In praise of

The prepositional variety

Of those that screw on, pop off,

Seal up, keep in

And shut out

As well as those that

Require tools to remove

Whether bendable or breakable

Hinged or unhinged

Hard as roofs for the dead

Soft as tents for pies

Sturdy as helmets for pots

Or merely heaps of pot

Atop the heads of rich and poor —

Who need to be warm

Or want to be cool

Mighty eye shutters

Doors to dreams both night and day

Locking you inside nightmares

Opening up to set you free

Blink and wink makers

Whipping your forty lashes or more

Pandora’s temptation

Flipping open angry and crazy

Keepers of secrets

Stoppers of talk

Everywhere you look or don’t

Lids, lids, lids

In praise of

Photos: Commode lid Orange lid White coffin Eye Hinged chest Decorative Lid

Winter’s night

The shadows have been there all day, waiting for the light to slant. The world turns its back on the sun as the shadows tilt onto the ceiling above the kitchen lights.

Twilight awakens my longing, lets it loose like a hungry hound, searching for a bone I buried somewhere long ago. I miss the ones who have left. I hunt for them along the trail of memories, following a familiar path that leads to the river. Here as always, I lose their scent.

Evening washes the room gray. My eyes cannot adjust; details fade like memories. Darkness brings its own weariness. I wear it like a cloak or shroud. I am too tired to go further. I long to hibernate, to crawl inside the barren night, and sleep and sleep and sleep.

I listen to the lullaby of dark; I am weary, friend.

Don’t stop.

But I must sleep away this night that seems to never end. My tears will drown me if I do not stop.

Don’t close your eyes.

Why? Just a bit of rest and I will start again.

There is no starting after that sleep.

How far until the light?

Stories from Miss Pronunciation

I hate to brag, unless I can do so in a manner that appears as if I am in fact being humble. It’s not easy, of course, but humility never is.

In my department at school, my ability to teach ELL students to “talk purty” has earned me the moniker, Miss Pronunciation.

Since it’s my first moniker, I naturally feel a bit of pride when I hear the other instructors call me that. Most of the time I can’t even mention that I have a moniker because that would be bragging, and as my husband’s mother used to say, “Pride stinks.”

To avoid even the hint of what I like to think of as verbal flatulence, I have to be discreet when I secretly but seemingly casually mention my colleague’s flattering opinion of me. Thankfully I am able to insert it into this post since there is a tenuous relationship between my moniker and the main point. Both concern pronunciation.

In a previous semester, I was the bridge instructor in a speech class for students whose first language is other than English. One of their assignments was a persuasive speech. Before the day of the speech, the students and I had time together to practice. One student chose the topic of young children and the negative effects of watching too much TV. While arguing for reduced screen time for small children, the student repeatedly looked straight at me and urged me to reduce scream time.

While looking through my notes, I was reminded of this good advice. So, for the next week or two, I plan to reduce scream time as much as possible. And I promise not to brag about it, unless I have to or can.

Rather large mouth courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/rubyblossom/3222356938/

Don’t blog a dead horse

Although I am fairly, or unfairly, new to the world of bloggery, I have already learned that people don’t want to read another post about how hard it is to blog. It’s a dead horse.

You know the kind of posts I mean. The ones that say, Look everybody, I blog. My pinky aches from hitting the delete key, and my head is killing me because last Thursday I had to think of something to write and didn’t. Also, I have to chew my food, with that whole up and down jaw thing. And don’t even get me started on the walking, with the feet, first the right, and then the left. Just the chewing and the walking is hard, but add the blogging, and people, you have no idea.

I am like that, only worse. My brain is completely empty. I just stepped out of my mind for a moment and when I came back, I discovered that someone had broken in and stolen everything, including all the fixtures. Now I can’t access any water or use the toilet. You know how you hate it when everything in your life goes down the toilet; well, trust me, it’s even worse when it doesn’t.

