Thoughts to Ponder on Christmas Eve

I have just finished reading a very thoughtful and honest assessment of the state of Christianity as it exists today. As many of us are contemplating, honoring or even doubting our beliefs on this Christmas Eve, I'd like to share this essay by a fellow blogger.

http://thesuburbsofhell.blogspot.com/

Retirement or Death, which will come first?

So, I've been hearing these dire warnings about the shrinking dollars in Social Security and the need to save money elsewhere for that golden time of life. I even got a notice from my 403B account holder telling me the good news, I could put away an additional $20,000 this year, tax free!

Wow! Of course, where that extra 20K is supposed to come from I haven't a clue. Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be deducting that out of my paycheck! Then, I see in the online issue of Fortune Magazine, after an article about how a family is poverty-stricken on $150,000 a year, a retirement calculator. What fun, I thought. How much money will I actually have at that magic age of 65?

The calculator doesn't work quite that way, instead, it tries to determine how much money you have to put away in the remaining years until age 65. (For those of you keeping count, that's 14 years to me.) The calculator then goes about telling me that I have a 0% chance of having enough money to retire on, based on current contributions and my anticipated social security.

This was not very comforting, but the calculator had a solution for me, all I have to do is, every year for the next 14 years is to contribute an additional $20,000 yearly to my 403B. That's all!

What the calculator did not tell me, was that at the current contribution rate, at what age I could retire. I suspect this is because it will be long after my anticipated life expectancy. I'm sure the calculator doesn't want to give me depressing news like that.

The funny thing is, $20K is such a ridiculous figure that I am actually finding this amusing. If I was short something like $5 or $6 thousand, I might have actually tried to shave that much off my household budget (I think food would go first, followed by medications and (sorry Zelda) dog food).

I figure now that I have just as much of a chance of retiring as I do of winning the lottery. And I never buy lottery tickets.

A Little Holiday Greeting

Well, the taxes aren't paid, and there is still a tuition bill looming somewhere, and I'm still not ready for it to be December, but, in the spirit of the season, I can at least offer a simple greeting.

http://www.noreensdigitaldreams.com/Holidays.html

and by the way, to the Rutgers football team, fans, alumni and everyone who has been following this great season: Yes, it was a heartbreaking loss, but more proof that Rutgers football is now a force to be reckoned with. HOO-RAH!

It Can't be December Yet

I have a small request. Let's delay December this year. Just a few months. Just long enough for me to catch up with everyone else. Everyone who has started Christmas shopping, paid their property taxes, car insurance and college tuition bills. Give me a chance to get my checkbook out of the red - as festive as that crimson spiral is, to me it is more like spilled blood than holiday lights.

Give me a few weeks to find out what is wrong with the smoke alarms in my house, why they keep going off for no reason. I need to call an electrician - but I can't afford it right now. I need a few days to convince my home insurance carrier that cancelling my policy really isn't necessary. I need to get an oil change before I void the warranty of my car, and my son has been driving on a donut tire for way too long.

All I'm asking for is a month, a few weeks, a couple of days. December cannot start yet. I'm not ready.

Thoughts on Family Gatherings and Emotionally Disturbed Dogs

My oldest daughter is here for the Thanksgiving weekend, and yesterday she joined her younger brother and sister as they made their "children of divorce" round of visits. At the end of the day, the all ended up with me at my sister's house - a scene that warms our hearts, all of our kids, eight cousins together in one place.

Laughing.
Joking.
Telling the legendary family stories.
and of course, overeating.

This morning, we reminisced about our family holidays after watching a piece on the Today Show about family feuds that come to a boil at the holidays. My daughter looked at me and said, "but we aren't like that."

No, we aren't. And it isn't because there hasn't been our share of trauma and disagreements. It's just that, after losing our parents in 1988, my sisters and have made a silent and solemn agreement that we would do our best to stick together and raise our children to be close with each other. So far, we've been lucky to spend many many pleasant holidays together. And for that, I am truly thankful.

Of course, that doesn't mean I'm not dealing with someone's emotional trauma this Thanksgiving. Only this trauma involves a pair of dogs - mine and my daughter's.

My dog, Zelda, has had her adventures, fears and phobias well documented here. Most recently I've been trying to reduce her aggressiveness toward other animals, squirrels, cats and dogs. I haven't been very successful.

My daughter recently adopted a dog who has his own set of phobias - darkness, noises and being left alone. Why my daughter and I ever thought these two emotionally unstable dogs would get along is beyond me.

Needless to say, their first meeting quickly turned into a snarling barkfest. We were stumped as to how these two dogs could spend a weekend together. The only thing we could do was keep them apart - no small feat in my tiny house.

Zelda spent last night at the end of her leash, at the foot of my bed, with the door barricaded. Today, we used some baby gates to create a kind of DMZ between the dogs, and because Zelda could vault this obstacle with no problem, she was also restrained with leashes. Barkfests were broken up with the dreaded water bottle - a spray of water in the snout goes a long way toward distracting a barking dog.

Then, my daughter and I got the idea to take the dogs for a walk. We figured that we would probably have to walk on opposite sides of the street, maybe opposite sides of the town, but amazingly, the two dogs walked side by side like old pals. They both shied away from cars, got distracted by squirrels and trotted like showdogs in the ring.

We thought it was a breakthrough - maybe in sharing their fear of noise, distraction and the outside world, they had bonded. We brought them back in the house together convince they would now be buddies.

Right now, my daughter's dog is spending time in solitary confinement in my bedroom, where Zelda spent the afternoon after the walk. The minute we got in the door, the dogs went after each other like mortal enemies. So, they each have to take turns in solitary, while the other dog gets the run of the house. In a few hours I'll switch them, making sure that each one is on either side of the babygate DMZ when I make the switch.

Yes, these family gatherings at the holidays are stressful indeed.

All This for a Video Game?

Starting with Pong and Atari, video games have been occupying a place in my living room entertainment cabinet for just about 30 years. I remember spending nights playing "Breakout" with friends until the sun came up - and becoming seriously addicted to "Tetris."

My children were born into the world of Zelda and Mario Brothers, and by the time they graduated high school they knew about all the violence in "Grand Theft Auto." Today, my son, at 21, is in college studying game design. He has discovered "The World of Warcraft" and we both watched the South Park episode that satirized that game.

So, you might say, we are a savvy family when it comes to video games and video game systems. You might think that we were sleeping in a tent overnight at a local store, salivating over the new PS3 system, but no, we weren't. It is ridiculously expensive, and artificially in short supply- a marketing technique that goes back to the first iteration of Cabbage Patch Dolls in 1982.

Yesterday, I saw two young men walking around the parking lot of a local shopping center with a sign, "PS3 - $1400!" I'm scared that they may have actually gotten someone to pay that price.

How sad is it that we will trample each other, even shoot each other over these consumer goods. How obscene is it that we will pay $600 and up for the privilege? Maybe it is because I have seen these systems come and go, seen the prices plummet, and spent time with my kids trading in games for pennies on the dollar that I just don't get all the excitement and hype over this one. Six months from now we will probably be able to buy as many as we want for half the price.

HOO RAH

I am currently in Colorado on business, but that did not stop me from watching the Scarlet Knights' incredible victory last night. Part of the time, I was watching it on a huge 60 inch HD screen at a Circuit City across the road from my hotel. Not many of the Colorado shoppers shared my enthusiasm and I scurried back to my hotel room before the real screaming began in the 4th quarter. And here's a note to all the professors today: be kind to your students today- they probably didn't sleep all night!

