For a little more than a year, myself, and the rest of the country, have been treated to a never ending stream of words that appear to be the opposite of what they used to mean. There is a continual feeling of living in backwards land.  Recent examples include arming teachers with handguns.  This is utterly ridiculous because teachers are supposed to, well, you know, teach.  They aren’t there to deal with gunslingers.  I also thought this was ridiculous because I grew up with nuns as teachers.  We did not cross them.   The nuns, and all teachers, were the rulers of their domain and if one misbehaved in their school, it was at their peril. The nuns were their own special brand of sharp shooters.  If their law and order was not heeded, the principal would be summoned.  The principal would make certain order was kept and parents would be informed.  There was no need for guns.  We lived in a world where adults spoke, children listened and things proceeded  in a way that was organized around those basic tenets.   Now I’m being told that the adults in charge of the country don’t want to do anything about the current problem in our schools/malls/public places.  Somehow, small groups of people are supposed to fend for themselves by arming one or two individuals to keep watch.  If we arm those individuals, then who will we get to teach the children?  Children do not need to be taught the caliber of anything save their own character.

Why can’t the teachers just be teachers?  Couldn’t we just agree that they are in charge of their classrooms and the schools overall and that the children will abide by the rules and regulations set forth.  Couldn’t we also agree that the teachers generally do this so that the best interests of children as a group are served in an effort to educate the population as a whole.  I realize that this will keep some individual students from achieving the status of being “special,” but perhaps they can rely on their parents to impart that notion.  If we have teachers doing the teaching, couldn’t we have our LAW makers implementing some laws that would protect this system so that children are safe in the hands of those same educators.

It seems backwards to me that teachers would be expected to keep law and order and that law makers don’t seem to have any expectations, other than pointing fingers and blaming others.  Another backwards idea is that we elected people to do a job and they look for ways to trickle down their responsibilities.  I don’t want guns in our classrooms.  They should be filled with children who are safe to read books, complete assignments, take tests, learn music, make art, make friends, and get made fun of when they pick their nose.  I want classrooms where rules are enforced for the good of everyone so that all go home at the end of the day.  I also want the politicians to step up and put some laws in place so this can happen.

We live with elected officials who want me to believe that orange is the new black.  Their backwards logic is presented as just another season of reality television.

 

Five years ago, I arrived in the Tenth Circle of Hell via a marriage certificate.  That was long enough to make me decide to get a divorce.  I went back to my life and my writing.  For those unaware of what torments exist in the Tenth Circle of Hell, it is this: endless instruction from a spousal unit on the correct way to do EVERYTHING.

Forget that there was a successful life before the second marriage.  Ignore any skills acquired through education, experience, friendships or hobbies.  Simple tasks are explained ad nauseam and at such odd times that it cannot be rationally grasped.

For example, after a lifetime of doing dishes, both by hand and with a dishwasher, I was instructed repeatedly in this area.  When using a dishwasher, there were commands about correct placement of dishes, directionality of silverware in the tray, rinsing and not rinsing, bowls vs. cups in the lower rack and measuring dishwasher detergent down to the milliliter. All of this instruction was provided by someone who did not touch dishes unless they were on a dining table heaped with his favorite foods and a choice of one of seven identified vegetables that he would deign to eat.

Growing up in a rural area, few of us took driver’s education.  We managed to get through traffic just fine and I drove blissfully ignorant for many years.  After arrival in the Tenth Circle of Hell, my spouse provided on the spot training while we were in the car.  Using his best shouting voice, I was advised that the speed of my driving was always incorrect, that following other cars was never close enough and my head was never turned far enough to adequately check for traffic.  It wasn’t just me that was coached in the fine art of motoring.  Other driver’s on the road were honked at, sworn at and had a fist shaken at them as well.  All while I was at the wheel.  These lessons were forced on me by a spouse who did not drive because no one would ever get in the car with him.

It’s true that money can be a source of irritation in a marriage.  When your marriage is the Tenth Circle of Hell, this topic has the effect of making you bang your head against the wall.   Bills would be opened and place out of sight.  I would find them the following month with the overdue notices.  A lecture would follow on timely bill payment to avoid late fees.  He demanded the checkbook be placed in his night stand so that he would not have to search for it when writing checks for his hobbies.  He also wrote checks for his friends’ hobbies.  He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his check writing, so he never told me and never wrote them down.  Following this would be very loud interrogation on whether or not monthly bills had been paid. This would end with the enjoinder that he “likes to have these things done ‘ the right way’.”

