What Does This Say About Us?

This ad was removed. It was for disposable cat litter sheets.

Our house has litter all over it. The area around the litter box is loaded with those little clay gravel things, but I blame most of that on the wonderful man who cleans it out every night for me so I don't have to do it. Let's face it, litter sticks to cats and not all parts of the cat with litter on them will touch this "nano-cling" sheet. Worse: it's something else for the landfill and to be replaced continually. I'm too cheap thrifty for this.

I dunno, disposable cat dishes?

Is this not the worst idea ever? How much trouble is it to wash food and water bowls? Don't you have to wash your own dishes? Again, it's something for the landfill.

Description below. Sorry the image is gone.

Okay, this doesn't seem too bad but, boy, are we lazy! However, just look at the picture. Does this cat look happy? It looks like it was caught on film just before the ears went back. Cat runs up to the new hiding place only to discover it's an over-engineered litter tray. A better photo would have a cat leaving it - but then the text would have to be somewhere other than dead center.

Here's my two cents: make a catnip toy for your cat. They like those.

Pride Goeth

There are many things that pop up in my memory to make me cringe. Long ago I decided that when this happened, I should say, "Hahaha!" to defuse it, but that hasn't worked too well. However, there are moments of great pride I can turn to in these moments and I will share them with you.

My inclusion in the acknowledgements of North and South by John Jakes, a similar inclusion in the biography of Jackson Pollack that won a Pulitzer, the day a co-worker called me an a##hole (which doesn't happen to women often, so I felt I'd finally crossed a divide), an appearance as Miss Palmetto Prunes on the tv show "Real People," and my crabrarian persona in the Unshelved comic strip.

I would recommend finagling your way into a favorite comic strip. It's worth the $$. Here's your chance: Unshelved Goes Digital Kickstarter.

Otitis Nostalgia

I've been reading Mary Poppins to cheer myself up. It has been so long that it seems almost new to me. Jane's earache reminds me of all the earaches I had as a child. I never get them anymore, and I wonder why. Well, I can get an earache from the cold, but it will go away after the ear warms up.

An earache takes me back to an actual doctor coming by our actual house. This was called a "house call." The only time in recent years I've seen an actual "house call" was in the case of a hospice patient confined to a bed in her home. Anyway, the doctor not only prescribed some eardrops, but had them in his black bag. No really, just like in an historical drama!

At that time we had a daybed in the family room, so it was before the room was paneled and the shelving put in. The daybed was a dark red with some sort of pattern and I was probably moping on it. I was given some tangerine segments to take the taste of the eardrops away after they had slid down the eustachian tube. What a great mini-anatomy lesson that was!

We Think They're Our Friends

Kate and Richard

Have I told this story before?
I was living in Manhattan with my hairdresser friend who worked on Broadway (on "Cats" - you know, really tiny perm rods) and we were at the Grand Union on East 86th Street picking up some staples when we glanced, as one does, at the tabloids blaring their blather at us in fully saturated color.
Richard Burton had recently passed away and tabloid headlines were all about his messy personal life, made messier by tabloids, no doubt. The latest headline had been about Liz Taylor planning to "crash" the funeral.
Something clicked in my pointy little head. "Fred," I said, "they're talking about Kate's dad."
It was a sort of epiphany.
Fred had worked on a couple of Broadway shows that Kate Burton had been in and if she wasn't personally known by me, he certainly knew her well and talked about working with her. It occurred to me for the first time that these people we see in movies and on stage are real folk. Sure, I knew that, but this time it really sank in. They enter our lives on screen and then even our homes by way of television. We think we know them. We greedily read stories about them. We are their public and we think we own them.
I would give my neighbor some privacy over the death of her father. I'd express my sympathy. Maybe I'd take a casserole. But I'd be irate if the local paper published trashy stories about the family.
Media stars and politicians are usually fair game ...
Until you are touched by them personally. Suddenly they're off limits.

The death of Robin Williams has apparently touched a major nerve, superseding other major news events. The death of Lauren Bacall barely got any attention by comparison. But we think we know these people, that they are our friends in a way that the other tragic figures are not. The pointless violent deaths of everyone else happening at this time sicken me, but I cannot relate to them the way I can relate to someone I saw on television every week who brought me joy. My sarcastic laugh is still "Arr-arr" à la Mork.
The Kate Burton Lesson has taught me, though, that this is someone's husband, someone's dad. My casserole does not fill the void made by his death. His family deserves our sympathy and respect. He may not have been my friend, but I still feel that the tabloids and pundits who receive money for belaboring his life and death are parasites - and the ghoulish people who read or listen to them are just as bad.
Pah, what can I say? We're only human.