Being a Big Mouth about Big Foot Could be a Big Mistake

I've always thought that today's scientist could study and report on just about anything, and someone, somewhere will fund it. Apparently, that doesn't also mean that the scientist can keep his job if he ends up researching something that Academia considers frivolous. Think back to the opening scenes of "Ghostbusters." Dr. Peter Venkman (Bill Murray), who has a professorship at a university, is conducting ESP tests. Guess the correct card and you get a smile. Guess it wrong, and you get an electrical shock. The punchline is that one subject, a beautiful young woman, keeps getting all the answers "right" and the young man next to her is getting them all wrong. That is because Venkman is flirting with the girl and just shocking the guy for fun. Later on in the movie, funding cuts do threaten to put them out of work. Guess their research wasn't serious enough. You know the rest of the story. So, now in Idaho, we have a similar situation at Idaho State University where Jeffrey Meldrum is doing serious scientific study on Bigfoot, and has suggested that he has evidence to prove the legend real. He even conducted a symposium on Bigfoot at the college - an event paid for by a private donor because the University would have none of it. Now they are threatening to take his job away from him. Whether you believe in Bigfoot or not, you have to support this guy. After all, there is plenty of ridiculous research going on, remember my story about the drug that makes rats go mad for sex? Someone paid for that. And currently, fat, white mice are being given red wine extract to prove that, with the right supplement, humans can remain overweight, eat whatever they want, and remain healthy. I'd bet that the manufacturers of trans fats and a multi-nation fast food conglomerate is paying for that. So, come on, Idaho State - give the guy a break, let him study scientifically the stuff we read about in the tabloids. Learn a lesson from what happened when the mayor of New York threw the Ghostbusters in jail.

see the article: http://articles.news.aol.com/news/_a/idaho-professor-criticized-over-bigfoot/20061103142409990002

A Short Story for Halloween

Here, in its entirety, is a short story, presented for your enjoyment on Halloween.

Forgetting

©2006 Noreen Braman


When Sandy forgot how to bowl, everyone though it was hilarious. She stood in the lane, staring at the pins, a look of dazed horror on her face. She threw her ball, tripped over her own feet and fell in the gutter. Afterward, she told everyone that she had just forgotten how to bowl. For the rest of the night she was the team’s comic relief, as she tried to remember what has once been so easy. No one would believe that there was suddenly a blank space in her brain; it was as if she had never picked up a bowling ball in her life. Her husband and her friends just continued to laugh.
It wasn't so funny when she forgot how to drive.

The lines on the highway were passing in a steady rhythm as Sandy headed for home. She kept her minivan in the center lane, hoping to avoid both tractor-trailers and cars entering the road. The three-lane highway was mostly straight in western Jersey — with only an occasional gently sloped curve here and there.

Sandy drove along, singing along with the radio. As she steered the van over a small hill, she began to have an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. At first it was just a twinge, then it grew into a gnawing fear, not unlike the feeling she would get on the slow, steady uphill climb at the beginning of a roller coaster ride. Then, she could close her eyes, hang on tight and endure the terrible feeling of uncontrolled flight until the ride finally came to a stop.

She watched as the lines on the road passed faster and faster, even though the speedometer told her she was still doing 55. Her gaze was magnetically drawn down to the pavement, as the white painted strips disappeared under the van. She watched the rest of the road peripherally, a kind of tunnel-vision view that made the highway surreal and distorted. As she approached a curve in the road she was seized with the feeling that her van wasn't going to negotiate the turn, but instead go crashing through the railing and down the embankment. She struggled to maintain control of the wheel. In her mind she pictured the van rolling over and over, faster and faster. She tried to assure herself that her speed was still only 55, but when she looked down at the dashboard the numbers and gauges seemed to be in a foreign language, spinning around in a dizzying whirlpool.
She fought the urge to press the accelerator all the way to the floor, struggling to make her rigid arms steer around the curve. Trees that lined the sides of the road seemed to tower over the lanes, curving so sharply they almost touched each other over the roof of her van. The other cars on the road flew by her at suicidal speeds, nearly missing crashing into her as they flashed by, arms gesturing and faces grimacing at her.

Her feet were suddenly dancing around the pedals, and she was unsure which was the brake, which was the gas. The car lurched across the road as she recognized a rest stop sign. She screeched to a stop and yanked the key out of the ignition, dropping it on the floor of the car, as if it were burning hot.

She called Garver. "What do you mean, you can't drive anymore?" Garver's voice was a low growl of impatience. "You've been driving for years. This isn't funny Sandy."
"Do you think I'm enjoying this? I don't know what's going on, but if you don't come and get me, then I'll be here all night."

Sandy got back into the van to wait. Her hands trembled as she tried to light a cigarette. She had been hiding her return to smoking for weeks and Garver would be furious, but, how much angrier could he get?

The familiar feeling of the cigarette calmed Sandy as she sat watching traffic. The unending lines of vehicles swept past her in a steady rhythm. As they sped by, the momentum distorted the cars, elongating them into cartoon images. Their shapes became more and more fluid until there seemed to be nothing on the road but an undulating river of molten metal. Sandy blinked her eyes and shook the image out of her head. That was all Garver had to hear. Forgetting things, and seeing things.

She put her head back on the seat and thought of Garver — his lean, tan body striding through the parking lot, his face scowling. Sandy tried to remember Garver's smile, she was certain he had smiled recently, but she just couldn't picture it. In fact, she was having the greatest difficulty remembering the color of his eyes. She took a long, slow drag on the cigarette and then tossed it out the window. It rolled on the blacktop, still smoking.

How disgusting, she thought. Who would throw out a lit cigarette so close to the grass? She opened the van door and followed the cigarette as it slowly rolled. When she finally caught up with it, she stomped on it, grinding it into the pavement.

She knew it would be a while before Garver arrived, especially with the evening traffic. She wandered into the restaurant, surprised at how seedy the roadside eatery was. Long ago, when she was a child, stopping at a rest area was a highlight of a long car trip. It served as a kind of tourist meeting place, with cars from all states lined up in the lot. there were maps and postcards and huge bathrooms full of sweaty women and screaming babies.

Now, Sandy wasn't certain that a trip to the bathroom was a wise idea. Several men in dirty clothing milled around the doorway as she went in. The restaurant itself was dark, with flickering fluorescent lights. The guy behind the counter didn't wear a paper hat, or even an apron.
Sandy stood at the counter and looked up at the plastic-encased menu. The pictures of the Highway Hamburger and Trucker's Special were so faded the lettuce looked yellow and the tomatoes were an unhealthy shade of pink. Sandy traced the letters, trying to read the faded words. Like the cars on the highway, the print on the menu seemed to be moving, flowing like a river right off the page.

"Well," The voice startled Sandy. She looked up. This close, she could see how badly the counterman needed a shave.

"I can't make up my mind," she said. ”Just give me a sandwich.” The counterman pointed to a rolling cart behind her that served as a kind of salad-less salad bar. Rows of sandwiches in wax paper covered half of its surface.

Unwilling to try and read the menu any more, Sandy nodded her head, and took one marked with a huge “B” for bologna. She stared at the lettering all the while she paid for it, picked a table and sat down.

It occurred to Sandy that perhaps the ink had seeped through the paper, into the sandwich, oozing through the bread and had settled into the meat, making it dark and foul. She was immediately nauseous, and she left the table, looking for the bathroom.

The feeling of sickness overcame her fear of the bathroom, and she burst inside looking for a place to throw up.

Inside the door, a young woman with missing teeth was sitting on the floor, facing the wall. She was talking to herself.

"Come on, come on," she whispered as she ripped open the sleeve of her shirt. Sandy stood fascinated as the woman tied a piece of cloth around her upper arm and pulled it tight. Sandy saw the glint of a needle, and the nausea came back as she watched the needle plunge into the woman's arm. Her involuntary gasp made the woman look up.

"What are you staring at," she hissed, waving the needle in Sandy's direction. "Maybe you're looking to take my stuff."

Sandy backed up against the sink. "No," she said, " I don't do that...I mean I don't want yours... hey, do what you want!"

The angry glint in the junkie's eyes faded and she smiled a toothless grin.

"What does it do for you anyway?" Sandy asked her.

"It makes me forget," she answered, "Just makes me forget."

Forget what, Sandy wondered as she watched the woman slowly gather up her ragged belongings. Then without warning, she whirled on Sandy, hitting her full in the face with her bag. There was something heavy inside and it knocked Sandy unconscious.

The sound of dripping water became louder and louder until Sandy opened her eyes. As she tried to sit up, she was instantly aware of pain- pain in her eye, pain in her mouth, and intense pain in her arms.

She struggled to clear her vision and looked down at her arms. They were covered with puncture wounds, each oozing a dark drop of blood. A bloody, broken hypodermic needle lay on the floor beside her. As she struggled to her feet, she realized that her shoes were gone, as well as her jacket and her bag. What the hell happened to me, she thought.

She squinted in the mirror, trying to focus her thoughts. Her brain was kicking out images that didn't make any sense. Something about her van, something about someone shooting drugs, something about a rotten sandwich … Just as quicly as the images flashed into her mind, they faded into oblivion.

She stumbled out of the bathroom, noticing how dark it was outside. It seemed very funny that it was so dark, and she began laughing out loud. She pushed open the door to the parking lot, and still laughing, started looking for her car, shewas sure she had a car.