I really did start to wonder how I had managed to do things before being the recipient of such profound tutoring.  In my head I kept hearing the question, “What the HELL is going on?” (see Tenth Circle comments above).

After a particularly inane diatribe on how to use an automatic door, I decided that I had to get out of the Tenth Circle of Hell.  Having received directives on trifling matters for so long, I decided to entrust the navigation out of the Tenth Circle to a wonderful lawyer.  A no nonsense woman, she gave practical advice on how to leave the Tenth Circle of Hell and protect myself.  After rapidly gathering every document needed and signing some papers, I charted my way back to the land of solitude. There I resumed management of daily affairs and my own psyche without lectures from anyone at all.  Word from friends is that my former spouse has already found his next victim.  He is holding the door open and has invited her in to the next Circle of Hell.

 

Ought 17 was really mean.

Lots of yells and screams.

Lookin’  bad on the marital scene.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

Hit the five year anniversary

Marriage was barely cursory.

Life was becoming adversary.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

Come July, the old man says good-bye

Says it’s time for me to fly.

So tired of his nonsense I just sigh.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

We scream and shout.

I take the cat and move out.

Just  so weird, couldn’t figure it out.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

Been living alone.

The most peace and quiet I’ve known.

With life in a nap-free zone.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

Feel happy as a clam.

After getting rid of that man.

Enjoying living as much as I can.

Got the Big D and I don’t mean Dallas for Christmas.

When my children were growing up, we had a wonderful dog by the name of Dixie. She was 60 pounds of friendliness and she loved everyone. Truthfully, she was my son’s dog and she loved him “the best” but she loved everyone. She showed it by wiggling her whole self, not just her tail. Often she just jumped up on people and licked them to show how much she liked them. She also liked cats, kittens, horses, hamsters and other creatures. She licked them all too. She’s been gone for many years but since then I have believed that she is the appointed greeter at the gates of heaven. Everyone who arrives will be greeted by a large, leaping, smiling white dog with a brown head. I tell that story to everyone.
It helped this weekend when we lost our cat, Bad Jack, at 15 years of age. I knew that Jack would be greeted by Dixie when he got to heaven. Jack would not like being greeted by Dixie. He did not like dogs, or any other creatures. His name was “Bad” Jack for a reason. He liked to fight. He was ornery. He wanted things his way, or no way. Often described as an old gangster, he took on all comers. With two notable exceptions, he won. Nobody messed with Jack. He had the moxie to get his way no matter who stood in front of him. All of this was without claws. As a young cat I thought that having him de-clawed would help him be less aggressive. It didn’t phase him a bit. It’s not that he physically fought so much as that he just stood his ground. No matter the size or species, I saw him make other, larger animals turn tail and run. Without lifting a paw. I don’t know how he did it but he often accomplished getting another animal out of the way just by standing in the same place. Clearly he had a language all his own.
Jack lived life on his own terms and was always true to himself. Then he did what all of us do: he got old. He was a rescue animal, so there was no way of verifying his age. We think he was about 15 or so. For a critter as feisty as he was, that’s pretty old. We were lucky to have him for 10 years. He was in fighting shape when we got him. At the end, he turned inward, stayed in, stopped eating, then stopped drinking and passed away in his sleep on Saturday night, June 11th. Things went his way until the end. We will all miss his determination and his spirit and his in-your-face attitude. Our lives will be quieter and less colorful. But now Dixie has to deal with him.

