Language Is a Funny Thing

Will regional idiom become more or less common due to social networks and instant communication?

I recently read a BBC article questioning whether Duchess of Sussex Meghan Markle’s accent was becoming more British. Skimming through the examples proving the author’s point, I shrugged. “Yeah, probably,” I thought, “because she now lives in Britain. She’s surrounded by those speaking British English.”   As myself recalled from three years spent living in Charleston, South Carolina, after a childhood growing up in the Midwest, one picks up not only regional dialect and phrases, but a touch of an accent, while living in those circumstances. I rapidly shed my faint overlay of a Southern American accent upon my return to the Midwest, but I still occasionally find myself reaching back through time for a turn of phrase which causes my Midwestern acquaintances to double-take, such as when I declare an attractive man to be “right pretty”, or claim that someone is “no brighter than a firefly’s backside”. I do not, however, complain that a room is too “airish” (breezy) any longer, and  the memory  is still vivid of my total confusion when a Southern acquaintance referred to the previous night as “slept under blankets”. Uh, didn’t most people sleep beneath a blanket or a sheet, I wondered? It took a real twist of Sherlockian brainpower to make the deduction that, to someone for whom a “warm” day was 90°F, sleeping beneath a blanket was a rare occasion, occurring only when the temperatures had plummeted to a surprising low.

It astounds me that, in a era of instant communication, not only accent and dialects, but regional idiom, persist. Yet they do, and I find myself often either bewildered or surprised by them.

I remember sitting in the theatre at the first showing of the movie “Home Alone” and being astounded when the sleepyheads awaken to screech, “We slept in!” My reaction was a straightforward, “Huh?” To my understanding, sleeping in was something desirable; it was a leisurely Saturday morning in which one had nowhere to be and nothing important to accomplish, and just planned to putter around in a bathrobe all morning. Rolling out of bed just when one felt like it was sleeping in; waking in horror, too late for an appointment, one’s job, or a plane trip was not sleeping in, but oversleeping. These were too separate occurrences, with two separate phrases to describe them: one delightful, the other absolutely awful.

I encountered the same confusion when watching a popular sitcom and hearing a character declare that he was close with his sister. Huh again. Close with? I’d never encountered that phrase. The Midwestern reference I’d grown up with and used all my life to describe a warm personal relationship was close to.   Just as one might be described as close to an emotional melt down, one was also close to a beloved friend or family member. Next to. Beside. Near to. Dear to.

More recently, a trip to the grammar advice pages of the Web was triggered by hearing the phrase step foot. By now growing accustomed to my “Huh?” moments, I decided to research, learning that the phrase had evolved from the original, set foot, around the year 1500. Huh. 500-some years. Funny, then, that I had never once heard it until 2018. The grammar page went on to explain, though, that the use of step foot rather than set foot had become more common since the 1980s…which actually made it still strange that I had never encountered the expression during those 30-some years. I’ve grown more accustomed to hearing it, but I can’t say that I like it. It just sounds wrong to my ear.

And then there are the phrases on accident and by accident. On accident makes me grind my teeth! One can do something on purpose, intentionally, but one can only do something unintentional by accident. Even the language tutor pages agree with me on this one: on accident makes grammar purists cringe. The difference—intentionally, unintentionally—is marked by the preposition.

But those who have grown up using the expression on accident would probably not agree. We usually prefer the language forms to which we’ve been accustomed. Which begs the question, will regional idiom become more or less common due to social networks and instant communication?

One can only wonder. I will ponder it the next time I’m waking from leisurely sleeping in.

Those Two Snakes…

Belittling encounters with medical professionals could probably spin out into a story as long as War and Peace. 

The symbol for the medical profession is the caduceus, featuring two snakes winding around a winged staff. And despite the many caring medical professionals I’ve encountered over the years, I sometimes fear that those snakes are uncannily accurate!

This struck me forcefully a few days ago when a friend called for advice on behalf of her sister. She wanted to know if I thought (as she did) that her sibling should make some type of complaint regarding the treatment she’d just received at the hands of a specialist, a pain management doctor to whom she’d been referred. All three of us were well aware that pain management is a tricky subject these days due to the opioid epidemic; even more so for a patient being treated for long-term depression and emotional issues, as the sister admittedly is. But she’d also been enduring untreated chronic pain for months, and had waited patiently for weeks to see the specialist…only to leave his office in tears, not one  whit closer to being out of pain, and having been demeaned, insulted, misinterpreted, and shunted aside.