None of them looked familiar — Sandy tried to remember what color it was.

Down at the end of the parking lot there were two tractor-trailers parked. That's my car, she thought. She staggered across the lot, and climbed up into the cab of the one with the interior light on. A man was sitting in the driver's seat, reading a newspaper.

"Garver!" she shouted, throwing herself on top of him. God, it had been so long since he held her...
The trucker pushed Sandy off him.

"Hey lady, you're nuts!" he said, but Sandy didn't hear him. She threw herself on him again, kissing him hard in the lips. Already she was forgetting his coldness, his meanness. If she could forget, so could he. Suddenly, he responded to her, clutching her roughly and tearing at her clothes. The interior light went out.

Hours later, Garver stood with the police in the dark parking lot. The coroner's van had already picked up Sandy's nude body from the pavement.

"Looks like she stabbed herself repeatedly with that needle – must have shot enough stuff to make her out of her mind, I’m sorry." The police officer looked away from Garver. They had already searched the building carefully and found traces of blood in the bathroom, along with the broken hypodermic needle. The bruises on Sandy's arms spoke for themselves. Forensic testing would soon match up the blood officially, blood that would be strangely clean of any drugs, but full of other mysterious things that the lab technicians would forget about.

"I was just so mad at her," Garver said, "I couldn't believe her that she forgot how to drive. I had no idea she was doing this — how did she hide it from me?" He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, still not believing how this could have happened.

The cop shrugged; nothing that happened at these highway rest stops surprised him anymore. And now, with even a former governor claiming he participated in sordid activities that went on there, his hands had been full dealing with curious and stupid gawkers poking their noses where they shouldn’t, and getting into trouble.

Several hundred miles away, a trucker was racing as fast as he dared away from New Jersey. He was still in shock over what had happened, what he had done –that woman, she had been crazy- all over him one minute, and screaming for help the next. Accusing him of making all those bloody marks on her arms. Blood that had smeared all over him and his truck. At least he thought it was blood — already, his memory of what happened was getting foggy. It would be the first of many memories to evaporate as he headed down a suddenly unfamiliar highway, slowly beginning to forget.

The Dark Side of the Year

Daylight savings time has ended for another year, bringing with it the crushing weight of darkness at 5:30 PM. I dread this end of the year because it marks the beginning of a period of lethargy for me that is hard to fight. Now, especially that I work in a cubicle that has no direct access to outside light, if I don’t make an effort to get outside during the day, it is quite a shock to my system to head to my car at night in a darkened parking lot, often with the moon shining above. My body just screams at me, get home and get to bed!

I can’t imagine what it is like in more northern climes where the days are even shorter than they are here. I think if I lived in one of those places, I might actually fall into a state of hibernation. I must resolve this year to get outside everyday, if only for a few minutes, and get some sunlight on my retinas. I need to look into purchasing one of those sunlight light bulbs, although I am afraid of becoming addicted to it, like the person on “Northern Exposure.”

There may be a ray of hope for me this year. Recently, genetic tests revealed I have a sleep disorder. Quite possibly, it is the cause behind my years of fighting fibromyalgia and other things. I’ve been placed on a medication to regulate my sleep, and so far, the results have been nothing short of miraculous. I’ve stopped all pain medications and I am no longer afraid to drive my car at certain times of the day (I was falling asleep at the wheel). I wake up without the alarm clock, and can actually get out of bed without dragging myself. I am hoping that this sudden improvement in my overall health may counteraffect the loss of light at this time of year. Who knows, I may even grow to like it!

More on Women and Math and Science

The president of Harvard may have resigned, but his unsupported remarks about women have genetically inferior abilities in math and science are still resonating in society. So ingrained is this notion, that it can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Tell women that they are not good at math and they won't be. Why this should come as a surprise, is baffling to me. As a famous poem says, "Children learn what they live." The expectations of their parents, friends, teachers and society can determine a child's eventual successes or failures just as much as innate intelligence.

However, since this stereotyping is still so ingrained, it it good to know that there are researchers working to scientifically prove them wrong. I would like to think that my expectation of my own children - both my daughters and my son, helped them all find their career paths - two of my children in the sciences, one in mathematics.

To read more about the current research that is debunking the "math is hard for girls" myth, see:
http://www.cnn.com/2006/EDUCATION/10/19/women.math.ap/index.html

Free Will, Violence and Vengeance

I read about, and saw on YouTube, the recent “freespeech” statement by a parent who lost a child at Columbine. In reaction to the killings at the Amish school, he stated that the reason for all of these school shootings and other violence and terrorism is because evolution is taught in school and abortion is legal.

My heart breaks for this man, and I realize that he needs to rationalize what happened to his child in whatever way he can live with. However, in my mind, his reasoning is flawed and overly-simplistic. What he is trying to say is that the world needs more God in it, and that god must be in line with his particular Christian point of view. It is this thinking that has, over the centuries, sparked most of the terrible violence humans have visited upon one another. Religious conversion by conviction or force has never done anything to reduce the amount of violence in the world. Basically, in every conflict, each opponent, if not specifically believing that God is on their side, has believed that what they were doing was for the good of society. Society as they interpreted it.

I wish there was a magic solution to ending the increase in school violence, and for that matter, world violence. It is easy to think, if only this or if only that. It is comforting to be able to find an identifiable source of blame, holding that source responsible for invoking actions of a vengeful God. Me, I can’t ever envision a God or Deity that would send a gunman into a school of Amish children because somewhere else there was an abortion performed. I cannot believe that an angry Deity sent planes full of innocent people and terrorists crashing into the Twin Towers. Why wouldn’t the angry God punish the evil doers? To think like this is to believe that ultimately, the people who have perpetrated these heinous acts are really not responsible for what they do. To use a Christian comparison, it would be equivalent to saying that Judas was not himself responsible for the betrayal of Christ, but was compelled to do it. The theological argument, no matter what your belief system might be, is, do humans have free will or not?

In American society, there may be a heightened tolerance or expectation of violence – from a glorification that dates back to the Revolution. The reasons for it are probably as complicated and varied as the personalities of the 3 billion people that now occupy our borders. No one sweeping change in medical practice or educational curriculum is going to change that. It is up to each individual to be responsible for his or her own actions, to pass morals and beliefs on to offspring, to obey the civil laws of the land, respect and tolerate the rights of others. When you consider how much free will that involves, and how much temptation exists in the world you see just how difficult a place the human race is in.

I suggest, for those of you so inclined, to pray.

Coughing Up a Lung

I am disappointed to report that even with my exhaustive search of the internet, I cannot determine if it is really physically possible to cough up a lung. It doesn't stop the use of the expression, however, and from the cough that I continue to have today, it seems plausible to me.

I should congratulate myself. Coughing is the number one reason that people seek medical attention. For the first time in my life, I won't have a medical professional tell me, "wow, I've never seen this before,"

If you try to determine yourself the source of your cough, you will confront subjects from lung cancer to allergies. You will find out that there are dry coughs, wet coughs, productive coughs and chronic ideopathic coughs. In some cases, the cause of your cough has nothing to do with your lungs or sinuses, but rather, is being caused by acid reflux. Generally, the only thing that comes out of all this info is, if you are coughing up blood, its a bad thing. Coughing up a lung, spleen or small animal just doesn't surface as a reliable symptom of any disease. Even though, you can swear to your doctor you saw something small and furry scurry away from you in the midst of your coughing fit.

And nowhere is there a report of a person coughing his brains out. However, I am convinced this happens. If not the entire brain, at least some cells. If the brain tissue is not actually expelled by coughing, the cough itself surely causes a power grid meltdown in the brain. Last week, after one particularly long, involved coughing spell, I could not, no matter how I tried, remember what day it was.

So, today, after another sleepless, hacking, sweaty night, I am going to the doctor. However, I now know not to tell him silly nonmedical things like I am coughing up a lung, or coughing my brains out. I won't have to. If I'm lucky, I'll cough right there in his office and he can see the little animals for himself.

Teaching An Old Dog New Tricks

Zelda is my “no time” dog. She entered the house as second dog to a fairly well trained older dog. That older dog had come into the family as second dog to a professionally well trained dog. I’ve figured out, that just like birth order of children, the timing of a dog’s arrival in your life directly affects its eventual behavior.

Dog #1, Gypsy, came into my life when I was single and living in an apartment. She became the center of attention for me and my then-boyfriend (soon to be husband). She had a gentle loving nature to begin with and took readily to the private obedience classes I took her to. After we married and had children, she was a gentle and trustworthy companion.

