Riven like a Raven

This spanking new word came to me while I was in my boudoir.  If you know me, you know that I save reading materials as well as everything else!

In the Oct. 20, 2008 issue of TIME MAGAZINE, of which I had only saved this one page, writer Claire Suddath penned a story with the headline, “The Brief History of: The Weathermen.”     

Suddath’s story features her “disputation”  in way of answering Sarah Palin’s claim that President Obama used to  ”pal around with terrorists.”  

Suddath writes, ”Riven by infighting, it (The Weather Underground) disbanded by 1976.”

 

Disputation

The day before last, I was watching two political pundits  talk on a cable show and I mistakenly thought I was a genius.

“Well,” said the pundit in an authoratative tone. “The Right Wing  has continued to have the same disputations for generations.”

And there it was! I had caught a man, not just any man, but a man y more educated than I, and he had made a terrible mistke.

The entire cable-viewing world caught this guy making up funny-sounding words.  Could I really be that smart?

Well, I had to check.  The truth was revealed after I’d spent a few breathless minutes with “Websters New Edition of the English Language.” 

DISPUTATION is just one of a zillion English words I’ve never heard. I don’t under stand the point of another noun that stands in for the noun “dispute” and that also needs four extra letters…

I can imagine that you could side-track an argument by saying, “You don’t know what you are talking about. I am tired of your disputations!” 

 

 

Alphabet Soup

Actually, I was too immature for  “VOCAB” class the first time I went to college. This was way back in the 1970s when we thought it was cool to get smacked in the head with a pair of glass balls called “clackers.”

Anybody remember those?  Talk about stupid! It was as if somebody swiped those fake glass grapes from my Mom’s coffee table, tied them to a string and said, “Here kid, here’s a fun game. Hit yourself in the head with these.”  And we did!

Anyway, I spent the 70s doing  too many stupid/illegal/immoral  things to mention here or anywhere else for that matter.

But one stupid thing I don’t mind mentioning, is that I snub my nose at VOCAB class.  My friends took it and swear it was a great experience.  Sure, I thought, I’ll take it later. Well, we know what happened to me later: I dropped out!

Eons have gone by and the old lady has wised up enough to realize that a person can never know enough words.  So I’m setting up this exercise for myself. If I can fool my feeble mind into thinking this is fun, then I can actually maybe remember a new word every day, or almost every day.

God knows I hear a new word almost every day!

But it takes Mr. Webster to remind me that I have yet to hear every English word ever spoken.  

 

Words Matter

I agree with a remark made by President Obama this weekend. In a statement regarding North Korea, he said, “Words must mean something.”

Words definately matter on the world stage, when the discussion involves policy positions. Afterall, carefully chosen words can restore peace while bombastic or threatening words can rip a community apart like a violent shower of bullets.

Words are no less important when they are spoken between the rest of us, the people who are not world leaders.

For expample when we coverse with family and friends, words and tone matter just as much.

My eldest daughter, a feisty little thing, used to break off into a swearing frenzy when she got into an argument with her peers. Then she’d wonder why they would
get so angry.

I suspected that maybe her choice of harsh words did not help the situtation.

“But Mom,” she’d protest. “They are only words.”

No amount of coaxing would get her to admit, she also did not like being called names or being in the line of fire.
This philosophy came from a bright almost perfect “A” student.

I remember when I married her father after waiting three years for him to propose. Finally hearing him say, ” I do,” made me burst out in tears. If anyone cried that day, I am sure I muffled all their noise.

When I had my second daughter and she, like her sister took off talking at a young age like nobody’s business, I was thrilled.

One day, my toddler reached out with a big smile, and said, “Mamoo!”

I just about fell over with laughter. Not just pride was at work here, but the idea that I was being compared
lovingly to a famous killer whale
by a little drooler, struck me as hilarious.

I felt no less pleased as when her sister would toddle over, grab my neck and say, “Momma, I love you too much!”

Sweet words I would love to hear today.

A few years ago, she had a freak car accident, I don’t think I will ever get over. We had a rough patch in our relationship but we were getting it back on track. I was so excited, I was telling everyone the news.

Well, when she had her accident and laid in the hospital bed, I walked in and I just knew. She looked perfectly fine, hooked up to all the equipment.

But I just knew. Remember Sleeping Beauty with her long flowing hair and peaceful, sweet face?

I’m a Mom and I have that sense that Mom’s have. But I couldn’t face the truth.

All I could say was, “When will she wake up?”

“Its useless,” the doctor said, “she’s gone.”

It was as if the room went black and I went crazy and deaf – all at the same time.

“Well, I’ll take her home and take care of her.”

By now the doctor was irritated and was shouting. “She’s a vegetable!”