I commiserated with my friend and we determined a course of action for her sister to take. But the event brought clearly to mind the many times I and others of my acquaintance had endured reprehensible behavior from someone in the medical profession.

cauduceusI vividly recall my shock and dismay when, years ago, having seen my doctor regarding symptoms suggestive of an underactive thyroid, I received his verdict. Although my thyroid activity was on the “low end” of normal, he explained, “What you really need is an aerobics course. Or a psychologist.”  Just as my friend’s sister had done, I left the medical office in tears. Ignoring the doctor’s assessment, I researched and found a natural solution to my problem: two herbs that I continue to take to take to this day, since whenever I neglect them my symptoms return. But I’ve thought about that doctor’s words many times in the intervening years, as I’ve participated in many forms of exercise and mental health counseling that did nothing for my “low normal” thyroid.

Then there was the anesthesiologist who treated me during a breast biopsy. To say that I was frightened the day of that surgery would be the understatement of the decade, and my way of handling emotional discomfort often is to joke. So when the anesthesiologist saw me prior to the procedure, asking about allergies, I said laughingly, “Mostly, I’m allergic to my whole planet of origin.” Her face darkened and her lips twisted into a snarl as she snapped out that she needed accurate information. Chastened, I quickly recounted my precise allergies. But conflict terrifies me, so I was still trembling as they wheeled me in for surgery

I’ve wondered since if that anesthesiologist trained alongside the tech who handled the anesthetic for my emergency c-section.  During that procedure, despite trying my best to remain still as the needle was inserted into my spine, I jumped slightly. The anesthesiologist smacked me across the upper arm and growled, “I said DON’T MOVE!”

Another friend recounted her miserable experience with a doctor whom she saw for knee problems. Although my friend never denies that she is overweight, she was shaken and humiliated when the specialist genuinely threw up his hands. Threw his hands into the air and declaimed that there was nothing he could do, owing to her weight. She continued her story of medical mistreatment, explaining to me that,  many years earlier, when she’d first begun to gain weight, she’d visited another specialist.  She’d described to him a breathing problem she was experiencing that was limiting her activity and contributing to her weight gain. Prior to developing this breathing problem, she explained, she’d weighed only 127 pounds.  Later, as she dressed following the examination, she overheard the doctor dictating his notes regarding her case: “Patient claims to have previously weighed 127 pounds. Frankly, I find that hard to believe.”

I could probably recount a dozen or more such unpleasant, degrading incidents, both mine and others. I feel certain almost everyone has such a story. Many are far worse than those I’ve already related here: the breast cancer patient who was slammed into the radiation therapy machine by an angry tech; the woman who was told of her 102°F temperature, “That isn’t a high fever!” Belittling encounters with medical professionals could probably spin out into a story as long as War and Peace. And still I recognize that there are always two sides to every coin: During my daughter’s long labor and eventual c-section, I was thoroughly impressed by the kindness and quality behavior of the two anesthesiologists who treated her pain.

Nevertheless, thinking over so many disagreeable experiences, both my own and those of others, I persist in believing there is a genuine reason for those two sidewinding snakes on the caduceus.

A History of Queen Anne’s Lace

What struck me most forcefully in reading up on the history of contraception and abortion was that, step by step, women have been conditioned to believe that choosing to control their own reproductive process, even to the decision to prevent conception, was at best immoral, or at worst, criminal.

Years ago, I was watching an educational TV show, and the narrator discussed plants that were not native to the Americas but which were now common. As an example, the script mentioned Queen Anne’s Lace, stating that the seeds were carried to the Americas caught in blankets and clothing of the European settlers.

I could not stop laughing. I was well aware that the seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace, taken as a morning-after tea, were the most effective of all the early forms of birth control–at least since silphium was hunted to extinction by Roman and Egyptian women desperate to prevent conception. The seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace weren’t ferried to the Americas accidentally, hitchhiking on property, but quite purposefully, by women who preferred not to be worn out or die due to too-frequent childbearing.