It’s not a secret that I am married to my third husband. He’s quite nice, we enjoy our life together in many ways and thanks to this marriage I have acquired a relatively new skill. That has been due to the fact that my dirty little secret throughout all these marriages is that I have not known how to do the wash. There you go. A grown woman, nearly into retirement, who didn’t know how to do laundry.
They say admitting there is a problem is the first step. Quite frankly, I didn’t think it was a problem. I had a rather basic approach to washing clothes: wad up a bunch of them, throw them in a wash machine, dump in something that would turn into suds and hope for the best. It didn’t seem that hard. Au contraire, mes amies! (My French is better than my laundry skills).
Apparently there are RULES about doing laundry. It’s clique-ish, like junior high. Certain clothes will only go with certain clothes otherwise they run. I had thought they would run out of the washer, perhaps into the dryer, but that’s not what happens. What they meant was that clothes have to be SEPARATED by color, fabric type and some other things I can’t remember. Then the APPROPRIATE laundry detergent has to be administered and in the correct amount. New information:  one does not put dish soap or shampoo in the washing machine in an effort to clean clothes.
Let me just say a few words about bleach here. I have been forbidden to have bleach because it’s not to be used as an all-purpose sort of cleaner. I was confused on that point. Turns out, it makes stains and holes in things if it’s used too often or if too much is put in with the laundry load. (That’s a new term for me). So I spent years blissfully ignorant of laundry compendium and my clothes were getting clean.
That’s how this story gets to husband Number 3. During a somewhat heated discourse about who knows what, I uttered something to the effect of “Fine then, I’ll do my own laundry.” He has not touched it since. Weeks went by while I shopped for new, clean clothes. Who thought he would listen to me about such nonsense.
Finally, I had to face facts. I would have to do my own laundry! Shopping is often an answer, so I went. Not for new clothes, but for clothes cleaning artifacts. Did you know there is an aisle in the grocery store that has scores of soap products meant specifically for washing clothes? They are called laundry detergents and many have exorbitant claims to cleanliness, softliness, spotliness, you name it. The one I chose is blue and smells good. I had also seen this one in television commercials advertised by a man in a white tuxedo who is doing laundry. Because I had always thought that men do laundry, this seemed like a logical choice. I brought it home. I read the directions! Separating various colors of clothes, I put some in the washing machine. I pushed buttons that I had seen my husband push. The clothes came out clean! I am now doing my own laundry! Can I get an amen!
It’s been weeks now. The clothes get separated, put in the washing machine and come out clean. I read the directions on the bottle of detergent every time and put some, not too much, in the washer and the clothes come out clean and fresh. I am a clothes washing genius!  I certainly hope that no one tells me I can’t dry my clothes in the micro-wave.

Today in the United States we are celebrating Mother’s Day with various gifts, flowers, meals and greetings. It’s a wonderful day to be a mother or to have one that you celebrate. A mother isn’t always the one you were born with. A mother can come in the form of being a grandmother, aunt, sister, cousin, or friend. Sometimes they give advice, sometimes they’re just there when you need them. These women often exert a powerful influence on our lives and today we are celebrating the fact that somehow these women made us be better in some way.
In preparation for the day, I did a little research on the word “mother.” Throughout the world, the word for mother is very similar in sound and in letter. The word almost always starts with an “m” and typically includes an “a.” Below is a list of various languages and their word for mother. This list is not all inclusive by any means. Nor does it need to be. Because during my research, I discovered that while the word for “mother” has some differences, the word for “mom” is nearly always the same.

Aleut – naa/ana                Greek – Ma                 Persian – mamen
Africaans –ma                   Hindi – Ma                 Russian – mat
Cherokee – e-tsi               Irish – Ma                  Spanish – mami
Czech – maminka            Italian – Mamma     Swahili – Mama
Dutch – mam                    Malay – Emak           Swedish – Mama
English – mom                 Navajo – Ama           Turkish – Ana
Finish – A                           Nigerian – Mama     Yiddish – Muter
French – maman              Norwegian – madre

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you who have given or received the kind of love and regard that made someone think of you as “mom.”

 

The Twin Cities is rapidly becoming a very prolific jazz city with many venues and musicians proffering their talents in town. In particular, jazz can be found on many nights of the week in Lowertown St. Paul. Once home only to sparsely populated coffee shops and artist’s lofts, things have changed quite a bit in the past two years. One such offering was Sunday night’s at an eclectic performance venue called Bedlam. There was a weekly offering of “Solomon’s Sessions.” A local trumpet player, music teacher and, now musician with a graduate degree was hosting a venue for jazz musicians to drop in and blow their horn. Or play their bass or riff their piano or bang their drums. All of this was to the delight of jazz fans and a continual stream of top shelf musician’s trying to make a living playing jazz. This was funded for a year, but hopefully we will see more of Solomon Parham and his particular brand of jazz in the future. Given recent growth in this area, it’s more than likely. Today’s offering is my take on an evening at the jazz club.

Come in early and stake out your seat.
It’s cold in here now but when the music starts
You’ll feel the heat.

Move your table to get the best view.
It’s not crowded now but when the music starts
You’ll find that it’s true.

