a "block" feature. As yet, I've not found one.

In all, Pinterest is just a little fun. There are pretty things to look at, funny comments, thought-provoking works of art and so many other things. It doesn't cost a thing, so there's no loss if it's not your cup of tea.

Pinterest is a great way to slack on Sunday!