For centuries, knowledgeable midwives instructed the women they served in the lore of birth control—difficult, and not totally reliable, but not completely impossible in the centuries before the development of the diaphragm and the contraceptive pill. And, yes, their knowledge also included methods of abortion, customarily using herbs. Compounded from celery root and seed, hedge hyssop, cotton root, Cretan dittany and spruce hemlock, mistletoe leaves and horseradish, cinchona bark, ashwagandha and saffron, wooly ragwort, castor oil, blue and black cohosh, evening primrose, and even the remarkably dangerous pennyroyal and tansy and ergot of rye, herbal abortions were common when contraception failed.  The concoctions were so prevalent that ads for patent medicines to cure “delayed menstruation” were common in women’s magazines throughout the 1800s—that is, until the passage of the Comstock Act in 1873 criminalized even the possession of information on birth control.

The world has turned many times since the Comstock Act, through the invention of the contraceptive pill, to the self-help clinics of the late 1960s that instructed women in the practice of menstrual extraction, through Roe vs. Wade. The morning-after pill was introduced, a chemical solution at last replacing that centuries-old use of abortifacient herbs.

I absolutely do not, will not, debate the wrongness or rightness of any of this, from Queen Anne’s Lace to the present day. To me, decisions regarding birth control and abortion remain always a choice best made by the woman involved, in accordance with her conscience and personal situation. But what struck me most forcefully in reading up on the history of contraception and abortion was that, step by step, women have been conditioned to believe that choosing to control their own reproductive process, even to the decision to prevent conception, was at best immoral, or at worst, criminal.

We think of the Middle Ages as a time of great ignorance, yet it was then that midwives—wisewomen–practiced, sharing their expertise and knowledge with the female population at large, easing the pain of childbirth and preventing many maternal deaths by their skill. And it was then, too, that such women were hunted down, burned and tortured and hung as witches, effectively silencing their knowledge for generations. Women were left in the hands of male doctors who, shrugging, pronounced, “Maternity is eternity”, reconciling countless numbers of women and infants to death as babies were delivered in filthy conditions with unwashed hands.

Circle the world a few times on its axis, and enter the 1900s, when horrific deaths by botched back alley abortions were common. Young and desperate women bled to death or died horribly of septicemia. Circle again, and information on contraception was readily available, along with new forms of birth control. Contraceptive creams and condoms were sold over the counter. Legal abortion gave a measure of safety to the procedure. The morning after pill became available for those who had either been careless or experienced the horrors of rape.

History, they say, always repeats itself. And so as society swings perilously close once more to the era of illegal and back alley abortions, so it may also oscillate to women who reclaim the ancient knowledge that gave them power over their own reproductive processes: to the natural methods that provided women a way to make their decisions in accordance with their conscience.

The morality of these decisions is not truly the question, for no matter what is legislated, women will continue to fight for and gain absolute control over their own bodies.  They will continue to make their personal choices regarding reproduction. The Pendulum of Queen Anne’s Lace, you might call it. History will, genuinely, always repeat itself.

Prom Night, Then and Now

Because the month of May is when so many high schools hold their proms, an acquaintance asked me to re-publish this post from last year.

As women will do when gathered together day after day, when I worked in an office, we often found time to switch into “chat and gossip” mode. On one particular day in my memory, I recall that a supervisor had proudly displayed to a group of us ladies the prom photos taken of his oldest daughter. That sparked a discussion of school dances in general, and prom gowns specifically.

Each of the women present took turns describing her beloved senior or junior prom gowns and favorite dance dresses. I stayed on the periphery of this conversation, volunteering nothing, and fortunately each of the women was too wrapped up in fond memories of her own Cinderella moments to note my reticence.  My relief was enormous; I didn’t know what I would have said if they had turned to ask me about my dance dresses.  Made something up, perhaps – probably – because admitting the truth would have been humiliating: that I had never had a prom gown, nor even a dance dress.  I never wore one because I never went to a dance or a prom.  I did not go because I was not asked.  Without a date, a young woman of my generation didn’t have the opportunity to attend her own school prom.  She did not dare walk alone through the door onto the dance floor.

All of the women involved in the conversation that day were fifteen to twenty years younger than I. I knew that they could not possibly understand.  Contemporary young women would likely reel in disbelief and shock if faced with the restrictions we girls lived under in the late 1960s and early 70s.  If one did not have a date for a dance or a prom, one simply didn’t get to attend.  I seriously doubt that a single girl would have been sold a ticket for her own prom—or, if she had somehow wrangled a ticket, would not have been allowed to walk in alone. We, the overflow of plain young women without boyfriends or dates, simply bowed to the reality of the situation: we would not be asked, we would not attend. If we chafed under the restrictions, we were told that there was absolutely no point in railing against the situation.  It was just the things way were.

