It Takes All Kinds

This morning I stopped at the post office to get my mail and had to make my way around two people who stood talking smack dab in the middle of the doorway. They were so deep in conversation, or so rude, that they didn't budge, forcing me to literally squeeze by to get inside. The woman was telling a story about someone who had come "running down the steps and out the front door, screaming like a banshee!" They both laughed heartily at that. The man had a very large handlebar mustache, making me think he must have had a difficult childhood.

The whole experience got me thinking about how people are all so different and yet all so alike. The woman had said someone was screaming like a banshee, but before she even said "banshee" and had just said "screaming like," my own brain filled in the word banshee and out it came from her mouth, even though I am clueless as to what a banshee is and why it is always screaming. I wondered if the woman knew the answer to either question.

As for the man, I couldn't imagine what possible reason one could have for walking around looking so ridiculous, and so when I got home I searched online and found that there is a club for men with such mustaches, and a Facebook fan page, and all sorts of apparatus for taking care of them. Apparently they are very popular with a lot of men both here and abroad, although I can't imagine why since they look silly and require so much care, what with the washing and waxing and shaping and trimming. It's sort of like wearing a pet on your face.

As for the banshee, it turns out it's a female supernatural being in Irish and other Celtic folklore whose mournful wailing, screaming or lamentation at night was believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit. Or else maybe she just saw a man with a dumb handlebar mustache.

A Different Perspective

I smoked for 40 years, give or take time off for good behavior. During that time I thought it made perfect sense to carry around a pack of little tubes of tobacco and lighters and books of matches. I didn't find it at all odd to light the end of the little tube and suck the resulting fumes into my lungs. I accepted the yellowish lump on the left side of my right middle finger as no big deal. Since I finally quit smoking five years ago, all of those things seem crazy. Sometimes, stopped momentarily at a traffic light, I'll see a woman smoking in the car next to me and wonder, "what the heck is that?"

It's the same with dogs. When I owned a dog I thought it was perfectly reasonable to walk him several times a day, watching him pee on other people's flowers, all the while carrying around a plastic bag with which to pick up his feces which I then deposited back home in the trash. I never questioned the hauling of huge bags of kibble from the grocery store, or the barking at midnight at a passing squirrel, or the begging at the table or the scaring of little children or the fighting with the other dogs in the neighborhood, all of whom run free because after all this is Maine, the way life should be, even for its animals.

But now my dog is dead and I watch all these dog shenanigans and wonder, "what the heck is that?" My friend Polly, who lives across the street, got a new puppy a few months ago. Since then her life has revolved around him, what with the training and the walking and the playing and the neutering and the invisible fence with the shock collar...good thing she's retired because raising Bailey is a full-time job. And for what? Remind me.

This morning two neighborhood dogs, big black labs that are usually innocuous, raised a violent ruckus on my back deck because my cat, an elderly gentleman who can barely walk, happened to be lying in the morning sun, as is certainly his right. I arrived in time to save Gizmo from two sets of jaws and certain death, or at least major discomfort for him and a huge vet bill for me. I told those mean old black dogs to go home, although in much stronger language. And I wondered what those dogs are for, anyway.

Will You Kindly Shut Up?

This morning I attended an orientation meeting for a volunteer position at a local hospital. Besides me there were seven other volunteers and the group leader. We were seated at a round conference table and directed to, in turn, introduce ourselves and explain why we were hoping to volunteer.  Each person spoke for about a minute. Then came the guy right before me, who told us his life story and his wife's life story and all about his wife's last days and how she was his soul mate and he's retired and she had COPD and he watched her die, but at the same time he had leukemia and was on chemotherapy and she died on the last day of his chemo and now he is in remission and it was so horrible and he's not getting any younger and then about his seven grandchildren and his fourteen grandchildren and two more in the oven, until I wanted to wring his scrawny little neck, but of course I did not and nobody else did either, and despite all the shuffling of feet and looking at watches and rolling of eyes, he went on and on. I wanted to say "This is not group therapy," but of course I did not.