Subtle Differences

Typical Southern Belle

I was born in the northeast and have lived all up and down the eastern seaboard of the US. There are subtle differences between how strangers interact from both areas. A fellow who just moved to SC from NJ and I were sharing examples of the differences. His dealt mainly with work regulations - his background and expertise in OSHA and building codes, etc. versus down here being paid $10 an hour to frame a house. "All my experience is worth squat," he said. Or, at least that was the gist of what he said.

I was leaving work the other day and passed by a volunteer who was signing in and checking in with the Volunteer Coordinator. She smiled at me broadly and asked how I was. I responded with a "Fine! Fine! How are you?" I have no idea who she was. This is typical. Typical of my time in New York City would be ... no one looking you in the eye and utterly ignoring you except for the one guy who sees you're carrying heavy suitcases and offers to help and when you say, "No, thank you! I'm fine!" responds with "Oh, sure, fine! Don't f******g trust anybody! What a f******g city! I f******g give up!" etc.

I'm not sure what it says about me that both strike me as normal.

A happy, contented New Yorker

How to Stifle Creativity

Many decades ago, when there was nothing more exciting for a kid to play with than a streamer tied to the end of a plastic golf club, I was sent to kindergarten. I'm not sure what the point of kindergarten was, except to get kids used to the idea of riding a bus and being bossed around for half a day by some adult. My kindergarten teacher, whom I shall call Mrs. Smith (because that was probably her name - it was so long ago that the only last names available at the time were Smith, Jones, Johnson, and Lipschitz), was an elderly lady. At age 60, I look back and picture her in my mind to check on the validity of that assessment. Yup, she was elderly. She had grey hair with white in it and wore those old lady black lace-up shoes, a tweed skirt that enveloped her lower portions like a sausage casing, and a shirtwaist blouse with long sleeves and ruffles down the front topped off with a brooch. She was so old that she had been the kindergarten teacher of my sister nine years earlier, and was old then.

There was no getting rid of Mrs. Smith, a crabby sort of woman who had once fallen on school property and been seriously hurt - which made them afraid to ask her to retire. (That was my mother's story - it was before my time.) I envied the kids in the one other kindergarten class downstairs in the basement. They had mats to roll out and nap on. They had a  young teacher full of enthusiasm and sympathy. Okay, maybe I made that part up, but they did nap on mats on the floor. My first grade boyfriend, Marty, told me about it. Upstairs in Mrs. Smith's classroom we had to put our heads down on our desk, resting on our crossed arms. Any deviation from this during our "nap" time resulted in a resounding "U" for Unsatisfactory on a report card. I have one "U" for this infraction. Granted, I lifted my head and switched arm positions in a mocking, defiant way, but it was enough punishment to have the Wrath of Smith come down on me and shake me by the shoulders without also ruining a perfect "S" record.

Mrs. Smith expected trouble from me because my sister had been nothing but trouble. She was trouble in class, trouble at home. If you looked in any dictionary in the mid-twentieth century under "trouble," you'd see her picture ... along with several things she was pressing and had forgotten about. Mrs. Smith not only expected me to behave like my sister, she called me by her name the whole year. For an entire kindergarten year, I was Anne. This only slightly bothered me because I was called that at home as well. My mother would go through the names of her friends, the dog, and my sister before remembering mine. At least she never called me "Shoppie" or "Bill," two names for my father. However, the dog's name was "Tommy." That stung.

Back in the old days, school supplies were limited. In kindergarten we didn't need to supply our own, they were kept in the Supply Cupboard. In this magic cupboard were hideously blunted scissors, a white substance called "paste" (I didn't use mucilage until I was fully 22), that thick paper with lines for practicing writing, construction paper, and clay. Before I get to the clay, I want to go over crafts in general in kindergarten. If we were going to make anything, we all had to make the same thing. That's okay. I understand that. I do crafts with kids myself. Too many choices can paralyze a child. Mrs. Smith made sure we had everything ready: all pieces cut out and ready to paste. When we were ready to paste, we had to stand in line and go up to her to show her the layer of paste before we were allowed to stick anything together. No one ever got this right. The paste always needed smoothing out with her finger and often a complaint of "You've got it all bumpy with little pickles!" Yes, it was bumpy, but those "little pickles" were actually bits of paste that had dried while waiting in line to be inspected. I still have a card I made for my mom from this experience. My mother saved it, and I hold onto it as a reminder of What Not To Do when sharing artsandcrafts with kids.

Now, let me get to the clay story. I don't remember the exact day of the week, but one day was designated "Clay Day." On that day, let's say Tuesday, we would line up outside the Supply Cupboard and Mrs. Smith would hand out a ball of clay, all of them equal in size, to each child. This clay was made from many colors of clay that had all mixed together over the years but bits of yellow, blue, and red seeped out here and there in that brown. We would all return to our desks and Mrs. Smith would tell us what we were now allowed to make. The (alleged) Tuesday in question, the goal was a cat.

