That old chestnut

I dream last night that my mother cut my hair into a sassy style that I love, love, loved. It was short, but not too short, all tousled and cute.

In reality, the last time my mother cut my hair, I sat pouting on a stack of Sears, JCPenney and Montgomery Wards catalogs. She used a piece of Scotch tape and her sewing scissors to trim my bangs and even with those fancy precautions, my poker-straight hair went cattywampus. The tyranny of cowlicks cannot be denied.

More surprisingly, my hair color had reverted to its original chestnut.

Something shifted. The mood changed. My hair morphed into a mullet.

My mother disappeared. I stood in front of a mirror and glared at my reflection. Why did I let her talk me into cutting off my long, silver hair? It had taken me so long to grow it out, longer than it had ever been. Now it was gone. Snip, snip. Back to the beginning, Lisa Carole.

I woke up. My hand went immediately to my head. Still long.

I never know from what psychic crevasse my dreams pull themselves. What little thing or big thing or pattern of things stoked the engine of that train of thought? Was it the conversation I had with myself last week about the career choices I’d made? The fact that Chloe and I have been talking about what she’s going to do after graduation? Could it be my involvement with the Silver Panthers, a mildly-militant group of anti-hair-color activists at the office? We do like to talk about how we liberated ourselves from the shackles of Clairol and told L’Oreal no más, merci.

Symbolism isn’t my strength. I could guess what it meant. Rely on some half-formed assumptions I have about myself and my mother. Only half-formed because it’s safer not to look directly into the sun.

A dump truck filled with what ifs backed up next to the bed and someone pulled a lever.

I drifted into a dreamless sleep covered up in issues like an old, worn security blanket.

MathMan didn’t even stir.

Dream interpreter or dreamer? You’re up.

That old chestnut

I dreamed last night that my mother cut my hair into a sassy style that I love, love, loved. It was short, but not too short, all tousled and cute.

In reality, the last time my mother cut my hair, I sat pouting on a stack of Sears, JCPenney and Montgomery Wards catalogs. She used a piece of Scotch tape and her sewing scissors to trim my bangs and even with those fancy precautions, my poker-straight hair went cattywampus. The tyranny of cowlicks cannot be denied.

More surprisingly, my hair color had reverted to its original chestnut.

Something shifted. The mood changed. My hair morphed into a mullet.

My mother disappeared. I stood in front of a mirror and glared at my reflection. Why did I let her talk me into cutting off my long, silver hair? It had taken me so long to grow it out, longer than it had ever been. Now it was gone. Snip, snip. Back to the beginning, Lisa Carole.

I woke up. My hand went immediately to my head. Still long.

I never know from what psychic crevasse my dreams pull themselves. What little thing or big thing or pattern of things stoked the engine of that train of thought? Was it the conversation I had with myself last week about the career choices I’d made? The fact that Chloe and I have been talking about what she’s going to do after graduation? Could it be my involvement with the Silver Panthers, a mildly-militant group of anti-hair-color activists at the office? We do like to talk about how we liberated ourselves from the shackles of Clairol and told L’Oreal no más, merci.

Symbolism isn’t my strength. I could guess what it meant. Rely on some half-formed assumptions I have about myself and my mother. Only half-formed because it’s safer not to look directly into the sun.

A dump truck filled with what ifs backed up next to the bed and someone pulled a lever.

I drifted into a dreamless sleep covered up in issues like an old, worn security blanket.

MathMan didn’t even stir.

Dream interpreter or dreamer? You’re up.

And now a word from our sponsors

The setting: Four smart people sitting at a shiny table on a TV set. At least two of them are wearing glasses.
They are discussing poverty in the United States.

Many things are said. Near the end of the segment, one of them identifies perhaps the most devastating reason for this growing poverty.

Too many working poor. It’s simple. The burden of poverty belongs to many people who work one, two, maybe more jobs. The patchwork isn’t enough to pay for the essentials. What their employers won’t pay in exchange for their labor and productivity, the taxpayers must supplement if we’re going to be a civilized society.