Some people talk too much and don't even notice that you are not listening anymore, which is very rude if you ask me.  When this happens during a phone call you can at least be productive while the person self-indulges. My friend Nancy was one of those, and when she called I would just continue with my cooking or painting or washing the floor or even watching TV with the mute button on, every so often weighing in with an "uh-huh" or a "no kidding!" and she was quite happy. Once I hinted at the problem and never heard from her again, and that was three years ago so I think she was offended. Try as you might, there's simply no nice way to say "shut up!" But when the overly verbose natter on about this and that in the flesh, forcing innocent bystanders to witness the random thoughts spilling out of their brains onto the sidewalk, it's a different story altogether.

If you know someone who talks too much, help them stop. You could even get them an iPhone App called a Talk-o-Meter that will prove they talk too much, and avoid that nasty ending I had with Nancy. Check it out at http://www.talk-o-meter.de/e/.

Going Crackers

What with the Mormons and their underwear and the Jews with their prayer shawls and the Catholics with their crackers--that religion sure is some crazy stuff. As you can tell, I'm not buying any of it. In fact, my derision of all that mumbo-jumbo ended a friendship when my friend of 30 years felt dissed by me about communion wafers.

I last saw Richard, an increasingly devout Catholic, about two years ago in Seattle, where we both had traveled to spend several days together. Most of our time was passed reminiscing in cafes and visiting all the churches in the city. Since I'm an architecture fan I didn't mind the odd tour, but eventually our conversation turned to religion. I asked Richard if he truly believed in all that "stuff." He said yes. I asked if he believed that when he ate the little cracker the priest gave him he was actually ingesting part of the body of Christ. He thought for a long time before answering and finally said, "Yes, and please don't call it a cracker." I howled. I think it was the howling that upset him. Anyway, since millions of believers go to church and eat those little crackers thinking they are the body of Christ, along with a sip of wine that is the blood of Christ, I thought I'd see where they come from. Could it be Heaven?

It's not. Instead, a company called Almy does a thriving business, with a showroom in Connecticut and a factory right here in Maine--who knew? I was stunned to learn that besides the regular body-of-Christ wafers there are now also whole wheat body-of-Christ-wafers, as well gluten-free body-of-Christ wafers. (That Jesus, he sure does keep up with the times.) On their website, they write: "Communion Bread is the body of Christ, the bread of heaven. Almy offers a large selection of pure, simple wheat hosts and, also, gluten-free wafers for communicants with dietary restrictions." 

A box of 50 gluten-free body-of-Christ wafers costs $12.05, but the whole wheat and the plain white each are available in boxes of 1000. The whole wheat will run you around $24.00, the plain white around $18.00. Well worth it, if you ask me. Have them sent right to your door and you can sleep in on Sundays and still be saved. Such a deal!

Cats R Us

I'm thinking that come winter, I'm going to plunk my two cranky old cats down on an ice floe in the Casco Bay, give it a push and let them float out to sea like the Eskimos do, except they really don't--in fact, the last reported case of Eskimo senilicide was in 1939. (Oh no, you're thinking, not another post about her cats.)

The cats are both 16 years old. They are in excellent health thanks to my unwavering devotion all these years, and my reward is that I now have to withstand their plaintive wailing due to arthritis, excessive peeing due to kidney problems, and constant begging for snacks out of just plain boredom. They no longer even walk fast--forget the adorable cavorting, gamboling and frolicking. Their lives are all about meowing for food, making a mess in the litter boxes, and crying at the door to either go outside or come back in.  Throw in their mutual jealousy over who gets the most laptime and it's no picnic for any of us. But the very worst part is the daily reminder of where I'm heading, as if I need another one in our youth-obsessed culture.

Recently one of my columns was printed in our local paper, sparking a lively online political debate until I mentioned my age, at which point things turned nasty. I then became fodder for jokes about being an "over-the-hill granny" from the days of Herbert Hoover, and what the heck could I know about anything going on now? Once again, society's hatred of and disrespect towards "senior citizens" reared its ugly head, which now seems even uglier because I am one, and I'm not even old yet. I can still walk and feed myself; heck, I still frolic and cavort. How bad is it for those folks who can't?