First, you had to work the clay to get it soft again. You had to squash it down onto the desk with your tiny five year old hand, turn it, and squash it again. Once it was warmed up and malleable, you could start modeling with it. I had a book at home that showed the various implements used in modeling clay that poked or shaved. We had to use our little fingers to improve our fine motor skills - and, besides, anything pointy in a child's hand is just an accident waiting to happen. I worked hard on my cat. I strangled the clay to create a neck and head. I pinched ears onto it. I pinched and pinched and formed a tail. I was about done with pinching some front paws onto it when I happened to look up at one of my classmates at a desk one ahead of me and to my left. She had taken an entirely different approach! After softening the clay, she had torn off pieces of it and rolled them into balls or snakes of different sizes and was now building a clay version of a snowcat! Brilliant! Little triangular ears were being put on as a finishing touch when a huge vision of tweed obscured my view.

"That's not how you do it! You're supposed to make it out of one piece!" There was a slamming noise as Mrs. Smith's palm squashed the little girl's efforts. "Start over!" was the command, and Mrs. Smith lumbered onward. I couldn't see her face, but the little girl's rigid posture told all. She started over eventually. Her hands may have trembled or maybe I'm making that up. I looked at my own wonky clay cat and decided that I was glad I had done it the "right way." But that other way looked easier and more fun.

Moral: Please don't do this to kids.

The end.

My Calling

I have always wanted to be a Great Actor - but I'm not keen on being famous, having my every nervous breakdown chronicled in the tabloid press, signing autographs (I'm embarrassed about my handwriting), being accosted on the street by fawning admirers (I even hate it when salesmen use my first name over and over and over again - who teaches them to do that?  It's like being slapped in the face continually).  I had seen Carol Burnett doing "Once Upon a Mattress" on tv and thought, I want to do that.  One of my friends in college was in that show and I burned with envy.  Eventually I "did" that show myself, playing Winifred to Garry Moore's King.  Other than that, it was a ghastly experience.  Not as bad as "Kiss Me, Kate" where the director tried to kill the leading man with a wrecking bar and I burst into tears because he missed.   Or "Big River" where the rehearsals were so badly organized that I showed up at 8pm and waited four hours for my scene only to have the director break for "dinner."  I laid down on the stage and tried to make myself One With the Universe.

I would also like to be a Great Director ... having only directed once, and that was a show I hated to begin with and now cringe when anyone mentions it.  I liked what we did with it, trying to inject meaning into it, updating it (but only a few decades, not like Peter Sellars, the director).  But doing that only made me want to do everything: sets, costumes, acting, directing ... and that's what I do now.

I have the Best Job in the World. I am a Children's Librarian.

I can do all of that. I take stories from books and convert them to dramatic form. I choose the characters/puppets, make any costumes necessary, arrange for all the props, record all the voices and sound effects (although my husband does the mixing and burning to cd), and perform. I do storytimes, using all the skills I have acquired in theatre as well as my craft hobbies. I find crafts to do with the children. On top of all that, I have a German background and I just love organization. Oh, and reading.

It took about 20 years, but I finally found a career that uses my talents to the fullest. Not everyone is so lucky. And not everyone can afford to do everything they love best at this salary.

Into the Century of the Fruit Bat

Recently, my husband and I got new cell phones. We had old, old flip phones that barely held a charge for more than a couple of textings. Forget phone calls! While Bob used his more frequently, I only turned mine on when I thought I'd be using it:

• Expecting a call from Bob
• Arranging to meet someone for lunch
• Emergencies.

The phone did nothing but send and receive calls and text messages. It made me feel more secure when I was out on the road. It was an umbilical link to Bob.

We are now in utter future shock. Bob picked out the iPhone5 and we now have everything at our fingertips. We spent two days just playing with the phones trying to get things set up and explore. But it doesn't turn off. It only goes to sleep. It wakes up if someone calls and if I want to stop that, I have to put it on Do Not Disturb or something. [Had to have a 10 year old explain things to me.] Then there's Facetime. Bob and I can look at each other when we chat. Oh nooo! How can I play spider solitaire while we talk if he can see me? But then again, I can show him the kitties loving me up in his place.

Siri is my new best friend. "Call my husband!" "What time is it in Hong Kong?" "I'm home now." "I'm at work." I may adopt her. Mo makes fun of me; she's had an iPhone for a few months longer. She had been sending me little (very little - postage stamp size) photos to my flip phone. Show off! I tried taking photos of my cats and accidentally video'd one of them. Probably the most boring cat video ever: Cat looking at floor ... looks up ... looks back down at floor. Why do camera photos look better than photos I take with my actual camera? It's just not fair.