Get a drink in time to see the first set.
The servers aren’t busy now but later,
That’s all you’ll get.

Tune out the patrons that talk incessantly.
They’ll continue to talk,
They’re not inclined musically.

Move your table again and squeeze in your chair.
They’re playin’ just for you,
The hottest music anywhere.

The bass player is lookin’ at ya but the saxophone
player gives you the snub.
The server with the tip jar noticed you.
Welcome to the jazz club.

Many of you may have wondered where I have been for a while and why there have been no posts for the past few months. No, it was not a life threatening illness. It was much worse than that. I have been caught in an endless loop between the United States Post Office and the State DMV. Yes, it was that bad.
It all started innocently enough when I purchased a car back in 2006. Cute little number, fast as all get out with a high performance engine. We all know that a girl who likes high performance engines doesn’t stay focused for long. The relationship lasted for five years and the car went the way of most things that get reminisced about. It sat in the garage, not being fueled with high octane fuel in favor of a more practical, dark color American car. Turns out that in such a vehicle, a middle-aged woman is well-nigh invisible to law enforcement. Helpful for speeding tickets, not so helpful for roadside assistance needs.
Anyway, the little red beauty sat in the garage.
A couple of years following the purchase of the vehicle, I took a notion to correct the grave injustice of a last name that I had been saddled with since birth. Where I grew up, we couldn’t afford to buy any vowels. Harking back to an old French custom of celebrating the patron saint of the date of one’s birth. I chose that for my last name.
Five years later saw a move to a high rise condo with a view that still makes me weep on occasion. A lovely building, very secure and a lively neighborhood to live in. Then I tried to give my daughter the car. You know the one. The little red carriage languished in the garage with no one taking the horses out for a canter.

My daugher lives in San Francisco, where finding parking sometimes becomes a spectator sport.  She was thrilled. Little tiny red car to zip around town in, fast enough to get out of the way of on-coming stupidity, good looking and it runs well. Turns out, cars are subject to these odd things from the motor vehicle department called titles. Unable to find the original belonging to the little red car, I went to the DMV station to get a copy. Paid good money for it, too. They said wait five or six weeks. The car was already in California and I was anticipating not having to pay for it on my insurance any longer. No such luck. I had to go to the DMV station again. They assured me the title had gone out. I ordered another one. It would take five or six weeks. Never saw it. Went to the DMV station again. More reassurance, more waiting.
Luckily I saved the original receipt so I didn’t have to keep paying them. They were able to track that the title had been ordered and sent three separate times. Was the problem perhaps with the Post Office? The next trip was to the local branch of the USPS. Helpful people they are, but they couldn’t tell me why something that kept being sent to me wasn’t being delivered. After all, how did they know I was supposed to receive it? Seriously, I am not making that up.

Life goes by, back to the DMV. Thank goodness for inexperience! The DMV clerk asked if I was that name that has no vowels. Indeed I am, well, I was, but now I am different. That will cost another $60-some dollars plus proof that I am now referred to by a name that has a nice balance of consonants and vowels. Another trip to the DMV with documents and check book in hand.
Yup, they finally sent me the title. Five to six weeks later.

One of my readers has asked that I comment on California. As you can imagine this is a rather broad topic as California is a rather large state. One should realize that while so many things in California seem larger than life, they’re really just “special.”

The “California lifestyle” could be described as special. They are so many things going one in the California lifestyle that typically go unchecked that, like mold, gets out of control quickly.

For example, the whole sun thing they have going. It’s always sunny in California and you can’t get away from it. People in the rest of the country think Californians are vain because they are always wearing sun glasses. In truth, they have to wear them or the sun will drive them crazy. This is not likely to be noticed as being crazy is quite relative in the “Golden state.” When I visit, I take eye drops because there is such constant sun, my eyes are dry at the end of each day. Makes one wonder what the pot smokers have to go through.

Another larger than life phenomenon in California is that everyone is special. Everything in California has to be special for everyone. For example, your particular vegetarianism is vastly different from everyone else’s and thus, more special. Long discussions about the relative merit of eating versus juicing kale can be overheard in many places. In addition, vocalized concern about possible toxicity in too much kale intake is bandied about. One can be a vegetarian with only certain colors of vegetables that correspond with the colors in your light chakras. This is purported to enhance your vibrations with the universe. Who doesn’t want that? It makes you special.