So, yeah, everything is fine if your definition of “fine” means sitting on the couch, holding your knees, and rocking back and forth while humming the song “Mama from the Train (A Kiss, A Kiss).” The rocking motion (my mother called it “bonking”) helps dislodge any stray thoughts the thieves may have missed.

That song I’m humming was popular when I was a small child. Its most unforgettable line is “Throw Mama from the train a kiss, a kiss.” My mother, unaware of how the refrain would burrow into my brain, allowed me to listen to it on the radio. I have no doubt that its misplaced indirect object made me what I am today, a teacher of English language learners. Now I am doomed to spend most of the day hauling indirect objects from one end of a sentence to the next; rescuing modifiers that students leave dangling over verbal cliffs; and removing fragments of sentences, which explode on the pages of my students’ writing.

The singer who popularized “Mama from the Train” started life as a Fowler, a name closely associated with Henry and his famous A Dictionary of Modern English Usage. Then Miss Clara Ann Fowler changed her last name to Page, a word associated with blankness and a demand for words. Like me, the newly formed Page suffered from bouts of alliteration and chose Patti as her first name. Forever after, she was known as Patti Page, The Singing Rage.

Do you see the connections? In case you don’t, here they are. Long ago in land much like your own, only called Oklahoma, a woman forsook her tenuous link to modern English usage and declared herself a Page (the writer’s nemesis). The Singing Rage then crooned a tune that formed my destiny and left me wrapped in a blanket, rocking back and forth on the sofa, doing my best to escape the blank page on the computer and the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

So you see, my inability to post anything today makes perfect sense. Or maybe my inability to make sense is perfect today.

Photo: DN-0081968, Chicago Daily News negatives collection, Chicago History Museum.

Windbreaking News: White-collar crimes

My imagination has been investigating the case of Maureen O’Connor, the felonious former first female mayor of San Diego, who “donated” two million dollars from a philanthropic foundation to a number of casinos she frequented. Apparently, she misunderstood what the casinos meant when they told her they “worked with” people who have gambling addictions.

Ms. O’Connor’s attorney, Eugene Iredale, had this to say:

This was not, we think, a psychiatric problem or a characterological defect because there is substantial evidence that during this same time, there was a tumor growing in her brain, in the centers of the brain that affect and control, logic, reasoning and, most importantly, judgment.

Due to these extenuating circumstances, Ms. O’Connor will undoubtedly receive a lighter sentence. However, word has leaked out (snuck out by my imagination from the unexplored part of my brain) that her lawyer, Mr. Iredale, is facing charges of his own.

Like his client, Mr. Iredale is being accused of misappropriation. In her case, it involves money and affects a limited number of people; in his case, it involves suffixes and affects all of us.

As an attorney, Mr. Iredale has long lived in a lavish environment of polysyllabic diction (lots of big words) and now feels compelled to include at least one seven-syllable word every time he talks, even if it means stealing suffixes from legitimate, hardworking words. In the article on the CNN website, Mr. Iredale (now incurring ire over dale and hill) sticks a stolen “-ological” onto “character” and comes up with “characterological defect.” His crime may affect millions. Now that he has put that so-called word on the internet, people may start using “characterological,” which will cause other people to want to poke their ears with sharp sticks; and those poked-out ear people will need otolaryngological help, which will only be available if that particular suffix isn’t stolen. Clearly, this man must be punished.

Several local groups have laid claim to the suffix that Mr. Iredale so wantonly pilfered. The local San Diego Archea-……. Center insists he stole it from them. However, the Gastroenterology Department of the San Diego Mercy Hospital contends that the suffix belongs to them. Dr. Gutzman, head of the department and the man leading the probe into what happened to the tail end of their medical word, says he has been unable to treat any gastroenter-…….. problems since Iredale’s “appropriation.” In addition, Morton Liebig, has brought suit against Iredale. “I’ve been a path-……. liar all of my life, and since that article appeared on the CNN website, I have been diagnosed with WCTS (Washington’s Cherry Tree Syndrome) and can no longer tell a lie. I’m a lawyer, too, and now I’m out of work.”