But somehow, at some point, it stopped being the way things were. The daughters of  “women’s libbers” and “hippies”, imbued with a sense of combativeness and personal worth that had been sadly absent in earlier generations, struck out on their own and refused to be tied to some male just in order to gain admission to their own school dances.  Happily single, they demanded tickets.  They bought their own corsages, slipped on their lovely gowns, tucked their feet into brand-new dancing shoes, and off they went.  Even if asked by a boyfriend to be their prom date, these brave young innovators sometimes refused to be coupled to one person and instead attended in groups of girlfriends, free to dance (or not) with whomever they pleased.

I not only admired those young women, but I was fiercely glad for them.

When my daughter and I went to a showing of the Disney movie Cinderella, I found myself biting my lip and blinking hard against tears when the title character is barred by her stepmother and sisters from attending the ball.  Later, as we left the theatre, I told my daughter, “That’s what it felt like, on the night of my senior prom.  That’s how I felt.”  Her own eyes sought mine in compassion and she squeezed my hand.

There were no fairy godmothers for the Cinderellas of my generation. And I had not the needed courage, perhaps, to change the sad state of my own affairs. But I have nothing but admiration for contemporary young women who neither need nor want fairy godmothers, nor pumpkin coaches, nor glass slippers—who reach out with no magic wands but that of their own self-assuredness and hard work to create the lives they want. And I hope every one of them dances, like the twelve dancing princesses of another fairy tale, long past midnight and until their shoes are worn through.

My Daughter Speaks on Motherhood

Asked by her workplace to write a piece about balancing motherhood and one’s working life, my daughter wrote this moving, funny essay.

On August 23, 2018, I became a mother for the first time, to a beautiful, adventurous baby girl. Getting her here was no easy feat!–but I’m sure most mothers can say this to some degree about their pregnancies and/or giving birth. My personal story, though, is that I had to be scheduled for a labor induction because my blood pressure was getting too high (which was understandable, considering that I was the size of the Goodyear Blimp in the middle of a burning hot Indiana August). So,  one evening my husband, mother, and I went to the hospital to prepare to bring our little “bun” into the world.

Twenty-four hours of labor later, nothing had happened except for several frightening moments as both my own and my baby’s blood pressure and heart rate bottomed out (and zero luck with getting any sleep!)  My OB/GYN (whom my husband refers to as “Dr. Sexy” because, in all honesty, the man really could have been on Grey’s Anatomy!) discussed our options with us. Option 1: Keep waiting and see what happens; Option 2: Stop the induction, let me have a meal, and start the induction again tomorrow (they almost had me on the whole “have a meal” thing!); or, Option 3: Get this show on the road and have a C-section. We went with Option 3. Already on an epidural anesthetic, I was dosed with more and wheeled into the operating room.

My C-section experience was ultimately unremarkable except for being able to feel them cut into me just before they pulled out our little bundle of joy. I do not jest! It really felt like I was in the movie Saw or something! But they snapped a photo of this perfect child and held it in front of my face, knocked me out completely and sewed me up, and I woke up just a little bit later to my beautiful little mini-me.

Adoring MomOnce we were home, I was lucky enough to have my wonderful husband home with us for a month as we got into our new routine as parents. But eventually, my man had to go back to work and it was just me and this tiny little human being. Things didn’t exactly go as planned (when do they ever?), but ultimately, we got through my eight weeks of maternity leave. However, I experienced a whirlwind of postpartum depression, with crying and anxiety spells every day. I informed Dr. Sexy of my problems, and was matched up with an amazing therapist whom I still see to this day, eight-plus months later.

When I was asked by my office to write a blog post for our website about what it’s like to be a new mother and to balance motherhood and work life, I hesitated for perhaps all of 30 seconds before I signed on. I decided to be entirely honest about my experiences.

New motherhood has been hard and intimidating because it brought to light all my own personal “stuff” that I need to work on, as well as a general “What the heck am I doing?!” feeling that I’m certain will never go away. But it’s also been such an amazing, fun, happy, “There’s not enough adjectives to describe it” experience!