The not-quite-living-wage is a growing problem. Corporations large and small have funded laws to help them shift responsibility to the taxpayer for food, housing, and health care. Things that a living wage used to pay for. But that was before unions were eroded and trade agreements made it far more lucrative to employ people over seas.

The entire panel, even the token Republican, agree. Even if they’ll never agree on who is to blame for this problem, they all agree the problem exists and things must change.

The devil always appears in the details. The question of how we can change things mires us in the quicksand of inaction.

Heads nod. The host touches the tiny speaker in his ear. Time for a break.

Cut to commercial.

The first advertisement announces how Walmart is helping to fight hunger.

Irony lives.

Bring out your dead

Source

I’ve heard of Rat Week. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t sound like anything I’d willingly take part in. It is, apparently, a college thing, but it’s something I missed during my days of big hair and scrunched socks. I was busy studying alone in my dorm room and volunteering for various church-related charities.

This week, however, has given me a taste. Okay, perhaps that’s not the phrase I want to use here because this hasn’t been Rat Week. It’s been Mouse Week.

It started over the weekend when I finally gave up waiting for MathMan to put out the mouse bait and did it myself. Hey – you over there wondering why I was waiting for the big, strong man to poison the itty bitty mice – I was waiting for him to do it because when I bought the stuff, he said he would take care of it. Then the waiting began. He’s a busy man. This is our system. If I mention it, he gets huffy and if I jump in and do it myself, he gets huffy. Meanwhile, I continue to get a fright whenever I go into the garage because a bunch of  mice are holding a key party in the trashcan next to the door.

After what seemed like an acceptable amount of time in marital gridlock, I chose action. I put the bait out knowing that if I had to, I could apologize later. The fact that I was stepping out of the shower when I mentioned my betrayal probably had nothing to do with MathMan’s insouciant response. He didn’t even blink as he said, “That’s fine……….”

I warned the cats to stay away from any mice who migrated into the house because they could be snacks bearing a deadly dose of poison.

The cats, being cats, didn’t listen. Tuesday I traipsed through a darkened hallway in my barefeet and stepped on a dead mouse. After I finished screaming, I scooped up the carcass bearing a few bite marks and disposed of it. I congratulated the cats en masse then retired to my bedroom where I showered and had a lie down.

On Wednesday, it was brought to my attention that “we” had a dead mouse in the garage. Funnily enough, none of those assholes I live with picked up said mouse and disposed of it. So last night, I gathered up my courage, donned some thick gardening gloves and a pair of safety goggles and descended the garage steps.

I’m not sure why I thought the safety goggles were necessary, but it turns out I could have used one of those white masks to keep the germs out.

There wasn’t one mouse. There were five. I swept the first one into the dustpan while trying to look away. I apologized to the poor mouse and with a little salute slid him into the plastic bag I had with me. The next mouse; the same thing.

Then I eyeballed the third mouse. It was by far the largest. It was going to take me a minute to recover and carry on with this clean up so while I tried to clear my head, I swept the garage floor. I swept out the corners near the outside doors, under the lawnmower and behind the bicycles. I moved the trash and recycling and swept out from behind them.

Let me just say that that garage floor is clean.

Finally, I forced myself to get back to the task. On my approach to the big, quite grizzled looking mouse carcass, I noticed another, much smaller body by the workbench.

A baby mouse. I’d killed a baby mouse.

I went to it and apologized in my high squeaky voice, the voice normally reserved for cats, puppies, and deer on the side of the road.

I am so so sorry.

Well, what did I think was going to happen when I put out the poison? Poison doesn’t discriminate, you murderer.

I took the broom and began to sweep the poor little thing into the Dustpan of Doom. The mouse had other ideas.

While I leaped back and screamed, it started to flop around with its lower body inert. It made a valiant effort and turned itself over. Once it got its momentum, it rolled some more. That mouse was doing sideways somersaults in my direction!

I clutched the broom and dustpan like talismans and stepped back, just barely avoiding the big, dead mouse.

