Month: January 2012

Make words with Dog and a Half

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Yesterday I promised to share the secret of affixation. If you are not yet familiar with the vocabulary (base word, prefix, and suffix), please see here.

First, let’s think of the base word as the front of a dog. He says something by barking. In this case, he is saying the word “attain” because he wants to gain something.

 

 

Think of the back of the dog as the suffix “-able.” Now the dog has the ability to gain what he wants.

 

 

But we still need a prefix, so let’s use “un-” to liven things up. Try as he might, the dog cannot attain what he has set out to get.

 

And here it is all put together.

 

Some of you are nodding your heads because you understand quickly. The rest of you need  another example.

 

In this case, the front of the dog is the base word “describe” because he wants to tell us what he has found.

 

 

We will use the same suffix as above in order not to introduce too many new terms and confuse the ones who sit in the back.

 

This makes our little dog happy.

 

But (yes, we will throw in another but) let’s go ahead and add the prefix “in-,” which again makes everything impossible. And voila, our mutt can no longer describe what he has found, but in this instance, he can still enjoy it.

 

Before I can show you how this word looks, the “e” in “describe” must be surgically removed. It requires a great deal of skill. Watch and learn.

 

 

Now friends, I hope you are sitting down because I would like to make an offer to you that I believe will revolutionize your life. Why should I keep this all to myself? Why not share it with the world? I want you to be able to make words using Dog and a Half. Yes, it’s true, if you will share your money with me, I will share my secret with you!

 

Think of it. While your friends are sitting around twiddling their thumbs on cellphones texting so-called sentences composed of just three or four letters, you can be making multisyllabic words with Dog and a Half! Perhaps up until now the idea of flummoxing your friends was only a dream. You wanted to do it, but you didn’t know how. Now you can!

 

Today for just $9.99, I will send you a template of Dog, a big piece of paper, and a fancy art eraser. AND because I’m feeling especially generous, I will include a recycled pencil. And not just any pencil, but a pre-sharpened pencil with a pink eraser. See below.

 

But wait, there’s more!! If you act now, for just an additional $5, I’ll include this pair of scissors.

If you use them as instructed you can double the paper and the art eraser!!! Think of it: you can DOUBLE your supplies for a mere $5!! You would be a fool not to buy the scissors, too.  (NOTE: In the picture, you see that the pencil has also been doubled. Do not use your scissors. Instructions are included in your kit to show you  how to double it.)

People call me crazy for making offers like this. Well, I call myself twice as crazy for offering you double the supplies for a total of just $14.99. But I promised I would be generous today, and I didn’t want to disappoint you.

 

Hurry! Supplies won’t last.

 

(Offer valid until WordPress shuts me down.)

You wanna speak-a like me, you gotta affix your words

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You may already know that I am like an Italian cosmetic surgeon for words. When I lived in Italy, I picked up a lot of the language. In fact, I picked it up three times a day for three weeks because it was written on all of the menus. Since I only lived there 21 days, you’d be surprised at how much I learned. Other Italian speakers are.

 

I don’t want to show off and use any more of it than I already have in the title of this post.

 

When I’m not being humble, I like to be generous. And although it is extremely difficult to be both on the same day, I’m going to attempt it.

 

Today, I want to share with you some of the intricacies of word-building, so that you, too, can affix words.

 

Let’s start with some vocabulary:

 

Base word: The lowest form of a word.*

 

Sometimes "give me a hand" is meant literally. Hard to grasp, isn't it? (courtesy: http://www.squidoo.com/polykleitos-diadoumenos)

Prefix: Pieces broken off of Greek and Latin words that go on the front of a word to help it say something. Think of them as the missing hands from all of those Greek and Roman statues. When a word is in need of  a fix, you lend it a hand.

 

Suffix: More broken word parts, but these are placed on a base word’s backend. (NOTE: This requires the utmost delicacy or the word will say something you weren’t expecting.)

 

But first, let’s clear up a potential source of controversy: Why do I call the base word the lowest form of a word? One word: Samuel Johnson. In 1755, he published a dictionary, unexpectedly called A Dictionary of the English Language. He took nine years to define, research the origin, and give examples for the 42,773 words in the dictionary. In this scholarly work, he included some clever definitions, such as:

 

Lexicographer: A writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original, and detailing the signification of words.

Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland appears to support the people.