The court, of course, will have to sort through these claims and make the final decision as to whose suffix Mr. Iredale stole.

According to sources in my own living room, Mr. Iredale plans to have an MRI to check the part of his brain that affects and controls “logic, reasoning, and most importantly, judgment.”

Ironic, no? Or as Mr. Iredale might say, “Ironicological, isn’t it?”

Photo: DN-0080053, Chicago Daily News negatives collection, Chicago History Museum.

Windbreaking News: Uncle Sam’s secret recycling program

Helping you out since 2001.

Welcome to Windbreaking News, where I sniff out the news for you.

Reliable sources, who just happen to live in my head, informed me of a huge recycling effort that the U.S. government operates on behalf of its citizens. Of course, it’s a clandestine operation and doesn’t look like a recycling program because it’s more fun that way.

What the government doesn’t know, but I do (thank you, sources in my head!) is that if someone informs the American public, the recycling program will take off like never before.

In 2001, Uncle Sam set up an agency and sent its workers throughout the country to help Americans recycle. In order not to alarm anyone or alert the public to their true purpose, these uniformed helpers pretended to be angry, rude gropers at security checkpoints in airports. But underneath that façade are a host of recyclers tirelessly working on behalf of the government and us, the Mer’can people. We salute you, Uncle Sam!

Since most Americans do not understand how or when to recycle, our fearless leaders set up TSA (Taking Stuff Away) to help us. These trained professionals spend day and night going through your stuff, identifying items to recycle, which you, the great untrained, failed to properly dispose of. The shame!

Agents representing the U.S government (All Your Base Are Belong to US) remove unnecessary items from your suitcases, such as electronics, jewelry, and cloth. Few people realize that your so-called “money” is a cotton and linen blend that needs to be periodically recycled.

Does this grieve you? Are you outraged? Are you asking yourself or yourselves why your weren’t informed about this earlier so you could so something about it? Well, grieve no more and stop bothering yourself(ves) with so many questions. It’s not too late. You can help the government recycle more.

The next time you fly, put your broken electronics in your suitcase. Take that awful fake ring Aunt Ethel gave you and put it in one of those velvet jewelry bags. Be sure to place it on top so the agents don’t have to dig. It’s time to participate, people. Be creative; the sky’s the limit. We can be the world champion recyclers, crushing our contenders like so many empty soda cans.

Recycle. It’s the American way.

Full disclosure: I support the TSA and have participated in their recycling program. A while back, agents were kind enough to recycle an iPad from my backpack at a checkpoint. Unfortunately I didn’t notice until I got on the plane so I never got to thank them. I salute you, TSA!

Warning: If the egregious use of exclamation marks (aka “bangs”) in this post causes heart palpations, nausea, or ringing in your ears, please stop reading immediately; call your psychiatrist or a friend, even if he or she is imaginary. If your imaginary friend likes the egregious use of bangs, go here.

Photo: DN-0088741, Chicago Daily News negatives collection, Chicago History Museum.

The calling

Do you hear it

in the dark

moment

before you slip

beneath the cover

of sleep?

Does it murmur

you awake

call you back to

day?

There

between the worlds

do you hear

your heart whisper

what you must do?

You begin to see

there is an end

to the long tunnel

of time,

and your heart says,

Now

before it is too late

let’s look

just one more time

for those dreams

we’ve heard so much about.

Marriage advice for Women: Communication

Before marriage, most couples spend a lot of time together, which as you know, leads to talking. Lots of talking. Enough to send aloft a fleet of hot air balloons for the mass ascension at the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, “The World’s Premier Balloon Event.”

Falling in love means finding someone who lives to listen to your every thought, no matter how inane or frankly lame those thoughts are. Having someone hang on your every word as if it were ResQLadder’s 15-foot two-story portable emergency escape ladder with sleeves on chain (now just $128.45) makes you feel important and needed.

After marriage you may find that you send up fewer hot air balloons. In a simile vein, it may seem as if your lover would prefer to stay in the burning building rather than hang on your every word. You have now entered what is known as the “wedding vow” phase of your relationship.