When I had to return to work two weeks before Halloween, I planned our routine and our route to the babysitter’s as well as I could, got there early–and then cried in my car for 20 minutes. Each day I felt both excited to be back to helping adults (adults!) with their concerns, as well as sad. At times it was unbearably heart-wrenching to leave my baby girl behind. But I am incredibly fortunate, for I leave her with family each working day, where she is cuddled and loved every moment.

So, to answer the question of how to balance work and family life: I don’t really have a profound answer to give you. All I can tell you is that it gets a little easier each day, even if certain hours are incredibly hard. And that it is so important to practice good self-care. As I said, I still meet with my therapist weekly to work on personal stuff that I want to have a handle on as I help shape my little girl into the woman she will become. I also laugh with my family and friends, have date nights with my husband, and try to acknowledge that it’s okay that I was, and am still, a complex human woman who wants to be present for everything in my life.

So, take it one day, one hour, one moment at a time. Talk to the people who love you. Ask for help. All the “Mommy Club” are here cheering you on! Happy Mother’s Day everyone!

How Ego Became a Dirty Word

Kept in check, regularly examined through conscience, and recognized as a personal identity having nothing to do with one’s possessions or achievements, the ego is a marvelous thing…

When did “ego” become a dirty word?

To the best of my understanding, in its original concept, ego meant simply that part of human consciousness which indicates “I”. It was understood to be the ability to distinguish one’s self from others; the awareness that comprehends personal experience. Over time, that original concept enlarged to include egotism—that is, conceit, vanity, or an inflated sense of self-importance. But, at its inception, the idea of the ego was simply that of self-awareness, and of personal identity–an ability which small children begin to develop at about age two.

Yet, somehow that harmless perception of a consciousness which distinguishes the self from others has mutated into a appalling concept; shameful at best, destructive at worst.

While I cannot lay all the blame for this divisive idea on a slew of philosophical books of recent vintage, I do believe they are responsible for perpetuating the concept that there is something inherently reprehensible about the normal human ego. Frankly, that makes little sense to me. Without a sense of separateness, of individuality, we cannot function in the world.

A healthy ego protects. It tells me unequivocally that, no matter what some nitwit says of me, I can make the decision to not believe their words. A well-regulated ego says to one, “Just because I am requested, ordered, to do this by a superior, I need not necessarily do it. I am an individual. I can make my own decisions regarding the rightness or wrongness of the order.” A wholesome, balanced ego is a shield against poor decision and immorality.

Nor, despite the best arguments pondered by those who despise the term, is a normal ego an obstruction to empathy. To the contrary, knowing that I have endured a difficult, painful or troubling experience allows me to look with compassion on others who are undergoing something similar. The “I” that identifies as an separate entity recognizes and therefore empathizes with all the other “I” individuals who are enduring anguish.

Sadly, the concept of a healthy, balanced ego has somehow become almost inextricably confused with egotism. But the two are not the same. “Nothing in excess”, the Greeks are reputed to have carved on the temple of Apollo at Delphi, and the advice is as apt now as it was those thousands of years ago. An overweening or inflated ego is an excess. It is narcissism, selfishness, and self-absorption. It is a bane and antipathy to sympathy and concern. It does, as those self-same philosophical books decry, express itself in the attachment to things; it warps the personal identity into a mere exponent of possessions or achievements.

Those who lambast the idea of a personal ego seem to maintain the position that our very separateness also separates—separates us from each other, and from the divine within both ourselves and others. Again, that concept makes little sense to me. If I am I, then I am the Divine expressing as this wondrous, personal, individual being: myself. I am a perfect creation from the hand and mind of the Creator. To be in any way separate from my divine self is simply not possible; to think so is total hubris.

And if I recognize that divine and spiritual center within myself, then I must recognize it in all others, who are all also perfect creations of a perfect Creator.

I believe we came, were sent, into this world to experience life as individuals. In doing so, I recall that, in some versions of the myth of Hercules, Zeus desired to know what it was to live as a mortal. And so he fathered a son, Hercules, who would be both god and human. As the creator, Zeus was inextricably interwoven to everything; he was all he had created. But, through his son, he could comprehend what it was to be separate and apart from all he had created; to live as an individual; to be mortal.