My shoulders slumped as I considered what to do next. The baby mouse stopped flopping around and stretched out one tiny, fingered paw in my direction as if to say “I hope you’re happy now, Lady! May you never forget this moment.”

Yeah, I’m going to be seeing that in my dreams for a long, long time.

I asked the garage what Karma would deliver to me in retribution.

Karma, that wretch, didn’t wait long to answer.

I took a deep breath and braced to clean up what had grown into a rat in my mind. As I swept it into the pan, it turned over. Maggots cascaded from its head. I choked back the… well, you can imagine.

The rat dispatched to the garbage bag, I decided to give the baby mouse a little reprieve while I collected the mouse I noticed next to the furnace. That went well enough if you don’t mind the smell of death. Me? I’m not a fan.

Finally I had to put the baby out of its misery. By which I mean I swept him into the pan and slid him as gently as possible into the plastic bag and then put that bag into the garbage bag and tied it up and tried not to think of anything especiallythemovementsandtinysoundscomingfromthebag.

A green ribbon hung perversely from a small opening in the top of the garbage bag. I left it there.

Feeling silly for putting them on in the first place, I stashed the safety goggles in their drawer.  Then, while I tugged off the gloves, I took one last glance around the garage and shivered.

So this is death. Time for another shower and a lie down.

Bring out your dead

Source

I’ve heard of Rat Week. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t sound like anything I’d willingly take part in. It is, apparently, a college thing, but it’s something I missed during my days of big hair and scrunched socks. I was busy studying alone in my dorm room and volunteering for various church-related charities.

This week, however, has given me a taste. Okay, perhaps that’s not the phrase I want to use here because this hasn’t been Rat Week. It’s been Mouse Week.

It started over the weekend when I finally gave up waiting for MathMan to put out the mouse bait and did it myself. Hey – you over there wondering why I was waiting for the big, strong man to poison the itty bitty mice – I was waiting for him to do it because when I bought the stuff, he said he would take care of it. Then the waiting began. He’s a busy man. This is our system. If I mention it, he gets huffy and if I jump in and do it myself, he gets huffy. Meanwhile, I continue to get a fright whenever I go into the garage because a bunch of  mice are holding a key party in the trashcan next to the door.

After what seemed like an acceptable amount of time in marital gridlock, I chose action. I put the bait out knowing that if I had to, I could apologize later. The fact that I was stepping out of the shower when I mentioned my betrayal probably had nothing to do with MathMan’s insouciant response. He didn’t even blink as he said, “That’s fine……….”

I warned the cats to stay away from any mice who migrated into the house because they could be snacks bearing a deadly dose of poison.

The cats, being cats, didn’t listen. Tuesday I traipsed through a darkened hallway in my barefeet and stepped on a dead mouse. After I finished screaming, I scooped up the carcass bearing a few bite marks and disposed of it. I congratulated the cats en masse then retired to my bedroom where I showered and had a lie down.

On Wednesday, it was brought to my attention that “we” had a dead mouse in the garage. Funnily enough, none of those assholes I live with picked up said mouse and disposed of it. So last night, I gathered up my courage, donned some thick gardening gloves and a pair of safety goggles and descended the garage steps.

I’m not sure why I thought the safety goggles were necessary, but it turns out I could have used one of those white masks to keep the germs out.

There wasn’t one mouse. There were five. I swept the first one into the dustpan while trying to look away. I apologized to the poor mouse and with a little salute slid him into the plastic bag I had with me. The next mouse; the same thing.

Then I eyeballed the third mouse. It was by far the largest. It was going to take me a minute to recover and carry on with this clean up so while I tried to clear my head, I swept the garage floor. I swept out the corners near the outside doors, under the lawnmower and behind the bicycles. I moved the trash and recycling and swept out from behind them.

Let me just say that that garage floor is clean.

Finally, I forced myself to get back to the task. On my approach to the big, quite grizzled looking mouse carcass, I noticed another, much smaller body by the workbench.