To worm: To deprive a dog of something, nobody knows what, under his tongue, which is said to prevent him, nobody knows why, from running mad.

How can you not love a man who puts things like that in a dictionary? And what’s not to like about someone who calls himself a harmless drudge? Yes, I know that Ambrose Bierce published his witty definitions of words in The Cynic’s Word Book, later retitled The Devil’s Dictionary, but Johnson sprinkled his wit into a dictionary that was the standard for the English language until the OED (Oxford English Dictionary) came along and started showing off. Just as computer geeks plant easter eggs in programs, Johnson planted surprises in the dictionary to delight word lovers.

 

Samuel Johnson said, "A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of anything than he does of his dinner." (Portrait from National Portrait Gallery London)

For reasons not yet revealed to me, I am obsessed with Samuel Johnson, his work, and his remark about puns as the lowest form of humor. With that in mind, consider: Johnson compiled a dictionary full of base words. From these words he created jokes. Ergo, ipso facto, base words themselves are the lowest form of words.

 

If you are like most people, that will not make perfectly good sense to you, but I’m hoping that you are not like most people. You are, after all, reading this blog.

 

And now, you must accept my humble apologies. Two hours of humility is my limit; it has exhausted me. I must spend some time thinking about dinner.  Tomorrow I will be generous and teach you how to affix words.

Please pick my nose

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Once you mention that something is your favorite or use a superlative like “best,” you’re headed for trouble. Hard feelings follow; your furniture gets upset or your facial features get up in your face.

I should know; both of these things have happened to me. A few months ago, I wrote an ode to my dresser. It holds a special place in my heart because it stands by me through the night, holding up the mirror while it reflects on the day, and discretely hiding my unmentionables. After that, both the chest of drawers and the nightstand got upset, and even the bed seemed hard to sleep with.

Yesterday I wrote about my nose and said that if I had to choose a best feature, I would pick it. I got grief about it all day: my eyes cried, my hair stood straight up and wouldn’t settle down, my teeth bit the inside of my mouth, and my ears (which I had failed to mention) refused to listen to my explanation about why I didn’t write about them.

In order to appease them, I decided to let them speak for themselves and ask the readers of the blog to pick.  I hope after this, I can convince them to settle down. Here are their pictures with their comments, appearing in alphabetical order that has nothing to do with any type of preference on the part of any person, living or dead.

✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

My ears are good listeners, like jewelry, and along with my hips believe you should keep growing all of your life. (Please excuse the absence of the left ear; she’s camera shy.)

✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

My eyes are observant, opinionated about things like beauty and color, like to wear green, and enjoy traveling and seeing new things.

✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

My hair likes to stay on top of things, doesn’t care for windy weather, and believes everyone should know more about their roots.

✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

My nose has an excellent memory, likes being in the center of things, and enjoys running in the winter. (She wanted to show you her running shoes.)

✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

My teeth are homebodies and don’t like going out; they like to do crunches, and have taken a shine to my dentist.

         ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤ ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤  ✤

(Note to reader: This second post about nose-picking is not my fault. My blog friend worrywarts {click here to meet her} misread yesterday’s title, made a comment about it, and planted an idea in my head. You can register your complaints on her blog. I almost promise not to write about things like this again.)

I pick my nose

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Even if the world isn't, my nose is straight.

I am a small woman, no taller than 5’3″, of slight build but wide in the hips. At the end of my torso, as you would expect, I have two legs, each one divided by an odd, lumpy knee.

My hair always liked being brown, until recently. My forehead needs a lot of space to think and furrow, so it told my hair quite emphatically, “Thus far, and no more.” Because so much skin is showing and I am modest, I wear bangs. Along the edges of my ears and forehead, the hair is experimenting with gray.

My eyes wear green, flecked with gold and brown. They don’t like make up because when they cry, they don’t like to make a mess on my cheeks. I admire anyone who considers those around them and tries to keep things tidy. No one has shown me as much of the world as they have, so I try to be kind to them and wipe their tears when they are having a bad day.

My jaw looks determined because it is. It has a lot to say if people would just listen. They don’t, so it is determined to keep shut unless someone really wants to know. We’ve enjoyed a lot of chocolate together.

My two front teeth are close, even though one is almost a year older. Some of the others arrived later and never learned to stand straight in a line. I’ve never held it against them. I’m attached to all of them and had a hard time two years ago when one them cracked under pressure. We couldn’t save it.