In most areas, aromatherapy is considered mainstream but in California crystal therapy can help enhance your life (or specialness) and someone who can read crystals is really special. Not sure what their average annual income is, but they’re special.

Coffee is another area where one can distinguish oneself as being special. Standing in line at a local coffee shop or a chain like Starbucks, one can announce one’s specialness. You can do this by ordering your coffee in such a way that it takes the barista five minutes to write down your order while others stand by watching and waiting to give their own special coffee order.

Clothing is special and wearing less of it makes one more special. The way to make this point is to have one’s body enhanced through plastic surgery and then wear clothing that will strategically reveal various enhanced parts thereby making one more special. You will see repeatedly at the Oscars. Those people are quite special.

It could be said that the pressure of living in California can be demanding. Finding ways to make oneself special in the eyes of other people that are already special can be challenging and strenuous. The constant effort can be exhausting. The good thing is, no one has to know what anyone is going through because they all have their sunglasses on.

As the seasons change and the temperatures in the Midwest start to cool, there are lots of things to notice on the landscape. Flowers are at their peak during this time of year. Sidewalk café’s are hidden behind fences of bright lime toned sweet potato vines and ruby hued coleus. Brightly colored clematis works its way up fence posts and lamp posts alike. Petunias star in their own show with fuschia’s, pinks and reds. Sunflowers hang their heads of dark butter colored petals and midnight black seeds. If I made my living by looking for nectar, this would rate at the best time of year.

Presumably that’s what wasps think too. The reason I believe that is because I typically have a wasp infestation around this time of year. They abound in my back yard. They build nests various places in the yard. Sometimes they build a nest behind the stucco siding of my house. Wasps are hard to get rid of. All entry holes have to be tightly sealed and I have tried many methods attempting to get rid of them.

After one recent experience, I do not recommend vacuuming them out. It went like this: Armed with two cans of wasp spray, I got out the shop vac. The brand doesn’t matter as I was using the attachment with the narrow slot to get up under the stucco. Putting on leather garden gloves, sun glasses and a hat, I stood as far from the outside wall as the length of the vacuum hose would allow. I plugged in the shop vac, held the attachment in one hand and readied a can of spray in the other. In retrospect, I probably should have had a bee keeper’s hat with netting, but I didn’t think of that. The idea was to suck the wasps out from the nest and spray any errant flyers. This did not go well.

What really happened was that after a few minutes of being vacuumed, the wasps became quite agitated. Many of them escaped the narrow slotted attachment and came looking for the enemy. I changed vacuum attachments to use the one with the round, open end. I managed to suck quite a few of the now angry wasps out of the wall, but many more were coming toward me. There I was, in the back yard with my shop vac and wasp spray. I began alternating between sucking the wasps out of the wall and spraying the attacking flyers. It was a real battle of wits for a few minutes there. Sucking, spraying, sucking, spraying. Then I started dodging them. I have no idea what the neighbors thought. Some woman dressed in disguise bobbing up and down, wielding a shop vac hose and spraying something from a can while wasps swarmed. Quite a sight, I’m sure.

Truthfully, I did get many of them out of the wall. Some even went into the shop vac. Some died a valorous death by wasp spray. But then, the shop vac started on fire. Now you should know that one is not supposed to spray a burning shop vac with wasp spray. This irritates the wasps and makes the flames jump. I did what any rational person would do when trying to escape an angry swarm of wasps and a fire – I ran. Spraying wasp spray behind me, I ran into the garage, slammed the door, and unplugged the shop vac. Thinking that the shop vac might be salvageable, I waited a few minutes for the flames, smoke and wasps to subside. Many of the wasps just went back to the nest but I counted lots of casualties. I had nearly prevailed! If not for the unfortunate fire, I would likely have eliminated the entire colony. The biggest casualty was the shop vac. Apparently their little motors do not survive fires very well. The plastic housing was also a little melted, making it look sad. The shop vac got put away in the garage and I decided to call an exterminator. I did not tell anyone about the whole thing as I am reluctant to admit when I have started small motor devices on fire. Who knew they needed a vent at the back? I just thought that by plugging it up I would be able to keep any angry wasps from escaping the fate I had planned for them. I didn’t open the shop vac for a while. There were too many wasps making noise in there. Sometimes it’s best to leave these things to the professionals.