Dog #2 arrived as my youngest child turned 9, with dog #1 still holding her own as a noble senior citizen. Dog #2 was a stray and because he so resembled our older dog, the kids begged to keep him as her baby. In fact, Baby became his name. His first months with us were tumultuous. He was a runner, and I spent a lot of time chasing him all over the neighborhood. He tried to be feisty, once growling and baring his teeth in such a frightening way that I locked him in the bathroom out of fear. But, as he got older he calmed down a bit, and when Gypsy passed away, he enjoyed years as First Dog. However, he could never be trusted off leash or alone with garbage.

During his time as First Dog, I got divorced and the kids and I moved into a different place. For a while, Baby reverted to puppy behavior, and chewed some furniture and soiled some carpets. He was, however, a devoted companion to the parrot I had acquired, and sometimes the two of them would greet guests at the door together. A few years later, the parrot left us and Baby became diabetic and fragile. It was at this time the my high school aged-middle daughter began campaigning for a “puppy of her own.” I resisted as long as I could, but eventually, a sad story of strays on a junkyard ushered in the arrival of dog #3 – Zelda.

At this point, all three of my children were in high school, and I was working full time. Zelda became our first “crate-trained” dog – a technique necessitated by the fact that she and Baby would be alone in the house most of the day. And Zelda proved to be the most challenging and least trainable of all –destroying anything she could pull into her crate, including cable wires, and basket of laundry. Eventually, she too calmed down a bit, and was given the run of the house with Baby. However, she was a worse runner than he ever was, and the entire family spent many hours chasing her around the neighborhood. Rain, sleet and foot deep snow didn’t stop her.

Eventually, Baby succumbed to the diabetes, leaving Zelda to reign as Top Dog. I had also gotten another bird, however, no companionship developed. To this day, Zelda still throws herself madly at the bird cage anytime the bird makes any big noise or movements. We now keep a chair in front of the bird cage. We also keep extra furniture on the couch, to keep her from jumping up on it and using it as a launching ramp to crash through the picture window because a squirrel or a cat or a rabbit has the nerve to be anywhere within sight. She has forgotten all her social manners as far as other dogs go, and cannot go to the dog park.

All three of my children are now in college, and many evenings and weekends, it is me, Zelda and the bird, circling around each other in the house. Zelda, at 5, continues to be like a puppy, following me with toys all the time. Well, except if there is an animal or person passing the house, or there is a thunderstorm or loud noise. That’s when the completely insane barking and jumping and running ensues. Some people might think that this is just her personality – a high strung escape artist with tons of phobia and a love of garbage. But I know better. As I said at the beginning, she is the “no time” dog. My kids hardly spent time with her, and I ended up being the feeder, walker, brusher, and poop patrol. All those nice professional training skills I used with Gypsy, and sort of used with Baby, have been forgotten with Zelda. And she is a young, healthy, good-natured dog. She is going to be with me a long time. We both have time on our paws.

So, last Sunday, Zelda had a private obedience evaluation. I met the trainer at an agility training facility, and knew that Zelda would just love to jump those hurdles and climb those ladders, if she could just learn about it. As expected, her problems right now are anxiety in new places, and an inability to pay attention. But I’m told there is hope. With some work, attention and patience, I can teach this old dog new tricks. And maybe even Zelda too. Stay tuned.

Today's Diagnosis - There IS a Frog in My Throat

Yesterday, after declaring I was "sick as a dog" and finding out, through exhaustive Internet research, that I really wasn't - I mentioned that perhaps the expression "frog in the throat" would better describe my current malady.

Well, this expression has a more interesting history. Some sources say the origin of the phrase came from a practice by Medieval doctors, who, believing that the secretions from a frogs skin had curative properties, would place an actual frog in the throat of a sufferer. Other sources disagree, citing a much more colorful reason for the expression. Since medieval people regularly drank water from ponds and streams, that water could include lots of extra ingredients, including frog eggs. These eggs would hatch in the stomach, and when the frog would try to crawl out through the throat, it would cause a choking sensation and cough.

Still other sources say that it really was just a simple comparison - those suffering from throat problems would become hoarse, and the croaking sound they made was compared to the croaking sound of a frog. In fact, an old English word, "frogga" actually does mean to be hoarse.

Not to be outdone by English medieval physicians and folklore, America has its own claim to the expression. Apparently, during the days of snake-oil salesmen and magic elixers and salves, there actually was a product called "Frog in the Throat" sold to aid coughs, pain and hoarness.

So, today's diagnosis, considering all the hours I spent coughing and choking last night, is that I really do have a frog in my throat. I'll be spending the rest of the day trying to coax it out.

Sick As a Dog ... Or Not

I am home from the office today, sitting around in my sweats, sniffling, coughing and aching. My eyes are so watery, I can't quite see clearly. Yes, I'm a lovely sight.

So I wrote my daughter an e-mail in which I told her that I was sick as a dog today. Somewhere in the back of my clogged head came the nagging question of where that expression started. After sneezing all over my keyboard ( note to family members- stay away from the computer today) I did an Internet search on the term.

While not as exciting as some of the expression that have biblical roots, the expression just seems to be one of many involving dogs. For some reason, perhaps their constant proximity to humans and our constant observation of their behavior, we've developed idioms for one extreme, "living a dog's life" to the other, yes, "sick as a dog."

Apparently, we are so well acquainted with canines, that we are often witnesses to instances of doggy sickness - mostly of the vomit type, mostly caused by their "eat first - figure out what it was later" attitude. Cats too are capable of vomit, but for some reason, "sick as a cat" doesn't invoke the same picture. And "sick as a horse" just doesn't work, because for some reasons, horses cannot physically throw up.

So what did I learn from all this exhaustive and frankly, disgusting research? Technically, today, I am NOT sick as a dog. Not in the strict sense of the origin of the expression being based in dogs' frequent gastrointestinal adventures.

No, I'm just coughing, sneezing, aching and feeling miserable. Quite possibly, I may have a frog in my throat.

Now, where did that expression come from?

More on "Seasoned Women"

Check out my recently published content on AC:
Gail Sheehy, Seasoned Women and Me

High and Dry in Jamesburg

So, I am sitting at my desk at work, when my phone rings. It is my son, calling from home, in Jamesburg. He is about to get ready to go to work, but there is no water coming from any of the taps in our entire house. My first thought, of course, did I pay the bill? My second thought, there is a broken main somewhere under the house, spewing millions of gallons of water into my crawlspace. Either one required a phone call to NJ American Water to figure out what was going on.

I called their emergency repair line, and after being placed on hold for 10 minutes (listening to the sound of running water- whose idea was that?) I finally got through to someone who informed me that this was a scheduled shut off in my area to install a new water main. I should have gotten a notification in my mailbox. When I said that I did not, she began reading off all the streets. The streets on either side of mine. The streets perpendicular to mine. My street was nowhere to be found on the list, therefore, no one had let us know.

I'm very happy I got to take my shower early before they shut things down. My son was not so lucky, and I suppose, his coworkers even less lucky. I hope there is enough water in the dog's bowl to hold her all day - maybe when I get home I can put her out in the yard to lap up some of the rainwater from the grass.

American Water says the water will be back on after 4 pm. We shall see. If it isn't, I may be sending my son to your house for a shower.

OK! I fixed the typo!

I fixed yesterday's title from "Mysterious Bankng Rituals" to Mysterious Banking Rituals." However, now that I think of it, it was probably a more accurate spelling the first time around. Because,obviously, for me, there is no "I" in banking.

Mysterious Banking Rituals

Today, I needed to make a deposit to my checking account, pronto, as my balance was circling the drain. Normally, I conduct all my business at the ATM, but for some reason, I had left my card at home, necessitating a trip inside the bank.

I wrote out my deposit slip, asked for a certain amount of cash back, and approached the teller. First she tells me that even though the deposit slip clearly indicates "cash taken" from the deposit, she could only deposit the checks, and I would need to make the withdrawal from the ATM. I told her I didn't have my card, she replied that she could do it for me. So, I corrected the deposit slip and waited for my money.

"Oh," she says. "I can't give you the money." My account, circling the drain as I said, did not have enough funds in it to cover the withdrawal. "But," I protested, "When I deposit checks through the ATM, there is a courtesy amount ready for withdrawal immediately, and the rest of the deposit when the checks clear." The teller shook her head in agreement, then proceeded to tell me that I was correct, I could go and make the deposit at the ATM and get cash back.