Very old people, those well beyond the Botox years, do exist in our society. We rarely see them, except of course when they reach 100 and get a cake at the nursing home and maybe, if it's a slow news day, their picture in the paper blowing out the candles. The sad truth is if that if we live well and take really good care of ourselves, we'll surely end up being the butt of jokes and a burden to someone. Seems to me that should change. For starters, perhaps I'll go get some catnip and maybe even a can of real people white Albacore tuna for my darling kitties.

When Hurricanes Kill

That mean old Hurricane Irene, a killer storm that, according to reporters who all use the same thesaurus, has been churning and roaring up the East Coast for days, is now on the wane after allegedly causing the deaths of many people.

In defense of Mother Nature, I ask--how exactly does a hurricane kill? Let us count the ways:

1. A sleeping child in Virginia was crushed by a tree crashing through the roof of his house.
2. A N. Carolina passenger died in a car crash at an intersection where traffic lights were out.
3. A N. Carolina man walking about in the storm was crushed by a flying tree limb.
4. A passenger died in a car crushed by a falling tree in Virginia.
5. A S. Carolina man had a heart attack while boarding up his windows in the storm.
6. A Florida surfer drowned in heavy waves.

Not to be too nit-picky, but it seems to me that all those deaths were suicides, except for the sleeping child. As for the surfer, rescuers aren’t sure if the blow to his head that did him in was from his surfboard of if he hit the bottom of the ocean floor; either way, it clearly was not the hurricane that killed him. Just like guns don't kill people, hurricanes rarely come after you. They do blow things around and make things fall over, but since Man comes equipped with two eyes and hurricanes only have one, we can be tricky and hide from them. So what I plan to do, as I sit in the path of that oncoming killer storm, is to stay inside. (I wish my parents were alive so I could remind them of when they sent me out into Hurricane Donna. Bet they'd be sorry.)

Storm Stories

If you are fortunate enough to survive, a decent hurricane can provide you with some good stories for years to come--for example, those people who lived through the tsunami in Thailand probably don't have to think of anything else to talk about, ever. I have a storm story, although once I had a child it seemed more alarming than interesting, making me wonder how I reached adulthood considering some of the questionable decisions made by my parents on my behalf.

Hurricane Donna occurred on the twelfth of September in 1960, when I had just begun the 8th grade. I was living on Long Island, which was expected to get a direct hit. Waking up early and praying for a day off, I was severely bummed but not surprised that our schools were scheduled to be open; in Rockville Centre, nothing short of a nuclear meltdown closed the schools. Nevertheless, peering out the window, things sure looked bad to me. But my mother said, as she always did, "If the school is open you are going," unless she wanted me to go somewhere with her, like to the beach or shopping in Manhattan, at which time she would say, "You'll learn a lot more walking through Times Square than you will cooped up in that damn building all day." (And another piece of the puzzle falls into place....)

So that morning at about 8:00 AM I walked the block to the bus stop and boarded the school bus. The whole time things were getting worse outside, making me think maybe a tree would fall on me, or even a house, or maybe that nasty Miss Gulch from "The Wizard of Oz" would ride by on her bicycle, cackling. None of those things happened and I got to school safely, although quite wet. I was finally settled in my homeroom when, at about 8:45, the principal's voice came booming over the PA system that the storm was "very bad" and that we should return to our buses and go home. In the very bad, not good, terrible, much worse storm.

On the ride home, with branches flying and hitting the windows, our school bus got sort of stuck in deep water, and while trying to making a turn, fell over on its side. Kids screamed, of course, but mostly in glee; nobody got hurt since we had been going about 2 MPH. The bus driver told us to get out and go home, advising us to "Run!" (Good tip.) Now I was about eight blocks from my house and had to make my way in the rain and wind and flying debris, all the while thinking that if the wind blew a bus over, what chance did I have? It was only later that I learned that Hurricane Donna had winds of 140 mph when it hit, and that 50 people died and that damages totaled $130 million on the East Coast.

My son has accused me of making up many of my childhood stories, saying, "Nothing like that ever happened to me!" Damn straight.