Kept in check, regularly examined through conscience, and recognized as a personal identity having nothing to do with one’s possessions or achievements, the ego is a marvelous thing, leading us through a lifetime of personal awareness in conjunction with our spiritual core. Far from being undesirable, it is yet another impeccable creation bequeathed us by our Creator.

I Actually LIKE Iceberg Lettuce!

I realize this proves that I have absolutely no palate… 

Shameful as it is to confess in a world of gourmet food and connoisseurs of all the best taste has to offer: I really, really like iceberg lettuce.

I realize this is an extremely unpopular point of view. It makes me appear unsophisticated, unrefined, crude. It proves that I have absolutely no palate (well, just the sort of wines I prefer prove that, in any case.) But there you have it. I like iceberg lettuce. I prefer it to many other types of greens.

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy other forms of salad greens. I love spinach leaves, so deeply green and silky. Radicchio, bibb, butter, romaine – toss ‘em on in, although I draw the line at bitter endive. But my favorite salad will always be based on a bed of iceberg lettuce.

I grew up in the traditional Midwestern fashion of many decades past, eating iceberg lettuce in all my salads and on my sandwiches; actually not even knowing, until I was probably about age 13, that there were any other types of lettuce leaves. And unlike a lot of other foods served me as a child (I still shudder at the sight of a Brussels sprout), I enjoyed iceberg lettuce. I still do. To my tongue, iceberg lettuce is the perfect crisp. Unlike radicchio or romaine or (again, shudder) endive, it has no bitter aftertaste. It crunches. It tastes green.

Mix iceberg in with shreds of red cabbage, small red radish roses, slivers of carrot, a bit of thinly-sliced celery, perhaps even some water chestnuts, and the aforementioned emerald green of spinach leaves, and yes, a few other types of lettuce just for the variety they add, and that, to my taste buds, is a perfect salad. I happily toss in sun-dried tomatoes, olives green and black and kalamata, raw broccoli and cauliflower flowerets, crumbles of feta cheese and croutons, while the dressing can be almost anything: my favorite Greek or balsamic vinaigrette, Caesar or even the delicious bleu cheese which will, unfortunately, break me out in hives and result in a quick trip to the medicine cabinet for a dose of Benadryl…   But all that matters less, though, than the welcome crunch and intense greeny-ness of my beloved iceberg lettuce.

Food sophisticates may well cringe and pronounce me to be a complete rube. It doesn’t matter. I will always prefer my childhood favorite: iceberg lettuce.

My Be-Attitude

When I am doing housework, I usually wear my glasses, not my contacts. This is a self-defense measure: I’m a lot less likely to end up with stirred-up dust or other particles irritating my eyes if I’m wearing eyeglasses.

However, due to those very eyeglasses, for a number of years I found myself regularly fussing—essentially, throwing a mini-tantrum—each time I opened the dishwasher. This despite the fact that I rarely run the dishwasher more than once weekly, since, living alone, it takes me days to fill it. But it’s also my habit to open the dishwasher the very minute it stops running, in order to check that none of the dishes (especially the small bowls I used for serving canned cat food to my pets, or the concave bottoms of some of my cups) have been positioned so that they are holding water.  I know from sad experience that the drying cycle won’t remove water from a pet food bowl that’s flipped upright during the washing.

Unfortunately, opening the dishwasher at this point sends clouds of steam rising. And that, inevitably, means that my eyeglasses completely fog up, making vision impossible.  I couldn’t see a water-filled bowl unless it jumped up and slapped me in the face.

And so, for perhaps three years, I struggled to remember to pull my glasses off my face before I opened that dishwasher door.  Struggled, and inevitably forgot, resulting in stream of (Bad Word Deleted) language, followed by roughly yanking the glasses from my eyes and scrabbling for a tissue to wipe them.

As I say, this unfortunate behavior continued for almost three years, before one day it occurred to me that, after encountering the rising steam and being thoroughly wiped, my eyeglasses were much cleaner–the lenses, of course, but I also wiped the hot steam from the frames and earpieces, cleansing them, as well. And with this realization was coupled the sudden understanding that my repeated irritation was totally unnecessary.  In fact, it was contrary to good sense.

The following week when I opened the steaming dishwasher, I was prepared. I took off my eyeglasses and carefully held them into the rising steam, making sure that it coated and heated every part of the frame and lenses.  Then I carefully and slowly polished them stem to stern before placing the glasses back on my face.  By that time, the dishwasher had stopped emitting steam, and I could see and empty any dishes which were holding water before closing the door and allowing the drying cycle to run.