But my best feature is my small, straight nose. It is the leader of my face, breaking through the air like the prow of a small ship, the first to feel the cold, the first to bear the heat of the sun, and willing to help hold my sunglasses, all day if need be. My nose always gets there first, but it’s never proud. Day after day it brings me gifts; just yesterday it was the aroma of roses. And when I least expect it, it surprises me with brightly wrapped memories of my days as a child when I came home to the smell of freshly baked bread or broke through the surface of the water to see my mother beside the pool, lathering on lotion under the hot, summer sun.

I like all the parts of me, but if I had to choose my favorite, you can understand why I would say, “I pick my nose.”

Still ironing out the wrinkles

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Year-struck is being Freshly Pressed, and it’s taking a long time to get all of the wrinkles out. Sadly, only Yearstricken’s blog is wrinkle-free now. What with all the visitors, she considered getting freshly stretched by plastic surgery but that requires money. She’ll be back tomorrow as wrinkly as ever.

 

(Note to new readers: The Freshly Pressed post was from last week and was a lead-in to the post that followed, Math has Problems. Thank you for reading, commenting, and following.)

 

 

 

A name by any other name

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Texas' most famous Hogg - Governor during the 1890s (photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

 

If you are from Texas, you already know about Governor Hogg and his daughter. Before Hogg, governors had to be brought in from out of state; he was actually born in Texas and served during the 1890s. I heard about him when I was a very young child and immediately loved him because he named his daughter Ima. At the time, I didn’t consider how Ima felt about it; I just liked the sound of it. When I heard he had another daughter named Ura, I wished that my parents had loved me enough to name me Ura Hogg. Later I found out that Ura didn’t exist. I have lived with a broken heart ever since.

 

I can’t trace my love for wordplay to the story of Governor Hogg, but it definitely taught me that people’s names are fun to play with. (Note to reader: I am doing my best to stay away from pig puns. With a name like Hogg, that’s hard to do. But for your sake, I will gird up my tender loins and get out of this paragraph as fast as I can.)

 

Here’s what got me to thinking about Hogg. Yesterday, we saw a car with a license plate from Iowa. From deep within my brain, a wish came bubbling up; a wish that my last name was Lott and that I was from Iowa. Then my online name could be Iowa Lott.

 

The lovely Ima Hogg kept her name all her life (photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

In the privacy of my own mind, I do this kind of nameplay all of the time. I once worked with a woman whose last name was Mennen. When she told me she had a grown daughter, I was quite excited. Before I could offer to be a matchmaker, she told me the daughter was already married. I dreamed of fixing her up with a man named Black. She would use a hyphenated last name: her maiden name and her husband’s last name. I imagined her wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and a black suit to work. When people asked her name, she would answer simply, “Mennen-Black.” Had I been more careful about who I married, I could have had a name like that.

 

There’s more, of course, but today is the first day of classes for this semester and I need to get there early. I always look forward to my classes. The people sitting in those chairs are not just students to me, they’re names.

Y’all write purty and you’re mighty kind

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So many of the bloggers I read write purty. They corral a bunch of words and make them  do all kinds of tricks that make me ooh and aah and say, Boy howdy, how do they make those critters do that?

 

Poet lariat

After I read their posts, I start thinking that I need to get me one of them poet lariats and lasso me some of those big words and teach them a thing or two. I’ve hung around the corral enough to recognize a big word when I see one, so the problem is not with my sight; I just can’t steer them in the right direction, no matter how many puns I make. Even if I caught one, which is highly unlikely since I don’t know how to use a rope, I’m not sure what I would do with it after I got it. They have pointy horns, y’all.

 

Some of you don’t even need a lasso; you tame them with your voice, like some kind of word-whisperer. Then the words do whatever you tell them to do. How do y’all do that?

 

 

 

*******The above portion of this blog was brought to you by my inner Texan********

 

Dick and Jane, along with their pets, Spot and Puff, taught me how to read in the first grade, and while I can read just about anything, I have never been able to write much beyond that level. In fact, my blog is suitable for your average 11-12 year old who is in sixth grade. How do I know? I went to www.read-able.com and typed in my website address. This could explain why I often feel like the only non-grownup in the room.

 

If I have visited your blog, you know that this extends to the comments I make. I often write one or two paragraphs in the comment box, reread them, and decide I had better erase them to save myself embarrassment. Then I write, “I see the words, The words are good. I see the good words. Run, Spot, run. Come see the good words.” I know I’m exaggerating; I hardly ever express myself that well but on better days I do.