"But I don't have my card," I repeated. "Then I can't give you any money," she replied, "only deposit the checks. Maybe they will clear by tomorrow."

Now, am I the crazy one, or do you agree that this entire transaction made no sense. If I had conducted the process through the ATM, I could have taken out cash against my deposit. However, INSIDE the bank, with HUMAN assistance, I had to walk away empty-handed.

So right now, my wallet is circling the drain.

Are College Students Stressed Out?

Check out my recently published content on AC:
How is Rising Stress Impacting College Students?

In My House, the "Dog Days" are Just Starting

Putting my dog outside at this time of year is a true exercise in frustration. I’ve recently finished reading “Marley and Me” for the second time, just to assure myself I am not the only person who has owned a mentally unstable dog.

All summer long, we endure the threat of thunderstorms, knowing that Zelda will go wild at the merest hint of thunder or lightning. She has become so hypervigilant that when I turn on the fluorescent light over my kitchen sink, the little flutter of light before it comes fully on, Zelda will launch into unstoppable barking, convinced it was lightning. But as the weather changes and fall appears on the horizon, the anticipation of fewer thunderstorms only ushers in the next season of phobias.

First, are the leaves. Zelda can see them drifting down from the trees, through the large living room window. Convinced that these are invaders of some sort, she runs back and forth in front of the couch, barking. She’d jump up on the couch and perhaps go right through the window but for the imposing pile of objects, such as folding chairs and boxes I have put there to keep her off. Occasionally, I have guests and only after some time goes by do I realize they are standing, not for their health, but because the couch is still barricaded.

Once the leaves start falling, birds start to migrate. Now one bird flying overhead is enough to get Zelda straining on the end of her chain, barking and jumping in a completely ridiculous attempt to catch it. Birds in huge migratory flocks, especially big, fat noisy geese, will cause Zelda to jump and bark to the point of wild-eyed exhaustion and foam around the mouth. Add to this the normal squirrel activity increased tenfold by the approach of winter and my dog becomes nothing but a barking, jumping, slobbering golden blur in my yard. On a good day, she gets all the other dogs in the neighborhood barking and jumping along with her. On a rainy day the golden blur becomes a muddy mess who wants nothing more than to run around me in circles, wrapping my work clothes with her muddy chain. When I finally capture her and get her back in the house, I have to hold on to her tightly, as she sometimes goes galloping wildly through all the rooms, muddy feet and all, making sure there are no leaves, birds, or squirrels visible from the windows. Even now, as I type this, she has just collapsed for a nap after barking herself silly at leaves falling outside the window, and cars that have the nerve to drive down "her" street. Once she wakes up, I'm sure she will go into the kitchen and bark at my parrot, who has been here in the house as long as she has. Yet, for some reason, each time Zelda goes into the kitchen to bark at the evil dishwasher, she acts surprised that there is a caged bird in there. My bird long ago learned how to hold on for dear life as Zelda launches herself into the side of the cage. Yes, the Dog Days of fall are here, time for me to put in my earplugs.

What I wrote in September 2001

Here is a link to what I wrote in September 2001. It is dedicated to all those rescue workers who lost their lives, and those who continue, everyday, to risk their lives to save others.

http://members.aol.com/westwind16/tribute.html

Memories of 9/11 - part two

I called my office to let them know I was going to staying with my sister until she heard from her husband. As it turned out, they were sending everyone home anyway. At my sister's house, we spent the rest of the afternoon riveted to the television - in almost complete silence. We just could not believe what we were seeing. Toward the late afternoon, her kids began coming in from school, full of anxiety, wanting to know if their dad had been heard from - what was going on. Each of them seemed to know someone their age that had a parent or loved one working in or visiting the city that day. My two younger children, who were in high school at the time, reported several classmates breaking into hysterical sobs - realizing that mom or dad worked in the World Trade Center. They reported that from a particularly high vantage point in Monroe Township, the plume of smoke was clearly visible.

I stayed with my sister until we finally heard from her husband - he and some fellow UPS workers had seen what they could of the devastation from the roof of their building, and then started the long trek home. They walked, they got on ferries, they were directed to buses. He wasn't home yet, but he was enroute. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I returned to my own house to find that almost the entire high school football team, and a good deal of the cheerleaders (my daughter was a cheerleader) was gathered there. This normally boisterous group was subdued, upset and confused - just clinging to each other in mutual grief and fear. My oldest daughter finally got through on the phone from her dorm room at Montclair University - she could see the smoke and an eerie glow from her window. Her boyfriend, an EMT in Old Bridge had already left with the rig to join the long line of ambulances that were ready to help to legions of hurt and wounded that never came. A night of not much sleep rolled over us. Soon, we would learn just how terrible the toll hade been, who among our community was nevr coming home from work. Our hearts wouold break and our anger would rise. But on the night of 9-11-01 I tried to sleep as the numbing feelings of shock and helpless disbelief coursed through me.

And today, 5 years later, I can still feel it. I will feel it the rest of my life

Memories of 9/11 - part one

The day started typically, the alarm clock at 7, a sleepy arm reaching to turn on the tv, and the Today Show filling the bedroom with sound. Usually, I am rushing around getting dressed so that I can be in my Princeton office by 8:30. But on September 11, 2001, I had a 9:15 AM appointment with my doctor and was afforded the luxury of moving a little slower. I only remember one thing about the pre-attack portion of the Today show, and that was the promise that Arnold Scwartzenegger was going to be on shortly, to promote his new movie, “Collateral Damage.” I took a longer than usual shower and came back to the bedroom and the TV and Matt and Katie just in time to see a shot of the World Trade Center in flames. “This must be from the movie,” I thought. “Great special effect, it looks so real.” Then, as the shadow of another plane hitting the other tower crossed the screen, I realized that Katie Couric was screaming, and that this was no movie. This was real. I stood there, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, staring at the unbelievable. It took a few minutes for me to shake myself out of shock and get dressed. All the while I stared at the television. People were talking, but I don’t remember what they were saying. Somewhere in the back of my head a little reminder was going off – “doctor appointment, doctor appointment…”

I arrived at the doctor’s office to find the staff in tears – both nurses had family members working in New York and were unable to contact them. There was no television, so they had WPLJ radio playing over the office intercom. Scott and Todd’s morning show was on, and they were describing what they were seeing both on their television screens and from whatever windows they could get at.

My doctor came bustling in, hugged her staff members and announced that one of her children was also in the city that day. Her face turned very serious as she told her staff that they needed to be strong and brave, to do their jobs like wartime nurses. She told them that during WWII she had seen how medical personnel set aside their personal worries to attend to the business at hand. She said it was time for them to do likewise. She then hugged them again and motioned me into the exam room.

At that moment, the horrified screams and shouts of the radio deejays told us that the first tower was falling. “It’s gone,” they kept saying. “The tower is gone…”

My exam passed in a blur, my health issues seeming insignificant. Going in to the office seemed a pointless waste of time. I sat in my car in the doctor’s parking lot wondering what to do when my cell phone rang. It was my sister, hysterical. She was unable to reach her husband, a supervisor at UPS in Manhattan. Remembering that sometimes he would take deliveries, and that the World Trade Center had been on his route, she was beside herself. I needed to be with her.

Sometimes I Just Hear Things ...

So, yesterday, I am in the Galleria in Ocean Grove, enjoying the artwork, when I hear two loud adult male voices, coming from the direction of the window that faces the alleyway between the buildings. Here is exactly what I heard:

“All I want to know is how do you come out of the house and not know that your pants are off?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I'm not sure I want to even know ...

Mothers Don't Let Your Daughters Grow Up to be Career Girls

So, the latest backlash against women is the recent article in Forbes.com proclaiming that men should not marry "career" women. (http://www.forbes.com/home/2006/08/23/Marriage-Careers-Divorce_cx_mn_land.html) While I was wondering aloud what exactly a "career woman" was, I read futher to find out it means any woman who works more than 35 hours a week and makes more than $30,000 a year. So technically, both before and after my divorce I wasn't a "career" woman (whew) - but heck, why did I end up in divorce court anyway? I'll tell you why. Because stupid generalizations like the ones stated in this article do nothing to help today's family. Being a stay-at-home mom working part time jobs to make ends meet didn't stop my husband from straying. Working part time jobs that kept my income under $30,000 only served to make me totally unprepared for the day I suddenly had to become the main breadwinner for my children and myself. And supporting my ex through school and helping him fulfill some of the duties of his "career" did nothing to help me prepare for the fast approaching "golden years."