Drink to Your Health

My husband's recent surgery, which took place exactly two weeks and eight and a half hours ago but who's counting, has given me a new perspective on sickness, health and the whole damn thing we call living. Ever since Mitch authorized a surgeon to cut into his shoulder and mess around, our entire life has been about nothing more than that very thing. His right arm--and he's a rightie-- is in a sling that keeps it immobilized, and thus he cannot drive or open pickle jars or feed the cats or slap around an intruder should one appear, although he swears he would rise to that particular occasion.

Still, he sleeps--or more accurately doesn't sleep--in a chair in the living room, forget the marital bed. Let it be noted, however, that he can cut his food, and please God, forgive me for that one time I tried to do it.

Bottom line: We take our health for granted and complain about petty things, while everyday life for many, many, many people is so much harder than everyday life for most of us. We are busy stocking up on supplies for an impending Category 2 storm, while the residents of Haiti, many of whom lost limbs, are still living in huts and tents more than a year after a devastating earthquake flattened their country.

I am reminded of the old adage: "I cried because I had no shoes, and then I met a man who had no feet." I am trying hard to count my blessings, but it's hard to remember to be thankful when your once-debonair husband has trouble zipping up his own fly.

Help Me Help You

In my ongoing quest to find paying work, I came upon an ad seeking a "Self Improvement Blogger." It required a degree in psychology, which I lack, but went on to describe other attributes for the interested candidate, such as an understanding of personal development, productivity, and psychology. To further explain, it expanded:  "While the focus of the site is psychology, we're looking for someone who can can write on a broad range of self improvement topics and take a positive approach to how an understanding of psychology leads to greater happiness and fulfillment."

Now I can write on pretty much anything, with the possible exception of why Arabs and Jews hate each other, but I am drawing a blank on how psychology leads to greater happiness and fulfillment. Anyway, it got me thinking about the whole subject and my own plans for self-improvement. I got started right away by adding a hyphen between the words "self" and "improvement," which immediately made me not just feel better but actually be better, at least better than the person who wrote that ad, since correct grammar and spelling surely are high on anyone's list of virtues.

In this heightened mood, I feel like sharing how I plan to improve myself this very day:
1. Bleach hair on upper lip.
2. Call the mortgage company and tell them to ignore that check they got that was intended for my cell phone provider, who sent back the check for the mortgage they received in error.
3. Write new checks for cell phone and mortgage.
4. Vow to be more careful when paying bills.
5. Stop looking for paying work and do that thing for Rick (already)!

Another Natural Disaster Heading to D.C.

There's a hurricane a-comin' and it looks big, like maybe it will be a terrible disaster and wreak havoc and cause power outages and make people keep their TVs on 24/7, which of course is what the weather people hope for, live for and dream about. This could be the "worst storm in decades" according to The Weather Channel. People are being evacuated up and down the East Coast! States are being declared disaster areas even before the first raindrop hits the ground! It might rain a lot in our nation's capital!

Along with Hurricane Irene come many questions, the most pressing one being, "Do we have enough toilet paper to last the storm?" What is the driving force behind people flocking to their local supermarkets for the stuff--could it be all that talk of evacuation? And how little toilet paper do most people stock in good weather that they will run out in a day or two? And again I must ask, why do they show bears using toilet paper in advertising? But the most important question of all is how is it possible that Governor Rick Perry, of dubious moral character by the looks of him, is already the leading Republican candidate?

Talk about your disaster areas: Irene will pass in a day or two, but the President blows hot air around for at least four years.

It's Never Too Late to Be a Sex Kitten

In her recent autobiography, former film star Jane Fonda has divulged her secret ingredient for maintaining a strong libido at age 73. (That Jane, we always could count on her for all the important stuff.) And she is such a do-gooder, she's out there telling us what it is, so we don't even need to buy her book to find out. In fact, it's so simple, it's a wonder I didn't think of it myself: It's testosterone, that stuff men have in spades! Jane took hers in pill form starting at age 70, around the time of her third face lift, although it's also available in a patch and a gel that you rub on, god knows where.

The good news is that, according to Jane, it's given her the best sex of her entire life! And the down side is minimal--just some pesky little side effects that wouldn't hurt a fly. So go for it, ladies--and keep me posted on how many men you find who want to sleep with a muscular, over-the-hill granny with greasy hair, zits, a deep voice and a hairy chest.