 

In spite of that, I have received several awards in the past month. I assume this is because you think I really am an 11 year-old hiding behind the gravatar of a more mature woman and are impressed that I have a blog. Or maybe it’s my juvenile sense of humor.

 

For whatever reason, both Susan at susanwritesprecise and Elyse at fiftyfourandahalf were kind enough to nominate me for the Awesome Blogger Award which involves writing something about yourself using the ABCs. I just put my blocks away or I would take pictures of them for the list. The links to Susan and Elyse are to the posts that have the nominations. Please be sure to read more of their posts.

 

Things I like:

 

Before we go further, raise your hand if you read the word for U as underpants. That’s what I thought. Although I like underpants, it’s the underparts, or hidden parts of stories, and lives that I find interesting.

 

These same two writers, Susan and Elyse, nominated me for the Kreativ Blogger Award, which requires me to write 10 things about myself.

  1. I thought Kreativ was spelled “creative.”
  2. Nine times out of ten I write “blooger” instead of “blogger.”
  3. I like the word “blooger.”
  4. My cat, Puff, likes the word “blooger.”
  5. I don’t have a cat.
  6. I have an ice orchid.
  7. I think some of you reading this will google ice orchid.
  8. I am already counting the days to summer vacation.
  9. I am planning to go to Europe this summer.
  10. I am planning not to fulfill the requirements of these awards.

 

Elyse has a soft spot in her heart for junior high bloggers and also nominated me for the Red Educational Shoe Award. Thankfully I don’t have to write anything about myself, just nominate five supportive commentators. Here are some of the top commentators listed on my dashboard. My mom and I thank you.

 

Worrywarts-guide-to-sex-and-marriage

Just Add Attitude

Kate Crimmins

Kathryn Ingrid

RAB at youknowwhatimeant

Thank you so much for reading and commenting!

 

 

The last award I want to mention is the 7×7 Link Award from vixytwix at stayoutofmyhead. She also has a lot of good things to say, so be sure to read more of her posts. The requirements for this one are as follows:

1.  Share something about me that no one knows

2.  Link 7 of my posts that I think are worthy

3.  Nominate 7 bloggers for this award and notify them

 

Number 1: I often don’t want to push the publish button.

 

Number 2: Here are the 7 posts I think are worthy by virtue of being some of my oldest posts:

Furniture Envy

People I have a hard time trusting

Gobsmacked

You were here

Whinge

In which she rationalizes her addiction by blaming her mother (I miss you, Mom) and realizes that the title to the post is probably going to be longer than the post

After finding a cure for breast cancer, would someone please answer my question

Number 3: Here are the 7 bloggers I nominate:

 

dan4kent

Blondzombie

Rob Slaven

ShimonZ

JSD

Sam Flowers

Kojiki in Japan

It’s always hard to pick other blogs because there are so many good ones. I didn’t want to nominate people that I know have already received awards. Enjoy your reading.

I have to go now, I hear my mom calling.

The memory collector

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My small self

When I was small, I collected things I found: shiny objects, buttons, leaves, and feathers, especially feathers. I often dreamt I could fly and feathers seemed like a promise of that dream. Finding something of beauty felt like an accomplishment. My reward for paying attention. Somewhere on the road to adolescence, I lost every one of those treasures.

 

In my teens, I kept a drawer filled with notes, jewelry, stray buttons, foreign coins passed on from relatives, ticket stubs, a lock with a forgotten combination, and pictures of my friends and the boy I loved my freshman and sophomore year. One scrap of paper I saved until I was in my mid-twenties. The library in my high school sent out notes to students who had delinquent books. The notes were short and to the point; they had the student’s name on one line and the name of the book on another line, nothing else. I don’t remember if I was assigned to read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment or if I chose it on my own, but I loved it and wanted to read more of his work. I kept that second book too long because one day in class the teacher handed me a note from the library. All that was written on it was my name and below that, The Idiot. I kept the note for years, my private joke with the universe.

 

 

I think objects might want to be found. Maybe a button works for months to untie the strings that bind it to a shirt, and when it leaps out into the unknown, it is looking for adventure. I want to see more of the world, it says; I’ve been manhandled enough, put in my place for too long. Imagine the pleasure it feels when a child or an adult picks it up, admires it, and carries it home as a treasure. At least, that’s how I would feel if I were a button.