It is very convenient for the "career" man to blame the collapse of his marriage on the fact that he married a "career" woman, but in reality, there is no such simple answer. Perhaps there should be more pre-marriage counseling - actual classes that address the realities of life once the glow of infatuation fades. Couples should know before they tie the knot what each other's expectations are for household responsibilities, child-rearing, even how to handle business trips and long work hours.

If this article is to be believed, then divorce should only be a problem for the upper middle class and above - and without a statisical expert sitting next to me, maybe that is true (but I doubt it), since the working poor, women AND men, don't have the luxury of deciding whether or not to marry a "career" person - they are just trying to survive. And that, in itself, is a career.

A Sad Week for the Universe

There are two images I can’t get out of my head. The first involves the Disney character, Pluto. Suddenly, I am seeing him dressed like one of the Seven Dwarves, swinging a pick ax and singing “heigh ho, heigh ho, its off to work I go.” The second image is of the mythical god Pluto, straight off his gig in the underworld, standing on stage, doing Rodney Dangerfield’s trademark “I don’t get no respect” routine.

It’s been a sad week in the universe.

Life In My Skin

It’s back.

The first innocent looking bump appeared on my stomach, an itchy red mark that could easily be taken for a mosquito bite. But very soon it revealed itself for what it was, the beginning of another attack of a bizarre and uncomfortable blistery skin rash that I have been battling for 5 years. I’ve been to at least three dermatologists, several emergency room physicians, and have had three skin biopsies – all to no avail. It’s been guessed at being a systemic reaction to poison ivy, excessive reaction to flea bites, shingles of the eyelid, even the lovely parasite – scabies. Each diagnosis was wrong. I’ve been treated with cortisone creams of varying texture and strengths, some of which just made things worse. I’ve taken prednisone, which seemed to work, only to have the rash return, worse than ever, when the prednisone was stopped. Despite the warning that people with thyroid problems shouldn’t take it- I often must resort to Benadryl so I don’t scratch myself into a bloody pulp. I’ve been tested for lupus and celiac disease and had skin prick allergy tests. I’ve endured topical insecticides and bug bombs in my house. I’ve scoured the dog for nonexistent fleas. I’ve accused my family of leaving the doors open and letting in legions of mosquitoes that seem to only attack me. I’ve switched to hypoallergenic detergent and soap. None of this brings relief.

Each year, as warm weather approaches, I wonder if this will be the year I escape this agony. I avoid yard work, and my lawn shows it, but I am afraid there is something growing out there that hates me. I stay out of the sun, fearful that sunburn will only add more misery to my condition. Each fall, I celebrate the cooling temperatures, because it seems the only relief I get is when the temperature and humidity go down. Could it be as simple as heat intolerance? Do I need to move to Alaska, Siberia or Antarctica?

With my luck, I’d then develop an allergy to snow.

HealthCare Rationing is a Reality

It started with HMOs — the rationing of medical care based on cost, and that old corporate stand-by — ROI (return on investment). If you can afford it, you can purchase any kind of medicine, operation or device that may or may not help your condition. No one questions you. However, be poor — or more commonly, middle-class with some sort of employer-provided health plan, and suddenly, you can find yourself in a medical version of Deal or No Deal, keeping what little you have and going with less costly treatment, or going for the whole expensive regimen which could ultimately bankrupt you and your family.

While the CNN article referred to below deals mostly with end-of-life issues, this is an issue that is much larger than that, and can affect whether or not you get the best drug for your heart condition, or a cheaper, less efficient substitute. It even means the difference between your child getting the lighter, waterproof Fiberglas cast on his broken arm, or the cheaper, heavier plaster version. It can mean not being able to remove a painful and troublesome gall bladder because the insurance company only pays if there are stones present. Recently, in reading the book "Marley and Me" I was aghast to find out that pain medication for women in labor is not always considered medically necessary — and that women being treated as "charity cases" don't get the epidurals and other pain meds that women with better insurance get.

I also read recently about a hospital association complaining that its member hospitals were not making their expected profit margins. How any health care facility (with the exception, perhaps, of Beverly Hills plastic surgery clinics) can even be run as a for profit entity offends me. Of course health care workers deserve a living wage just as much as the checker in Wal-Mart. So what is the answer? How can we, as a society, "level the playing field" when it comes to access to health care? I wish I knew. What I do know is that the system we have now doesn't work, and is getting worse.

Read about the high cost of end-of-life care on CNN: http://www.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/08/15/spending.to.death.ap/index.html

Sometimes, Somebody Hits the Nail on the Head

While I was trying to think up something to say about the President's veto, Patti Davis already had her thoughts eloquently written.
Check out what she has to say here:
Patti Davis: Stem-Cell Veto Doesn't Matter - Newsweek Health - MSNBC.com

Bad Economy and Tuition Hikes, Does Anyone Else See the Irony Here?

With the sales tax going up at midnight, it was certainly even more disheartening for my pocketbook to read that a Rutgers Study seems to show that the NJ economy is in really bad shape:
http://www.nj.com/news/ledger/index.ssf?/base/news-7/1152858449227000.xml&coll=1

But, does anyone else see the irony in the fact that on the same day this study is announced, the very same university announces a tuition hike?
http://www.nj.com/newslogs/starledger/index.ssf?/mtlogs/njo_ledgerupdate/archives/2006_07.html#161110

Investigators Discover Arsenal in East Brunswick Townhouse

I’ve just read in today’s Star Ledger that investigators looking into the recent shooting death of a 12 year old boy in East Brunswick (see my previous blog on this) found 98 guns in the townhouse – 25 alone in the boy’s bedroom that he shared with his father, and 5 of those were loaded. Nearly all the guns were unsecured, meaning that with the ample amount of ammunition also found at the house, those guns could easily be loaded and fired by curious little boys.

Both the boy’s father and grandmother are being charged in this case and rightly so. How anyone could have an arsenal of unsecured weapons and ammunition in a house with young children in it is endangerment at its highest level. The fact that other relatives had forbidden their children to visit the premises only reinforces the fact that the family was well aware that this was a potentially deadly place for children to play.

A colleague of mine, herself the daughter of a police officer and used to being in a home where guns were stored, asked me recently if she was crazy to ask parents about guns in the house before allowing her son to play there. Crazy? Far from it. Asking this question before you let your child enter someone else’s home could be one of the smartest things you do as a parent. It could save your child’s life.

Eminent Domain's Dark Side

Here in Central New Jersey, a saga is being played out – a story of eminent domain and a debate as to whether or not government really has the right to seize property and send the owners packing. This is the story of the Halper Farm in Piscataway, currently being seized in order to “preserve open space.” News articles are full of each side’s claims, from the government claim that the land is not being farmed and may even be somehow contaminated, to the family’s claim that the land has been in the family for generations, and they have the right to stay put. You can research the story in the Star Ledger and the Home News, and decide for yourself which side of the controversy you line up with.

As for me, I find this incident very troubling. While eminent domain has been used in the past for the construction of highways, reservoirs and other civic projects, I am bothered by the new interpretation that simple “improvement” is a good enough reason. If that were the real and true reasons, and if concern for the “improvement” of a town or a neighborhood was behind this new interpretation, that would be one thing. I would certainly support the poorly maintained houses in certain neighborhoods that are housing drug dealers and crack heads being “seized” and converted to affordable housing. I would support seizing the abandoned shopping mall and turning it into a town recreation center. I would love to see empty factories and warehouses seized and turned into mixed housing/retail areas.

What I am seeing in this case, however, is some prime real estate, some land that is already “open” being seized presumably to create “open space.” A family that legitimately owns the land is being tossed out. To me, if this was a real concern for open space preservation, why not simply change the zoning of the area, and “grandfather” the family farm into it. As long as the family remains the owners, the area remains a farm, or horse ranch or big lawn. At such time as the family no longer wishes to remain on the land, THAT is the time that the land would be transferred to the government entity, who would pay a fair market value, and then, be obligated to keep the land preserved as “open space.” Since there is no highway being built, no dam threatening to wash them away, no drug dealers camped out and no illegal activities taking place, I don’t see any plausible reason why this family needs to give up their home right this minute. Let’s start seizing some of these drug dens and other places that really damage our quality of life and leave this family alone.