Instead of a rumpled spirit, I had sparkling clean eyeglasses. Instead of fussing and irritation, I was relaxed.

And all it took was a change of attitude and perspective.

It’s strange, sometimes, the small and mundane ways that major lessons arrive in this life. Something as simple as opening a hot dishwasher door can inform us of just how often we view things askew, making our lives much more difficult and uncomfortable than they need to be.

I sometimes now stop, when I am irritated beyond measure by some minor event, and attempt to apply the lesson I learned from my steamed-up eyeglasses and the dishwasher door. And instead of steaming up within my spirit, I often find a way through to peace and courtesy and calm.

It might not be on par with sitting on that hillside listening to a master teacher speak the beatitudes, but I’ll take my lessons where I can find them. I am teachable; I can learn to be the master of my own attitude.

 

 

A Plague of Kittens

I just read another of those articles explaining that an unspayed feline can produce (blah-blah-blah) kittens in (blah-blah) generations, and I had to laugh.

Years ago, when TNR programs were non-existent, I casually fed a colony of feral cats on my doorstep, giving them kitchen scraps and the food left over from my indoor pets. And, yes, they produced massive amounts of kittens. But here is the salient fact: those kittens did not live. Over all the years—about a decade—that I (and countless mice, moles and birds) provided nourishment for those stray animals, only one of them, the colony matriarch, lived. A lovely little calico who resisted being brought indoors, despite my best efforts to provide her a home, CallieCoCo produced an endless stream of both her own kittens and daughters who provided more youngsters for the clowder. Usually born at the start of each spring, and despite having a steady source of food outside of their own hunting, each year by the autumn no more than one or two of the youngsters survived. They fell victim to cars, to hawks and owls, to illness, and (horribly) to the neighborhood’s future serial killers practicing their skills. And those who survived the summer usually perished in the winter.

Finally, when the venerable matriarch herself passed, the clowder died off within a few months. Without her guidance, the colony could not survive. To the dismay of the local homeowners, the moles and mice returned to the area in droves. But the predicted plague of kittens never happened.

I had much the same Spockian “Where’s the logic?” reaction another time, in the 1980s when AIDS was at its height worldwide, as I read about the poorest regions of India. On two different pages of our local Sunday paper, two separate articles had been printed: one discussing the high birth rate of the poor throughout India (at the time, a totally destitute country, with years yet to come before technology brought pockets of prosperity) and the shocking implications for overpopulation; the other just as earnestly delineating the horrific ravages of AIDS upon the area, and the resulting gruesomely high death rate among the neediest population. Now look, I thought, switching back and forth between the pages of the newspaper, comparing the two articles, you can’t have it both ways. Either the poor will reproduce without limit, until the population is stacked up like cordwood—or they will die off in an uncountable numbers as a result of AIDS. Each a dreadful and agonizing possibility, I thought, but one or the other; you can’t have it both ways.

Or, more likely, the high death rate from the plague of AIDS among the poor would counter the exceptionally high birth rate, balancing the two—because that is the way that Nature has, cruelly but effectively, kept things in check for uncounted millennia. High population—enter bubonic plague. High population—enter typhus and typhoid, war, natural disaster, famine, pneumonic plague, anthrax, ebola.

I sometimes try apply this logical thought process to the science of global warming. Don’t misunderstand me: I absolutely do believe that the human race has added disproportionately and frighteningly to the earth’s overall temperature, and, if unchecked, will continue to do so, with unspeakable results. But I also know that we have measured the earth’s temperature for only a few hundred years out of countless millennia, and that there have been cycles of warmth/coolness throughout; i.e., the mini-Ice Age of medieval times.  I know that it is these cycles to which those who resist a belief in global warming refer.  Then, however–logically–I remind myself that all of these previous cycles were the result of natural phenomena, such as volcanic eruptions and comet strikes, or perhaps even dinosaur farts, and that those cycles did totally destroy existing fauna and flora, completely revamping the face of the Earth.  I wonder then—logically—how much we really know about the earth’s temperature cycles, and the damage we are doing, have already done, to the ecosystem…if it can even be corrected, or if we have pushed matters so far that we now must let the chips fall where they may and, like the dinosaurs,  watch as the very environment that once nurtured our evolution perishes, and us along with it. And, in terror, I very much fear that this latter scenario is true.