A baby mouse. I’d killed a baby mouse.

I went to it and apologized in my high squeaky voice, the voice normally reserved for cats, puppies, and deer on the side of the road.

I am so so sorry.

Well, what did I think was going to happen when I put out the poison? Poison doesn’t discriminate, you murderer.

I took the broom and began to sweep the poor little thing into the Dustpan of Doom. The mouse had other ideas.

While I leaped back and screamed, it started to flop around with its lower body inert. It made a valiant effort and turned itself over. Once it got its momentum, it rolled some more. That mouse was doing sideways somersaults in my direction!

I clutched the broom and dustpan like talismans and stepped back, just barely avoiding the big, dead mouse.

My shoulders slumped as I considered what to do next. The baby mouse stopped flopping around and stretched out one tiny, fingered paw in my direction as if to say “I hope you’re happy now, Lady! May you never forget this moment.”

Yeah, I’m going to be seeing that in my dreams for a long, long time.

I asked the garage what Karma would deliver to me in retribution.

Karma, that wretch, didn’t wait long to answer.

I took a deep breath and braced to clean up what had grown into a rat in my mind. As I swept it into the pan, it turned over. Maggots cascaded from its head. I choked back the… well, you can imagine.

The rat dispatched to the garbage bag, I decided to give the baby mouse a little reprieve while I collected the mouse I noticed next to the furnace. That went well enough if you don’t mind the smell of death. Me? I’m not a fan.

Finally I had to put the baby out of its misery. By which I mean I swept him into the pan and slid him as gently as possible into the plastic bag and then put that bag into the garbage bag and tied it up and tried not to think of anything especiallythemovementsandtinysoundscomingfromthebag.

A green ribbon hung perversely from a small opening in the top of the garbage bag. I left it there.

Feeling silly for putting them on in the first place, I stashed the safety goggles in their drawer.  Then, while I tugged off the gloves, I took one last glance around the garage and shivered.

So this is death. Time for another shower and a lie down.

So like, you know what I’m talking about, right?

At first I thought my interest in linguistics was because these days I’m listening more than reading or writing. Trapped in a car for close to four hours a day, I listen to the radio – politics, music, books radio, old time radio shows.

But that’s not really it. I’ve always been a bit of a weirdo when it comes to shifts in language. For example, it irritated the hell out of me when people started pronouncing Uranus as yer-UH-nus just because we’re all a bunch of mental adolescents who can’t help but giggle at the name of a planet. This is what happens when people acquire Latin skills. When we just called it a a butthole, poor old YOURANUS didn’t have to be embarrassed hanging out there in space.

Then there was that push for newscasters and TV people to pronounce resources as reZORsez. Thankfully that died out quickly.

Or how about when Anita Hill was testifying before Congress. Our big national debate was whether Clarence Thomas putting a pubic hair on a Coke can was sexual haRASSment or sexual HAIRessment.

I don’t limit my critiques to the spoken word. The print media comes under fire, as well. Consider yourself lucky to have missed my ranting and raving in response to what I was sure was a trending overuse of had been when was was grammatically correct. Misplaced past perfect progressive makes me crazy. I would pull out my red pen and mark up the Chicago Tribune for its sins against the English language.

It would follow then that I’ve become aware of two more recent vocal trends. One is mostly manifested on the television – specifically on political talk shows – and the other is everywhere, especially where young adult women gather.

The first, the one I hear mostly on television, is the habit of beginning sentences with the word so. It’s used heavily by experts, pundits and the like when they’ve been asked a direct question about how something works or if they’re asked to provide some factual evidence for their current stance on any given issue.

The other, far more annoying in its widespread usage and its physical effect on me is what I used to call sleepy voice. Sometimes Chloe would phone me early in the morning and while she spoke, I cleared my throat. Repeatedly. So much so that if MathMan was in the room, he’d ask me if I had a problem.

Turns out though, this speech pattern has a linguistic name all its own. Vocal fry.