Superman Returns - About 75% of Him

Seeing a movie lately has turned into an opportunity for a trip into the Twilight Zone for me. You may recall my previous adventure at The DaVinci Code, where I apparently aged 20 to 30 years while watching the movie.

This week, after a viewing of Superman Returns, I realized that I am now establishing a pattern. The warning alarms should have gone off before we even purchased the tickets. The young woman held the tickets back, and pointed to a sign taped to the window. "Did you read the notice?" she announced, pointing.

The paper stated that due to a projection malfunction, "one quarter of the right side" of the screen would not be visible. Refunds would not be given once the movie had been playing for 15 minutes. "Isn't a quarter of the right side of the screen, like, an eighth of the total screen?" I asked my companion. He nodded, and figuring that the missing strip of movie would probably amount to what was chopped off to put the movie on DVD anyway, we purchased the tickets anyway.

Well, aside from the fact that we couldn't read the long, explanatory paragraphs at the beginning of the movie that told us exactly why Superman had been gone, and why he was coming back, we really didn't notice the missing section. Sure, on occasion, Lex Luthor only had half a face, but he was the bad guy anyway.

Besides, we were much too distracted by the stunning special effects in the theatre. At first, we were amazed that this ancient movie house in Cape May, New Jersey, could even handle such electronic wonders. For example, in the movie, there are massive power failures, flickering lights, and electronic noises. At that exact time, the lights in the theater began flickering, buzzing, and a strange squealing noise seemed to come directly out of the ceiling. We realized that perhaps this WASN'T a special effect only when the flickering continued long after the lights and the computers at the Daily Planet had returned to normal.

While my companion went out to the lobby for a minute, bright lights came on in the projection booth, practically blinding those of us left in the theater. I began to think that perhaps Lex Luthor was up there. I turned to my companion as he returned to his seat, ready to tell him what additional electronic mayhem he had just missed, but I noticed that he was holding a handkerchief over his nose, and that he seemed to bring with him a strange odor I couldn't identify.

"The lobby is full of smoke," he reported, and then pointed to the exits. "I think it’s just the popcorn machine, but just in case." Several minutes later the entire theater was filled with the unmistakable odor of burned popcorn. This was about the time we were learning a very important piece of information about Superman (I don't want to spoil it for you, although, it may not be so shocking to you if you see the scene without the aroma of popcorn flambé in your nostrils.)

By the time the movie was over, the air had cleared, but the lights never came back on in the theater. We tiptoed out through a strangely deserted but very tidy lobby out into the cool sea air. At least I think it was sea air. My clothes reeked of burning popcorn. Now those are special effects.

A Gun in the House - Tragedy Hits East Brunswick

A 12-year old boy is dead in East Brunswick, New Jersey after he and a friend somehow discovered a gun in the house and were playing with it. I cannot imagine the grief and horror that all the families are going through, and the lasting damage this incident will cause to all.

Unfortunately, this is a scene that will continue to be repeated as long as irresponsible people have loaded guns. The only safe place for a gun is inside a locked case, with a trigger lock attached – UNLOADED. Some would argue that this renders the gun useless for self-defense – however, in my opinion, there is more of a chance of a loaded gun being used improperly than ever being needed to protect the lives of the home’s occupants.

Years ago, my daughter played a role in a video produced by the Piscataway Police department. In this video, she and a friend are playing in her home after school. In the garage, her father has left a gun on a workbench – the scene indicates that perhaps he had been intending to clean it. The two kids are fascinated with the gun, start to play with it, and, of course, it goes off. The video actually incorporates a scene of a child being shot in the head. A chilling similarity to this incident.

In another story on this video, a father hears a noise in the house, and pulls his loaded gun out of the nightstand. He creeps downstairs to the source of the noise, and in the dark, ends up shooting his own son, who had dropped a glass in the kitchen.

The video concludes with members of the Piscataway Police Department demonstrating how to use inexpensive trigger locks to secure guns.

The video was shown many times on cable television, and at schools. At my daughter’s school, permission slips were needed from parents, due to the frightening and graphic images. Later, my daughter and her science fair partner would win a prize in a state science contest for proposing the “Gun Safety Sensor,” a sensor embedded in the handle of a gun that would recognize only the owner’s fingerprints to become operational. At the time, she was told it was a great idea, but no such technology existed, but recently I’ve heard that the New Jersey Institute of Technology is working on just such a sensor.

However, until the day when there are such built-in safety features for guns – and all guns have them, it will be up to the gun owner to properly store the weapon in such a way that tragedies like this can never occur.

Going Too Far to Sell a Book

I'm no fan of Ann Coulter - not her opinions, not her sarcasm, not her unsuccessful attempts at wit. But of course, she has the right to write, and the right to sell books to whomever is interested in her drivel.

This morning, however, I witnessed just how far over the top she can go just to draw attention to herself. During an interview with Matt Lauer on the Today Show, in which her two most common answers were "I don't know" and "that's why I wrote this book," I listened, in disgust, to her villification of some of the women widowed on 9-11 and the fact that some of them have spoken out against the administration and thrown support behind political candidates. She jumped on the conservative name-calling bandwagon and called them "Grieferatzis." That is not journalism, it is not op-ed, it is not political discourse.

It is just crass.


see some of the video here: mediabistro.com: FishBowlNY

Why I'll Never Forget Going to See The DaVinci Code

I read the book and enjoyed it, especially all the clever puzzles and clues. It was probably the first fiction book that kept me running back and forth to the Internet to look up things such as Fibonacci numbers and the Dead Sea Scrolls. It made feel bad for Mary Magdalene, maligned as a prostitute all through my Catholic upbringing and reminded me that most institutions, religious and political, often gain the most power when they marginalize a portion of the population.

What the book did NOT do, was somehow destroy my faith and beliefs - in fact, it brought religion, a long silent subject in my house, back into everyday conversation. Add to this a renewed interest in history, mythology and symbolism. It made me remember a debate I had over Halloween parties and whether innocent children were really doing the devil's work by coloring Jack O'Lanterns. It made me go back and find the Letter to the Editor I had written so many years ago, outlining all the signs, symbols and artifacts we encounter every day that at one time were religious symbols.

I was anxious to see the movie, wondering how all this research, knowledge and clue-solving could be incorporated into a Hollywood production. I was afaid that Robert Langdon would somehow end up a cross between Indiana Jones and MacGyver. But thankfully, I was wrong.

The movie is good. It moves along and weaves in flashbacks, historic interpretations and mythology. To his great credit, Ron Howard let the characters be played straight out of the book, he didn't try to muddy the water by creating some sort of love interest between Robert and Sophie (something Hollywood is notorious for). And as for the portrayal of the Catholic Church, Catholicism, Christianity - to me, it actually played a small part in the overall tale. There are worse stories involving the Catholic Church and what has gone on over the centuries, and much of them are TRUE.

If theology must be debated because of this book and movie, perhaps it should be to question why this is so controversial to begin with. Obviously, back in the early days of Christianity it was somehow impossible for Jesus to have been both God, who is all powerful, and a man who was capable of normal human relationships and even procreation. To me, this a ridiculous argument. An all-powerful God means just that, "all-powerful." To suddenly put restrictions on that doesn't make sense. But maybe I am just in over my theological head here.

So, I left the movie feeling that I had just seen a pretty faithful representation of the book, complete with enough explanation to spark thoughts for those who hadn't read it. There were enough car chases and killings to satisfy the action movie fans.

But, none of this a why I will never forget going to see the DaVinci Code. As the credits rolled, I was soon alone in the theater, the rest of the audience not interested in who the key grip was. As the cleaning crew began piling in, one young man almost ran me over with his pail and broom. His companion yelled at him, "Watch out you almost ran over THAT OLD LADY." Before I could react, Mr Broom and Bucket waved his hand and replied, "come on, she's not THAT OLD."

Now, I'll never be able to disassociate my entry into old ladyhood with the DaVinci Code for the rest of my life. So, I can't fully reccomend this movie without one caution, it may age you.

Farewell, My Friend

This new, online world where so many of us have choosen to spend time is often criticized as the place for scammers, pedophiles and dangerous encounters. Yet, as a microcosm of the real world, it is also the place for knowledge, information, and comraderie.

In 1997, while dealing with my new status as a single mom, working two jobs and fighting to make a new life for myself and my children, I joined AOL, and after stumbling around for a while in chat rooms more interested in "cyber" than comraderie, I found a group inhabiting a place called the Writer's Cafe. I entered a world of diverse personalities and conversations that were many levels above "hey, baby, what are you wearing." The place had its share of heated debates about the world, and yes, even on occasion, about writing. Less a workshop and more an escape hatch, the "cafe" became to me the place for stream of consciousness discussions with writers and others, who, like me, were taking a break from the day-to-day.