Who wants to hear those words about their child?

When her father finally proposed after three years of being chased by me, I was the one in the chapel crying.

He said, “I do,” – words he swore he’d never say to another woman. But he spoke them and I bawled like a baby.

I sat alone at my daughter’s bedside all night that night. I stroked her arm, shared old memories and told her countless times how much I loved her. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. That little vigil was my own private way of sending her off on her new journey.

So, yes Daughter. Words do count. And they should count. In the best and the worst times of our lives, words always count.

 

Second-Hand Misery

I’ve never been fearful of 70 year old woman, that is not until yesterday.

You see my daughter, who takes after her Mother, moi, had money to burn at Savers second-hand store. And she was ready to get going!

We hadn’t been there in six months. Getting out of the house seemed like a great idea. Mom, me and my daughter piled in the car and fifteen minutes later we were pulling into the perfect parking spot.

Now, Savers is always an adventure. This is true even during the visits I make when I have no money to spend. Other times, chances are good that I can walk in five bucks and walk out with three books I’ve wanted for years. Just lucky that way.

Part of the fun of Savers for us, is that is a great way to spend time bonding and dreaming. I find old blonde furniture or records I had back in high school. Memories bubble up that I share with my daughter that I might not otherwise remember.

Plus, I get to daydream about how I would some day decorate the big old pink Victorian I know I will never own.

Anyway, yesterday my daughter took an hour to find a vintage table with a record rack, a skirt cut on the bias and something else I can’t remember right now. She only had to fork over ten bucks.

What did the Grandma get? Of course, the Grandma found a designer purse.

Grandma and I waited near the checkout while my daughter went through her visions in the dress aisle. And it was quite a wait. But I never mind. I enjoy strolling along, seeing what items other people are throwing away.

Mom and I must been there for a good 30 minutes while checking out the videos for sale. We noticed that the checker was working on the same customer all this time.

Suddenly, the customer turned to the lady behind her and shouted, “Well, I don’t care how long you’ve been in line!”

“It’s been about an hour,” said the obviously foreign lady behind her.

“Too bad,” bellowed lady number one. “I’m a good customer here.”

“So am I and I don’t care.”

The shouting was getting even louder now. Wasn’t the second lady afraid to get punched? I was!

They stood only a foot apart when the unforeign lady said, “Well I’m almost 70 and you should be glad we let you in this country!”

I was so embarrassed at that moment. I wanted to tell that lady that I was sorry that some people don’t want anyone here except American-born people.

I imagined that the slow shopper sat glued to her tv cheering the other day over the crazed gunman in New York City who lost his job and his mind.

People come here from other countries for many reasons. Many come here to be free from the torments of corrupt governments, dictatorship, ethnic cleansing and war.

BTW does anyone realize we are still fighting an occupation in Iraq? Our immigration quotas aren’t allowing many escaping Iraqis to come here.

My point is, this: people come here to make their lives better. We all have laws to obey. These folks don’t owe me a damn thing. America is much better because of the discoveries and hard work that can be atttributed to immigrants.

If we don’t want foreigners here, we need to tell our representatives. If we find that our borders or policies are too lax for our taste, then we need to take it up with the government.

Taking a rifle into a place where people are learning about America is not the answer.

Let’s not blame people who do what we do ourselves, seek to make our lives better. Americans aren’t the only people on Earth who have values and love their families.

Amen!

 

Pass the Tissue

Sneeze!

Having spent three of the past five days in a hospital with medical personel, I’ve been thinking lately about something that modern science has yet to cure. Not the common cold. But the common sneeze.

I sat in a chair directly across from a nurse, Jean. I didn’t feel well enough to catch Jean’s last name though I did notice that she processed at least 40 patients in one hour.

And I started thinking about all the germs, the invisible germs that Jean must be exposed to every day.

On the corner of her desk closest to me, sat a bottle of liquid hand cleaner, not that she used it. I think it was available more for the comfort of the patients than the staff. I observed no staff priming the pump.
Maybe the staff goes in the back and uses real and soap and water.

Just then Jean’s head jerked and she raised her hand to her mouth. I expected a sneeze though she let out only a cough. I opened my mouth to say, “God bless you.”

But I stopped myself and had to think about that.

I’d already waited an hour to be seen and had already exhausted all thoughts of how medical staff doesn’t come down with the plague once day.

So by now my mind was occupied on the matter of the common sneeze. And I wondered why we treat that little bodily function the way we do.

You can’t even get someone to notice your cough. But go and sneeze and we have a vast array of terms. As Americans we say a sneeze sounds like “Atchoo.” Each country has their own term for the expiration of air from the lungs.