I think back to the vision of myself, watching playful kittens who never quite managed to survive, let alone overrun the neighborhood—switching back and forth between the pages of a newspaper with two contradictory articles—sitting through school lessons, learning about both the sweltering heat of Mesozoic mornings and the vast fields of ice that once lay across the Great Plains…and I wonder, really wonder, how much we, sure and certain in our superiority and our reliance upon self-proclaimed “leaders” who really need to pull their heads out of their behinds—well, I wonder how much we actually know of all that we think we know.

Homicide Is Not Pretty…or Hot!

My usual choice of escapist literature is the “cozy” mystery genre. These lightweight novels are relaxing, predictable, sometimes hilarious, often a tad silly, but rarely gory and usually lacking in nerve-wracking chills. “Thriller” is not, to me, a leisure pastime; I like to be able to turn out the light comfortably after reading in bed at night! But I enjoy these frivolous mysteries, which are interspersed with quirky characters and abound with loveable pets, and in which, as a usual plot line, only the characters one really doesn’t like bite the dust.

However, I may be reaching the end of my tether with my favorite genre. Since I review every book that I read—and that is a LOT of books—I found myself the other day beginning a review with the telling sentence, “I had second thoughts even as I downloaded this book: Did I really want to read yet one more ‘bakery’ mystery?!”

I blame the Sex and the City cupcake craze for the plethora of bake shop mysteries. The bakery mysteries have multiplied like Star Trek tribbles, and a great many of them are pretty pallid, with plots so similar they might have been created by algorithms rather than writers. Almost inevitably, the grand opening of the latest bakery will be blighted by the death of a first customer, with the baker/owner herself the main suspect. Of course, she will have to begin sleuthing out the real murderer, finding clues to which the police (who often seem to be drawn from a Laurel and Hardy movie) are oblivious. Meanwhile, our plucky heroine is never, ever arrested for interference in a police investigation—a fate which she richly deserves.

Now, to my way of thinking, Kerry Greenwood’s most excellent Corinna Chapman bakery mysteries (well pre-dating the slew of copycats which followed) sewed up the genre front, back and center. Beautifully written, excellently plotted, with three-dimensional characters and incredible detail, they are simply a delight to read. But those are not the only reasons for which I prefer them. I like Ms. Greenwood’s books best because nowhere, nowhere at all in their pages, does any character appear who might be even faintly considered a “hot hunky homicide detective”.  Yes, she does include an attractive PI–but never a hot homicide cop.  In fact, some of her police force characters are (gasp!) female.

But to judge by most of the other cozies (which I still enjoy, despite their flaws), every homicide detective in every rinky-dink precinct in every city of every state within the entire nation (every nation, worlwide!), is so attractive, chiseled, gorgeous, hunky and incredibly hot as to put most A-list Hollywood actors to shame. There is not a dud in the bunch. Nowhere in these many pages do we find a homicide detective (other than as a partner to the REAL detective) who sports a donut paunch and a balding pate; nor, heaven forfend, a female homicide detective, except as junior (very junior) partner to the hot honcho. Nope. If the cozy mysteries are to be believed, every desirable man on the face of the planet has chosen “homicide detective” as his career path. And he will, of course, fall like a rock down a cliff for the leading lady.

For this ridiculous notion, I must, sadly, hold the marvelous Janet Evanovich responsible.  Make no mistake: I absolutely adore Ms. Evanovich’s formulaic novels. I’ve read every one of them with utter delight—most of them several times each. They are the greatest escapism novels ever written. They are laugh-out-loud funny. They are just plain great fun, even for male readers.

But I cannot deny that it is likely upon Ms. Evanovich’s shoulders which rests the onus for the creation of the “hunky homicide detective” mythos. I sigh over this, even as I acknowledge that it isn’t her fault that every aspiring and seasoned mystery writer took her idea and ran with it right out the door and across the meadow to the romantic sunset beach. Still, I blanch at the thought of reading yet one more lighthearted mystery featuring the same, tired old “hot homicide detective” plot device.

I will almost certainly go on reading my favorite cozy mysteries. Despite their many failings, I find the books both relaxing and entertaining. But wish—oh, how I do wish!—that their authors would learn to show a tad more creativity and diversity when creating their leading men.