In this cafe, I have met, both virtually and in-person, a wide range of people that I would never have had the chance to meet in my regular day-to-day routine. I've seen photos and read stories of places I will never get to visit. Quite a few stories, poems and other writing has come out things I learned or people I met because of stopping by at the Writer's Cafe.

And, like any far-reaching group, we have had our share of joy and sorrow. Marriages, births, and deaths. Losing a fellow "cafer" is a painful experience - for even though these are people living far from us, people we may never have met, our online chatroom has provided many of us with the chance to share our common experiences, find kindred souls, and to, for a time, maybe to feel part of a dynamic, living experience.

This morning, our dear friend, known in the cafe as SkaWrites, died, surrounded in person by those who loved her, and embraced, spiritually, by her host of online friends. Ska and I both wrote similar "slice of life" columns, hers more focused on family, mine more often than not, about rodents. We shared our work with each other and had some heart to heart chats late at night about the issues of life faced by women such as ourselves.

I know that while her light has left us, it now burns brightly in another place - a place filled with family, friends and the other "cafers" who had gone on ahead of her.

Ska, dear friend, we will always leave a seat open for you in the cafe, and a cup of coffee brewing in your name.

Mother's Day with the Snakes and Rats

I've just spent a portion of my Mother's Day indulging in a rare pleasure - sitting down and reading a book, cover to cover. The book I picked for this honor was "Rattled" by Debra Galant and as I read it I found myself wondering if somehow I had been cloned without my knowledge or if Debra and I were twins separated at birth. I say this because, not only is Galant a clever humorist, but she includes in this book almost all of my favorite essay topics - most specifically, the state of living in New Jersey ( and the proliferation of "McMansions"), the ridiculous extremes some parents go to for school functions, and, yes, laboratory rats also play a large part in the story. The star of the book, however, is the New Jersey Timber Rattlesnake, a species that I never knew existed and that I blogged about here last August:

August 17, 2005
Is This Really News?
I understand the concept of a "slow news day," and how that is the time when news outlets may run the more unusual story, or that meritorious human interest story that there was never time for. But exactly how slow of a news day is it, when the headline is something like "Police On the Lookout for Snake." Sure the occasional wayward 50 foot boa constrictor that is peeking up from someone's toilet is an amusing tale, even a cautionary one - but usually the closing story on televised news on a "slow news day." Yesterday, apparently, despite a multitude of world events screaming for attention, it was a snake story that was the lead for hours on an New York City all news radio station. I know this because I was traveling from central New Jersey to the Bronx, New York, in daytime traffic. I heard the snake story at least 4 times. Police were actively searching for a copperhead snake that had the unmitigated gall to bite someone. Of course, this was a someone who was trying to get the snake out of the middle of the road, and was rewarded for his concern in typical snake fashion.There is nothing funny about a poisonous snake bite. It is an important message to tell people to avoid handling snakes or any wild animals with bare hands, no matter how good the intentions. But the impression from the news coverage was that this snake was being relentlessly pursued by local police, with the same voracity as a bank robber.So, I thought, well, maybe this was important and unusual because this was a snake that didn't belong in New Jersey, and like the wayward boa constrictors, had been let loose by mistake, was out of its natural element, and needed to be captured. We certainly don't need a wild, poisonous attack snake pouncing on the unsuspecting. However, in checking the web, and most recently this web page, Township of West Milford Search , I find that not only is the copperhead snake native to New Jersey, it is one of TWO venomous snakes here - the other being the timber rattlesnake. Rattlesnakes? In New Jersey? I'm never going out without heavy boots again ... So now, I'm thinking, not only was this an important lead story for news radio, it is something that the populace of New Jersey need to be aware of - immediately. I'm wondering if it is too late to joing the posse and bring that criminal snake in for some Jersey justice...


Thanks to Galant's book, I now know that Timber Rattlesnakes are actually an endangered species in New Jersey. In that case, one can hardly blame them for being poisonous! The survival of the species is a at stake! Anyway, I reccomend "Rattled" as a fun read.

Greetings from the Bordentown Iris Festival

Greetings and thanks to all of you who stopped by my table yesterday at the Bordentown Iris Festival. I really enjoyed meeting and talking with you, hearing your own stories about turning 50, turning 60, turning 70 and beyond. I was especially tickled to meet Barbara, who was actually celebrating her 50th birthday yesterday! Barbara, right before meeting you, I got a phone call from a family member announcing the birth of a new daughter, proving, once again, that 13 is a lucky number!

I am hoping that I can attend more of these events with my books and photographs - thanks to the organizers of this event, especially CJ - for opening it up to authors! For more information on the Festival and other upcoming events in this lovely, historic town, visit: Bordentown, New Jersey

Sounds of Silence and Bubonic Plague

I've been silent for a while, traveling around for work, trying to redecorate my house and scrounging together the pennies to pay for it. A huge stack of news articles sits on my desk, most of them relating to rodents, rodent research and one article about a flying frozen sausage. However, I have been unable to sit down and report on these items, and for that I apologize. After all, you have the right to know what conclusions about the human race rest on the humble backs of lab rats.

Today, however, I needed to break my silence, force myself to sit down, and report something that, while disturbing is not surprising. In fact, I warned you about it months ago. According to this article on cnn.com, CNN.com - Case of bubonic plague confirmed in L.A. - Apr 19, 2006 , bubonic plague has been diagnosed in Los Angeles.

Rare, but not unheard of, you say. Probably from fleas in her house, officials say. What no one is addressing is how those fleas happened to get exposed to bubonic plague. Obviously, they bit some other animal carrier - but which animals?

I'll tell you which animals - the lab mice from Newark, New Jersey that no one has ever been able to conclusively explain the disappearance of. You remember, those mice infected with BUBONIC PLAGUE. It doesn't take much to realize that those mice, not wanting to live on the cold Newark street, hopped a plane at Newark Airport, and flew to LA, where they are now treating LA fleas to this microscopic menace.

I'll never get credit for this discovery, and no one will ever admit it, but you and I, we know its true.

More Publishing News

HumorPress.com has just announced the publication of "America's Funniest Humor #1" and I am pleased to say, I have an essay published in it. This makes the third major non-traditional publishing project I have been involved with since November.


The first was Stories of Strength , an anthology from which all proceeds will go to charitable organizations helping victims of recent natural disasters. Since November, the book has raised $3500. If you are looking for a good, inspirational read, I highly reccomend this book. And of course, it includes a story of mine. (My Mother's Table).

The second project, of course, is my "blook," I'm 50-Now What? which I am shamelessly self-promoting throughout the universe. Now, if I could just combine all these projects into one big, best-seller ...

God Has a Sense of Humor, REALLY

Around the world, religions are losing their sense of humor - if some of them even had a sense of humor to begin with. For me, I cannot believe that the supreme being, in whatever form envisioned by your particluar denomination, would bless us with the ability to laugh and smile - except in matters of belief. After all, is one's faith so delicate that jokes and satire can destroy it? I am not a weekly fan of the show South Park, but I do watch it on occasion. Last November I did catch the episode that lampoons Scientology (and Tom Cruise). I have also seen episodes that used Jesus and Satan as wrestling opponents, and several episodes that have roasted the Jewish heritage of one of the main characters. My reaction is sometimes a smile, sometimes a laugh, and on occasion, outright embarrassment. Once in a while, I may even think - oh that is such poor taste. But never once did I feel that my particualr religious beliefs were being yanked out from under my feet. Never once did I feel that some sort of irreperable harm was being done in the name of satire - in fact, truthfully, what has gone on in my religion in real life has done far more harm than any wise cracking cartoon. I'm sorry Isaac Hayes has left the show because he felt his religion was unfairly satirized. Personally, I found some of the songs sung by his character on the show to be more provocative than anything in this particular episode, but that's just me. To paraphrase Rodney King, why can't we all just lighten up? God created the playtpus, after all, and if you don't think that was a joke, you have truly lost your way.

A Link for St Patrick's Day

In honor of the holiday, and my 25% Irish heritage, I present a link to an essay I wrote a while ago, about my Celtic heritage, and some traditions our family has.

http://www.bardsongpress.com/never_say_good-bye.htm