Hack and hew your gutts out but you won’t illicit a single, “God bless you” or even “Bless you.”

Ancient cultures believed that bad spirits could get in through an open mouth during a sneeze.

No cool folklore exists for choking from a dry throat.

And you can’t even get a tissue for a cough. Maybe you coughed up a huge hair ball and phlegm is dripping from your chin. But you are on your own. “Eeew, get your own tissue. You think I want to get sick?”

Each country has their own polite phrase out of concern for the sneezing person. In Germany and parts of America, we say, “Gesundheit” or “to your health.”

Conjure up mucous and nobody loves you. Seriously. A cough is like an intrusion on society. Try it twice in a rapid succession and people will turn around to see who is breaking the silence.

Isn’t a cough also a sign that someone may be sick? Maybe a cough doesn’t assault our bodies enough to warrant concern.

A sneeze is like a shut down. Like driving along on the freeway and slamming on the brakes. A very violent act. A sneeze can make a real mess out of a freshly cleaned window.

A cough is just annoying and gruff. Like a barking dog. Not at all easy on your throat. A cough is big and bellowing and creeps up on you just like a sneeze.

“Atchoo.”

 

Crazy Cat Video Teaches Me a New Trick!

Yippeee! I just learned to embed videos. Who knows what I will do next…

What is Smokey the kitty smoking? I love cats.

 

Small-minded Me

Natural curosity and the ability to shut up and listen, make me the perfect interviewer.

I love getting ready to meet people, checking Mapquest and doing the required homework that allow me to ask intelligent questions. And, believe it or not, I’ve actually even collected a few fans.

But that’s the “working me.”
Meet me on my personal time and I’m not as friendly. Actually I’m downright impatient and take myself entirely too seriously.

Sometimes the biggest problem I face is getting out of the grocery store before I get annoyed. About ten minutes. I’m special see. My time is valuable. It’s all about me.

Don’t get in my way! My life is half over and I’m rushing towards the
second half.

Atrocious things happen every moment, in every corner of the world and I’m frazzled because the lady pushing a cart full of cat food walks too slow for my taste.

It’s amazing how the little things can get to me. Like driving in circles to find a parking space. Once I get in the store, I might bop around aimlessly for an 15 minutes. I don’t know why; maybe I’m daydreaming. But let a customer in the checkout line fumble with change, and I just know my time is being wasted.

Spoiled. That’s what I am. I have a place to live and food to eat though I can feel the adrenaline rush of a cave woman.

People have their own lives to live. Sometimes that includes death, divorce or foreclosure.

Fine. Just don’t let your pain get in the way of my life that revolve around finding the freshest loaf of French bread.

Recently my Literature teacher, Dr. Gray has me reading poems by a woman from Algeria where fundamentalists stepped into power. All these readings did something to my head.

I started thinking that maybe that’s the problem, sometimes I’m too warm and cozy to get out of myself and consider others.

The family with the messy yard might not be trying to bring down the value of the neighborhood. Maybe they are dealing with cancer.

And maybe I need to slow down and breathe slower. There is enough French bread on the shelves for everyone.

 

Thoreau’s words to live by

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” Henry David Thoreau said, “to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

 

Cloth Paper Scissors

A new magazine came in the mail yesterday. And no. I didn’t need it. Between the stacks of Time, Cottage Living and 402 other pounds magazines and books stuffed in the house, my reading/craft literature is set until 2057.

But for me, glossy pages are the stuff that dreams are made of. I must have subscribed to Cloth Paper Scissors during my last trip to Mars. I don’t usually lock myself into subsciptions that expensive.

Although the cover of the March/April issue sure is an attractive piece of art in itself. I’m looking at five “dolls” fashioned from old artist paint tubes. Have you ever thought of that before? What brilliant minds adorn the bodies of artists Susan Andrews and Carolyn Fellman!

“Their Secret of Happiness” series utilizes five “paint tube babies” which are glued to a wooden wall frame.

The heads in are made with Paperclay and feature delicate mouths and eyes.

Now, this is my kind of art. I love rescuing disgarded items that are ready for the trash and seeing what I can create. Why not?

The planet is full of countless tons of trash that will never degrade. What’s wrong with saving some of that garbage and transforming it into an object to be admired?

No wonder I love shopping at flea markets and Good Will stores. I enjoy finding new uses for cast offs.

And God knows, I should put my collections to good use. For years I’ve saved broken jewelry, old buttons and skeleton keys. Eventually my junk makes sense.

Is it about time you put your creativity to use? Send me an email and tell me about a project you are proud of. Send me a photo. I can always use inspiration.

And who knows when I’ll get to that Cloth Paper Scissors magazine. But now I have more to ponder.