Last night as we waited for a table at our favorite Thai Fusion restaurant, I managed to relay information to Bob about texting that he didn't know. That's because I went to the website and read up on some tips. I was complaining about the stock market app only being set companies (Google, Yahoo, duhhh) while I would want to see just my own holdings when I accidentally called mine up through the internet. Oh, yeah - just what I need: the ability to obsess over my stocks at any time.

We've barely had time to get used to the phones when we received a message from our provider, which has been bought out by another one. We will have to pick out new phones - equal or better.

I'm too old for this.

Don't Ever Call Me Stupid

Otto is not, I repeat, not stupid.

Thanks to Stephen Fry on Twitter, I read Alec Baldwin's Final Word on being a homophobe. This is based, apparently, on what he shouted at people who annoyed him. He relates, convincingly, how much harder it is to be a celebrity in the age of technology. Anyone can take a photo and paste it up on the internet for everyone to see. Even New York City has changed. Celebrities could walk down the street, eat at restaurants, go about their daily routines without being bothered, or bothered much. I saw this myself as a newcomer when the entire cosmetic section of Bloomingdale's emptied out so that Yoko Ono (and her enormous bodyguard) could walk through in peace.

And, let's face it, when has Alec Baldwin ever given the impression that he was a pussycat?

Then I started thinking about what we call people when we are angry with them. I'm not the sort that resorts to namecalling when angry, but I'm sure I think bad thoughts about someone. All that does is keep them from hearing the name, if I have one for them. More than likely, what has annoyed me is someone being stupid. I know only too well that this is my own greatest fear: being stupid. So, "stupid" is the worst generic thing I could come up with.

I get the impression that when we call people names, we use whatever we fear most. I have a framed print-out over my desk of Protagoras and Yehudi Menuhin on this subject. "One of the principles I have learned in life is that when people speak of others, 99 times out of 100 they are describing themselves ... I have found so often that people that people describe others as they would have to describe themselves if they were really honest and self-aware, that I have almost accepted it as axiomatic." So they also project themselves onto others.

Also other young people trying to be more "adult" have tried lashing out with new vocabulary. There's probably a learned habit where you use language that your peers bandy about. When I was in college, "slut" and "bitch" were names we used on each other playfully and only on people we knew and liked really well - both male and female. It was part of that showing independence and peri-adulthood bravado. Being well brought up, I had to practice saying "shit" quietly while walking in order to be able to wield it proficiently in context. If only I'd worked as hard for class ... But I can see where the vocabulary specific to a social group becomes ingrained. It's difficult, in fact, for those within a group to not fall into that group specific vocabulary. I was involved with a community theatre that latched onto an example of idiolect by one member and repeated it endlessly. Because this was a conspiracy to mock that member, I tried to refrain from using it, which took considerable effort.

I have been called names, mostly by my sister, which I've tried not to analyze. "Squirt" was one, varied by creative adjectives and adverbs. And there were many alliterative variations on "The Modest Maiden" because I wanted to pee without someone bursting into the bathroom to comb her hair or would rather not hear about sexual escapades I was too young for. Why I should be harassed for perpetual virginity in my teens is something I will never understand and it totally put me off any experimentation.

As an adult, I was called "The Yankee"* one too many times by another teacher at an in-service day and I was at a total loss of what to call him back. I gave it some long, hard thought until I remembered a particularly local epithet related to the ubiquitous textile industry. "They used to call us 'lint-heads,'" someone told me - with a certain amount of surprising pride. So I rolled it out the next time my colleague suggested that "The Yankee" do something. I felt really awkward about it, but it actually worked. He stopped calling me "The Yankee."

So we  have three possibilities of why a person uses a particular name to express their anger: fear, projection, and peer pressure. Are there more? This isn't excusing anything or offering extenuating circumstances, but if Alec Baldwin really wants to get past this, maybe he needs to ask himself where he first heard the words he uses.

Oh, and I just remembered that a friend's brother called me a "faggot" for reasons neither I nor his sister could figure out. Now, however, I have some possible leads.

"I offer a complete and utter retraction ..."

*I suppose down here in the south, "Yankee" is a bad word. I would think "carpetbagger" would be worse, but there you are. It grated on me because I am from a mid-Atlantic state, not New England. What's more, I've lived in the south more than half my life. When I head back north, they think I sound southern: "Marf must be talking to her parents; she's got her southern accent on!" I also find this annoying. My mother would have been horrified if she heard me commit some southernism ... other than calling all women "Ma'am."** She threatened to send me back to New York just for saying it was "a quarter till" instead of "a quarter of."


**A tour guide told us about how she preferred being in France, where everyone called her madame, to her home in Switzerland, where she was called mademoiselle. I immediately understood the notion of demotion in the difference. Vive la différence?