Think the Kardashians or a roomful of young women. Here are some examples…

There are some fiery pedantic arguments over the subject. I mean venomous exchanges between linguists and linguistical hobbyists. I’ll bet some of those commenters angrily flared their nostrils while they pounded out their lively responses to the articles. Who knew linguistics nerds were so passionate about anything other than schwa?

Right about now you’re probably thinking that getting a job and out of the house was supposed to make me more normal.

Look, I’m trying, okay?

So (see, there I go doing it, too!) as I read the comments on one of those articles, I remembered another vocalization that gets my attention and not exactly in a good way. One of the commenters noted that many of the NPR reporters now seem to mimic the way Ira Glass and his cohorts speak on This American Life.

Naturally, I tuned into NPR this morning to confirm this fact. Fact confirmed. But it also prompted me to wonder if there’s a linguistic term for how Ira Glass pronounces the letter l. Now for those of you familiar with Ira Glass, imagine him reading those last two words. Letter l. Can you hear it in your head? You know, Chris Christie has the same verbal quirk in case you need another point of reference.

And, of course, it has its own term. It’s called a Dark L.

You can hear it in this great piece from Ira that made it around the internet a few months ago. I could show you a video of Governor Christie, but I like you so why would I do that?

None of this is meant to insult. Well, except for the vocal fry and beginning sentences with so. Stop that!

I’m certainly not devoid of my own linguistic oddities. I have a mashed up accent that can’t decide if it’s Southern or Midwestern. It’s both with a definitive bent toward whomever I’m speaking with or listening to.

And I can absolutely understand why young women would want to lower their voices in register. I’m often mistaken for a kid on the phone. Can I speak to your mother? Sure, let me give you her number. Be sure to tell her I said hello.

It took about a year of MathMan’s taunting to get me to pronounce cement with the emphasis on the second syllable. To get me to say inSURance instead of INsurance and umBRELLa instead of UMbrella. A few years in the South have sort of undone that,  but I’m able to switch back and forth pretty easily because even if I don’t speak with a clean Midwestern non-accent accent, I’m aware of when my words begin to drawl out like a long, hot afternoon.

Even so, I still have trouble with pen and pin, but I bet if I remembered to say pen with the vocal fry, I’d get it right. Peheheheh(rumble)n.

All of this is to say what exactly? I have no idea. I just wanted to share so you could tell me that you notice these things to, that I’m not losing my mind and that maybe I should turn off the radio and enjoy the sequestered silence, perhaps get some fresh ideas for stories, clear out the cobwebs strung across my brainpan, listen to my own thoughts for a while.

Okay – let’s not go crazy.

Your turn. Ready to rumble? What language trends have you noticed? How do you abuse the language?

So like you know what I’m talking about, right?

At first I thought my interest in linguistics was because these days I’m listening more than reading or writing. Trapped in a car for close to four hours a day, I listen to the radio – politics, music, books radio, old time radio shows.

But that’s not really it. I’ve always been a bit of a weirdo when it comes to shifts in language. For example, it irritated the hell out of me when people started pronouncing Uranus as yer-uh-nus just because we’re all a bunch of mental adolescents who can’t help but giggle at the name of a planet. This is what happens when people acquire Latin skills. When we just called it a a butthole, poor old YOURANUS didn’t have to be embarrassed hanging out there in space.

Then there was that push for newscasters and TV people to pronounce resources as reZORsez. Thankfully that died out quickly.

Or how about when Anita Hill was testifying before Congress. Our big national debate was whether Clarence Thomas putting a pubic hair on a Coke can was sexual haRASSment or sexual HAIRessment.

I don’t limit my critiques to the spoken word. The print media comes under fire, as well. Consider yourself lucky to have missed my ranting and raving in response to what I was sure was a trending overuse of had been when was was grammatically correct. Misplaced past perfect progressive makes me crazy. I would pull out my red pen and mark up the Chicago Tribune for its sins against the English language.

It would follow then that I’ve become aware of two more recent vocal trends. One is mostly manifested on the television – specifically on political talk shows – and the other is everywhere, especially where young adult women gather.