“Give and take” characterizes this type of communication: Would you give me some of your cash? Are you going to take out the garbage? Would you give me some of the cover, all right already? Did you take my towel again? Would you just give me the keys, so I can drive? This question-based form of discourse usually ends with simple wedding-vow type answers: I do, I did, I didn’t, I will, or I won’t.

The hours once spent talking face-to-face or on the phone are repurposed for taking out the garbage, buying groceries, struggling for more of the blanket, and walking through the house naked and dripping wet in search of a clean towel, which by the way, was on the designated towel rack: mine, not yours.

Where once the new couple thought nothing of disturbing the air by vocalizing their thoughts about life, now they may become overly accustomed to certain vibrations in the air and begin to tune them out. Men often lose the ability to hear the higher frequency or pitch associated with women’s air disturbances. This makes starting a conversation more difficult, especially if you have something important that you want to talk about, but you don’t want to bring it up because if your husband truly loved you, he would already know and would admit that he was wrong.

What can be done? First, try changing your pitch. For example, pitch your dishes or other breakable items on an uncarpeted floor. Most men are sensitive to this pitch level and will desire to enter into dialog with you. Commonly, it will cause a husband to ask, “Is anything wrong?” or “Are you upset?”

Rather than expressing your true feelings too soon, which may result in a short conversation and quick resolution, answer, “No. What made you think that?” Then you can infuse the conversation with a sense of playfulness by making your husband guess why you changed your pitch.

If you have break-resistant Corelle dishes, which are not only dishwasher safe, chip resistant, lightweight, stackable and microwave safe, you may eschew* this method. Instead, try slamming drawers or doors. Like sign language, this type of sound language can communicate an infinite variety of messages that jumpstart dialog with your loved one as if you were using Duralast Gold twenty-foot 2 AWG battery booster cables.

Finally, if none of these nonverbal communication methods work, try to find a time when both you and your husband are alone and free from distractions. (Duct tape may be needed.) Sit close to him and cuddle a bit. Look him straight in the eye and lower your voice. Then whisper, “Darling, I’m thinking of becoming a widow.”

Many women notice an almost immediate attentiveness in their husbands after uttering this phrase.

I hope this has helped. And remember: Keep flapping your lips, shaking your hips, and dipping your chips.

I have it on good authority that you receive a 15% discount on all Corelle products if you know how to pronounce “eschew.” Use the promo code: yearstricken.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Photo: By John Boyd [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Thanks, John. A Boyd in the hand is worth two in the bush.

Doggone Good: Now available!

Since I am irredeemably humble and self-effacing, I have hesitated to let you know that I recently published a cookbook for old people called Doggone Good: Cheap Meals That Will Have You Licking Your Dish!

After surveying at least two websites, including a trek through the Amazon.com, I found that the marketplace is glutted with niche cookbooks, but none target Boomers entering retirement with little or no savings. Few of these people realize that Social Security will eventually go “Boom!” just as their generation did in 1946 when they began popping out. Since I can read, I found out that some time around 2033, the security in Social Security (We are 100% behind you) will literally be completely behind us, and the program will be renamed Social Insecurity. At that time, it will be able to provide just 75% of scheduled benefits. That gave me pause. Like other Boomers, one of my dreams of retirement has included eating on a daily basis.

Then it hit me like a well-thrown Frisbee, I could write a cookbook based on dog food recipes for old people. I felt confident that people would lap it up, and I realized I could achieve three things by publishing such a cookbook: serve my fellow-Boomers, become well-heeled, and slip in gratuitous puns.

Here’s what reviewers are saying:

“Just reading the recipes made me so hungry, I could eat a horse. Imagine how happy I was to realize many of the dishes contain horse meat!”

“After years of swallowing the lies politicians have given me, I didn’t gag once on these dog food recipes. Thank you, Congress!”

Endorsed by Andy Griffith!

Bonus to my readers!

As a service to my readers, I am including two of the most popular dishes. (Please don’t expect any more free recipes, though. I’m trying to save for my own retirement.)