 

My crown

I still have a box of small findings and remembrances, including a gold crown that was fitted for one of my molars but never put on. I could tell a great story about that, but unfortunately, I don’t remember much about it. My mother wore it on her charm bracelet for years and it has come back to me. Last summer I bought a wooden art box for my grandchild and filled it with some of the things I cannot throw away.

 

Over the years I have tried collecting things of value, but I can’t sustain my interest. In Japan, I started a collection of the holders used to rest chopsticks on, called “hashioki,” but I grew tired trying to find a place to display them and gave most of them away. I use two of them for brush rests when I do Japanese calligraphy.

 

For a long time, I collected dreams, and for safekeeping, I put them in my heart. When I was alone, I would take them out, whisper promises I thought I could keep, believing that some day every one of them would grow wings and fly. I never thought I could lose them, but I did. And now I know why: my heart is a pocket full of holes.

 

When mother knew love

 

 

Memories are the only thing I am interested in collecting now. These stories, like the flightless feathers I loved as child, or like the fallen petals that when crushed still give off the faint aroma of the rose, or like the empty shell left by a cicada who grew away from her old self but left a part behind for me to hold and remember, these stories are the only treasures I have.

The road to riches

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Imagine that 100 people live in America. Ninety-nine of them are not millionaires. Just one is, and it’s not me.

 

Now, imagine that 535 members of Congress spend time in Washington failing to enact legislation to balance the budget. What percentage do you think are millionaires? Since one American in a hundred is a millionaire, you might guess that 5.3 of them have at least seven digits of net worth. (I know you’re troubled by the thought of  the .3 member: he’s been divorced twice and is paying alimony.)

 

Bipartisanship at its finest: everyone working together to create wealth for people that are themselves (See more information at: http://www.opensecrets.org/)

 

But really, you don’t have to worry about the divorced guy because if you go to opensecrets.org, you find that 40-50% of those who speak in sound bites are millionaires. Many, it’s true, are what we would call “poor” millionaires; they have assets worth less than $10 million. Not because they aren’t trying, but because so many congressional shoppers are out there looking for deals. Every day is Black Friday for Congress, and the mall is always crowded. Of course the assets listed on the website don’t necessarily reflect their spouse’s income, their congressional income, or the true value of their assets, so maybe some of them are just being modest.

 

I am upset.

 

I, too, can sit in chairs and fail to come to a consensus. I have had years of bitterness training, so I could add a lot to bitter partisanship. I get cold easily and would not mind cozying up to rich corporations with a few hot deals to share. I like to fly around in private jets and bring my family. I can talk for hours without saying anything of substance, and I love flip-flops. Why am I not in Congress getting rich off of the 99%!

 

If we want to get out of this economic slump and create wealth in this country, we need to enact mandatory Congress duty. It would be just like jury duty; all eligible Americans would serve one to two terms, enough time to double or triple their wealth. And I think that whoever she is in northeastern Wisconsin but originally from Texas that thought of this should serve first.

Math has problems

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My earliest introduction to math was positive. I happily held up my fingers, repeating after the teacher, “One plus one equals two,” joyfully unaware of what was to come.

One day, however, after the class sang a particularly moving rendition of the Alphabet Song, the teacher asked us to raise our hands. At her bidding, I held up my short, stubby fingers expecting to do addition. Without warning she said, “Now we’re going to take away one of your fingers.” Imagine my terror. Which one? And how? By sharp knife or chewed off by wild animals? I was relieved that I didn’t have to give her the finger; she only wanted me to bend it, but the image has haunted me all of my life.

Not too much later, the teacher began vaporizing numbers before my eyes, wanton obliteration of numbers which she euphemistically called “reducing them to zero.” Thankfully this early and repeated exposure to the ideas of removing fingers and total annihilation, all taught coolly and calmly with no emotion, and by an elementary school teacher, did not blind me to the callousness of arithmetic. No wonder I cried at math time.

Eventually, I grew used to the carnage around me and learned to accept both subtraction and zero with only an occasional outburst of conscience. Others I knew were not so fortunate.They loved slicing up numbers like so much pizza, and this attitude carried over into other parts of their lives. Some went on to split infinitives and leave participles dangling precariously. Years later, some of my classmates having learned that acts of violence against numbers had no consequences, went to English classes, where they attempted to murder the English language.