The first, the one I hear mostly on television, is the habit of beginning sentences with the word so. It’s used heavily by experts, pundits and the like when they’ve been asked a direct question about how something works or if they’re asked to provide some factual evidence for their current stance on any given issue.

The other, far more annoying in its widespread usage and its physical effect on me is what I used to call sleepy voice. Sometimes Chloe would phone me early in the morning and while she spoke, I cleared my throat. Repeatedly. So much so that if MathMan was in the room, he’d ask me if I had a problem.

Turns out though, this speech pattern has a linguistic name all its own. Vocal fry.

Think the Kardashians or a roomful of young women. Here are some examples…

There are some fiery pedantic arguments over the subject. I mean venomous exchanges between linguists and linguistical hobbyists. I’ll bet some of those commenters angrily flared their nostrils while they pounded out their lively responses to the articles. Who knew linguistics nerds were so passionate about anything other than schwa?

Right about now you’re probably thinking that getting a job and out of the house was supposed to make me more normal.

Look, I’m trying, okay?

So (see, there I go doing it, too!) as I read the comments on one of those articles, I remembered another vocalization that gets my attention and not exactly in a good way. One of the commenters noted that many of the NPR reporters now seem to mimic the way Ira Glass and his cohorts speak on This American Life.

Naturally, I tuned into NPR this morning to confirm this fact. Fact confirmed. But it also prompted me to wonder if there’s a linguistic term for how Ira Glass pronounces the letter l. Now for those of you familiar with Ira Glass, imagine him reading those last two words. Letter l. Can you hear it in your head? You know, Chris Christie has the same verbal quirk in case you need another point of reference.

And, of course, it has its own term. It’s called a Dark L.

You can hear it in this great piece from Ira that made it around the internet a few months ago. I could show you a video of Governor Christie, but I like you so why would I do that?

None of this is meant to insult. Well, except for the vocal fry and beginning sentences with so. Stop that!

I’m certainly not devoid of my own linguistic oddities. I have a mashed up accent that can’t decide if it’s Southern or Midwestern. It’s both with a definitive bent toward whomever I’m speaking with or listening to.

And I can absolutely understand why young women would want to lower their voices in register. I’m often mistaken for a kid on the phone. Can I speak to your mother? Sure, let me give you her number. Be sure to tell her I said hello.

It took about a year of MathMan’s taunting to get me to pronounce cement with the emphasis on the second syllable. To get me to say inSURance instead of INsurance and umBRELLa instead of UMbrella. A few years in the South have sort of undone that,  but I’m able to switch back and forth pretty easily because even if I don’t speak with a clean Midwestern non-accent accent, I’m aware of when my words begin to drawl out like a hot afternoon.

Even so, I still have trouble with pen and pin, but I bet if I remembered to say pen with the vocal fry, I’d get it right. Peheheheh(rumble)n.

All of this is to say what exactly? I have no idea. I just wanted to share so you could tell me that you notice these things to, that I’m not losing my mind and that maybe I should turn off the radio and enjoy the sequestered silence, perhaps get some fresh ideas for stories, clear out the cobwebs strung across my brainpan, listen to my own thoughts for a while.

Okay – let’s not go crazy.

Your turn. Ready to rumble? What language trends have you noticed? How do you abuse the language?

Nemesis

Ever have one of those weeks where you just keep repeating the same mistake over and over? You know you shouldn’t and yet you refuse to listen to your instincts. Maybe some of us are more wired to be like that. I don’t know.

It’s like when you know you shouldn’t date that person, but you can’t resist their dark eyes, the shape of their fingers. That last vodka tonic after you knew you’d reached your limit. The second,  or third, piece of cake. The gaucho pants that were on the clearance rack. The W tattoo. The agreement to jump off the bridge if all your other friends would.

The 2a.m. burrito. The white pants on the 27th day of your cycle. The devil-may care way you said “We won’t run out of gas before we get home…..”  The Boston fern over the bathtub. The cartwheel on the wet driveway. Saying yes to the first guy who asked you to the prom even though he wasn’t your first choice.