Whole-y Hamburgers (serves 12)

1 can Whole Earth Farms canned dog food

1 very large stick or baseball bat (optional)

Form patties. Cook on a stove if you have electricity or gas. Otherwise, chop down one of your dining room chairs and create a small fire in your backyard. Use the stick or baseball bat to keep away neighborhood dogs.

Alpo Alfredo (serves 24)

1 box of pasta (optional) 1 cup of reconstituted powdered milk (optional)

2 Tbsp. of oil (optional) Cheese-flavored Cheetos (to taste) (also optional)

4 tsp. of flour (optional) 1 can of Alpo Chop House dog food (NOT optional)

Using optional ingredients:

Cook pasta on stove, or if you don’t have electricity or gas, soak in water overnight. Heat oil in pan or over the small fire in your backyard. Stir in flour until you have a nice roux. Slowly add powdered milk concoction and crushed Cheetos. Place some pasta on each plate along with a generous dollop of Alpo, and pour cheese sauce over top. Buon appetito!

Without optional ingredients:

Place Alpo serving in each dish. Sit! Eat! Enjoy!

Hurry! Fetch your copy now!

Send as much money as you can to me at Yearstricken, % Heartbreak Hotel, WordPress.com. My faithful companions are standing by to take orders.

Unclichéd

According to me, clichés, once très nouveaux, began life as bon mots, lighting up conversations like small flambeaux, small feathers in speakers’ verbal chapeaux, as tasty as escargots. But, alas, alack the day, they grew stale, worn, dim, left as empty shells on the conversationalists’ dinner plate, having had their meat carefully extracted years ago.

The matrix.

According to reliable sources (not me), printers are responsible for the first clichés, French for the stereotype blocks used to make books, pamphlets, and advertisements. Cliché, past participle of clicher, is derived from cliquer, the sound you know in English as “click.” After setting type, printers used pressure or heat to create a copy on heavy paper, plaster of Paris, or felt. They placed this copy, known as a matrix or mat, in a casting box, poured molten metal in, and voila, created a stereotype that could print endless copies of the original.

The stereotype.

If you’re like me (and if so, please send my condolences to your family), you read that last paragraph and something in you clicked. Cliché, stereotype, casting – are we heading into a post about Hollywood movies? No, not today.

I have a soft spot in my heart for clichés. They remind me of photos of people in Wal-Mart. With a haircut, more clothes, and intensive therapy they would look just fine.

So, without further hellos, or as Shakespeare would surely say, without further ado about nothing, or as so many Americans mistakenly say, without further adieu, here are my suggestions.

At the crack of dawn could be the dawn-crack (much like daybreak) or dawn’s crack. Example: The minute I saw dawn’s crack, I knew it was time to leave. (Note: If your name is Dawn and you visit Wal-Mart, I am not talking about you.)

Few people cry over spilled milk, but many parents cry over spilled red Kool-Aid.

Since people are busier these days than they used to be, help in your hour of need needs to be reduced to your half-hour of need. The internet-addicted could stand by people in their five minutes of need.

We could give last but not least a rest and start using first but not most.

Climbing the ladder of success could be restated for the rich and powerful as stepping on the escalator of success.

The two clichés using “sad” need antonyms. Sad but true provides happy but false, and sadder but wiser gives us happier but stupider. Example: Yearstricken lost hours of her life clicking on links to funny tweets and lolcats, leaving her happier but stupider.

And finally, when people are clearly not worth their weight in gold, we could at least allow that they are worth their weight in aluminum.

Photos:

Stereotype: http://digital.nls.uk/50years/pops/1971b.html

Matrix: http://the-print-guide.blogspot.com/2010/05/wayback-view-stereotype-plate-making.html

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year-struck

old age and other jokes I know

In praise of

Winter’s night

Stories from Miss Pronunciation

Don’t blog a dead horse

Windbreaking News: White-collar crimes

Windbreaking News: Uncle Sam’s secret recycling program

The calling

Marriage advice for Women: Communication

Unclichéd