I passed through this early period with little outward effect and viewed math as a necessary evil. But when I got to algebra, I grew hopeful. Immediately I was introduced to variables. Letters at last, I thought; words cannot be far behind. But no, the  teacher wanted me to find “x” first. I didn’t mind; I enjoy helping others. The following day, he asked me to find it again. I wanted to remind him that I had found it once already and had even heard that my sister had found it two years before that. When he asked me to find the hypotenuse of a triangle, I wanted to speak to him about his carelessness. Not being able to find an occasional “x” or “y” is understandable. We all misplace items. However, the teacher had elevated carelessness to an art, regularly losing all the variables from “a” to “z” along with hundreds of hypotenuses a day. Outwardly he expressed a love for mathematics, but his disregard for individual numbers and variables showed the true condition of his heart.

Euclid's students express surprise when he gives birth to Geometry (Thankfully, Wikipedia was there to get this picture.)

Quadrants were introduced along with the strange question, “Where’s the point?” It became clear to me that mathematicians had difficulty finding the point of it all because they spent too much time with negative numbers. All that negativity rubs off on a person after a while. Soon they feel depressed and start plotting things. Sadly, there is no turning back from that slippery slope.

During this traumatic time, I was most disappointed by the so-called “word problems.” Perhaps this was because I longed for words, for dialogue, and a clear resolution. But the difficulties I encountered in these problems were not due to words, so much as a lack of words. Invariably the narrative lacked creativity and the characters were shallow. The story would have Jack leaving Chicago at 8 a.m. driving 50 mph, and Linda leaving Milwaukee at the same time, but driving 30 mph. Suddenly the teacher would ask me what time Jack and Linda would meet. However, I could not get past the fact that Jack was leaving. I was intrigued. What happened to cause Jack to leave Chicago? Did he bother to pack or leave a note? At 8 a.m. how could he possibly leave Chicago at 50 mph? The few times I had been through Chicago with my parents, the fastest we could travel was about 30 mph, but in the congested areas it was more like 20 mph. So there must have been a mistake; it must have been in the middle of the night. But why the haste? Was he being chased? If so, by whom? If it was the Mafia, then there was little hope he would ever meet up with Linda. And I wondered about her. At only 30 mph, she seemed less eager to see Jack than he was to see her. Why the hesitation? I needed more information, and yet, none was forthcoming.

I believe that the root of the problem is in the numbers themselves. Spartan and stoical, numbers tend to stand alone, need little beyond themselves, and shun excess. The less said, the better. Words, on the other hand, are epicurean, appealing to our senses. They tend to be generous, lavish, sensuous, even excessive. The mathematician uses words like numbers, comes up with a story of 25 words or less, and then asks others to help with the plot line.

Then there is the issue of inequality. Math is un-American. Mathematicians teach that some numbers are greater than others and always will be. Have they never read the Constitution and what it says about equality? They show no care or sympathy for the weaker or lower numbers, compare them shamelessly to bigger numbers, and yet count on them to be there when they need them.

Another concern is number procreation, or as it is more commonly called, multiplication. Numbers mate indiscriminately and often, more often than many may imagine, divide again. What exactly is this teaching young, impressionable minds?  What is equally disturbing is the mating of the positive numbers with the negative numbers. This leads to more negative numbers, which as I mentioned leads to depression.  It’s true that something positive does come out of two negative numbers mating, however, astronomers, all stellar mathematicians, have created imaginary negative numbers whose offspring are also negative. I suspect this comes of so much time spent staring out into darkness. Perhaps a day job is recommended.

Mathematics breeds a sense of hopelessness. Like women’s work, there is no end to it; at the end of the day there is always at least one more number to count. Numbers go on and on forever; there is no stopping them. I empathize; I have relatives like that. And it is not just the numbers. Those confounded numbers lines also go on forever like Saturday at the grocery store.

Am I going to pretend I am blameless? No, friends, for I, too, have participated in the dark side of math. I could try to proclaim my innocence by saying, “Yes, I played around with equations when I was young, but I never solved any.” But I admit, I bowed to peer pressure and spent many late nights doing things to numbers that even my math teachers considered wrong.

Is math a problem? Actually, it is many problems. How do we solve these problems? I don’t know; that’s why I’m sharing my story with you. Perhaps you know of a solution.