It’s the way Sean Hannity is going to feel for aligning himself with George Zimmerman whose case just seems to get sketchier and sketchier.

It’s giving away your art deco buffet because you just didn’t feel like loading it onto the truck…..the perm you let your mom talk you into, the decision not to take the insurance on your cellphone.

Every day. Every single day I do this with my nemesis I75. And every single day I remember what a dumbass I am for thinking I can beat the odds, that I won’t be thinking unkind thoughts about whomever caused the accident that has resulted in the bumper to bumper clusterfuck that is the worst commute in the nation. I lament the fact that they don’t have formal drivers’ education here, that the public transportation system is pretty much nonexistent and, of course, I berate myself for once again for forgetting that the back roads aren’t just more scenic. They’re more efficient, too.

At least when I’m sitting in traffic, I’ve got music like this to cheer me.

Ever wish you’d taken a different route?

Nemesis

Ever have one of those weeks where you just keep repeating the same mistake over and over? You know you shouldn’t and yet you refuse to listen to your instincts. Maybe some of us are more wired to be like that. I don’t know.

It’s like when you know you shouldn’t date that person, but you can’t resist their dark eyes, the shape of their fingers. That last vodka tonic after you knew you’d reached your limit. The second,  or third, piece of cake. The gaucho pants that were on the clearance rack. The W tattoo. The agreement to jump off the bridge if all your other friends would.

The 2a.m. burrito. The white pants on the 27th day of your cycle. The devil-may care way you said “We won’t run out of gas before we get home…..”  The Boston fern over the bathtub. The cartwheel on the wet driveway. Saying yes to the first guy who asked you to the prom even though he wasn’t your first choice.

It’s the way Sean Hannity is going to feel for aligning himself with George Zimmerman whose case just seems to get sketchier and sketchier.

It’s giving away your art deco buffet because you just didn’t feel like loading it onto the truck…..the perm you let your mom talk you into, the decision not to take the insurance on your cellphone.

Every day. Every single day I do this with my nemesis I75. And every single day I remember what a dumbass I am for thinking I can beat the odds, that I won’t be thinking unkind thoughts about whomever caused the accident that has resulted in the bumper to bumper clusterfuck that is the worst commute in the nation. I lament the fact that they don’t have formal drivers’ education here, that the public transportation system is pretty much nonexistent and, of course, I berate myself for once again for forgetting that the back roads aren’t just more scenic. They’re more efficient, too.

At least when I’m sitting in traffic, I’ve got music like this to cheer me.

Ever wish you’d taken a different route?

My Dinner with Teri

Let’s say you make friends with someone online.

She’s part of a circle of friends you met on a well-known literary agent’s blog. Now let’s say that friend emails you that she’s going to be in your town and would love to get together. The day finally arrives. What is the first thing you do when you see this friend?

Well, if you’re me, you scream. With lots of volume.She knocked on the window while I primped trying to yank my hair into some semblance of order.

I screamed because I’m a bit jumpy, I guess.

After I screamed, we hugged and then headed out to dinner where we talked for hours. We could have kept talking, too, but it was getting late and we’d taken up the booth of the super nice waitress at Applebees for far too long.  We discussed topics ranging from family to politics to mutual friends and, of course, writing. Funnily enough, writing is the thing we talked least about. Even though this was our first meeting in person, I felt like I’d known Teri for a long time. Trite, but true. Midwesterners of the same age, we could have gone to high school together.

Teri, in case you don’t know, is an avid reader. No, scratch that. Is there a stronger word for avid because that’s what Teri is. She is, without a doubt, the pace setter for what this crowd of writers/readers have their noses buried in. Recently she read and raved about Wild – From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, a memoir by Cheryl Strayed (aka Sugar).

You have to read this book, she said.

And then she saw to it that I would.

Thank you for the gift of your time, your friendship and the book, Teri. I hope I’ll see you again very soon.

When is the last time you had an evening you wished could last longer?