Our insurance company of more than forty years just dropped us cold. They did it with a simple memo. In New York and in Florida, we have had all our insurances including umbrella insurance with them. The company is AllState.

They did this after a hurricane-free year when the legislators of the state started trying to find ways of reducing insurance costs; one of the suggested methods is putting mandates on the insurance companies. I don’t know whether to blame the legislators, the company, or the weather. I can’t fault the weather. Weather always acts up one way or another over each place on earth. State legislators will always act dumb. The companies will always want to make much more money than they hand out. This means all three have been acting according to what their nature intends them to act. They can’t be faulted.

That leaves us the residents of the state. Yes, I knew it all along; we are to blame. We are to blame for existing.

And our insurance will stop at exactly June1, the start of the hurricane season. Very convenient.

My husband says to forget the insurance companies; we can’t go around begging door to door. So few companies in Florida with so high premiums...

We have always paid our dues on time; we have been loyal to one company for a very long time; and we never asked for more than what they wanted to pay when there was damage. Hubby says we’ll leave it to luck and shoulder the costs ourselves.

I wonder what the insurance companies would do if everyone stopped dropping the idea of insurance. Just a thought.


 

Remember the old-time ushers who wore double-breasted jackets usually reddish in color with brass buttons in the early movie theaters? Well, I did this morning, while I was holding a flashlight into the oven while changing its light bulb.

When the flashlight zipped and zapped back and forth, I remembered the old ushers seeing people to their seats. That made me recall the theaters with sconced walls with thick red carpets, gilt arches, cherub paintings on the ceilings and splendid chandeliers.

Usually there would be a thick red velvet double-sided curtain hiding the white screen behind it. When the velvet curtains were pulled to the sides, in the earlier years by two stage hands and later mechanically, we knew the shorts were about to start to be followed by the main feature film. People, then, started hushing up and returning to their seats.

The small town movie houses may not have been as spectacular as their city cousins, but still they flaunted plush interiors with fountains, carpeted staircases, murals on the walls, fancy lighting fixtures and popcorn and candy machines.

All these theaters had marquees outside that embellished the feature film’s title with colorful lights. They also had balconies and loges. If you lived in a small town you could see who attended the crowded Saturday evening show or the less crowded matinee. Small talk or gossip was the fare of the day, and I remember my mother taking special care with her appearance. People talked, you know…

Despite the gossip, going to the movies was a delight and a community affair. If you heard some subdued whispering or a few grating sounds, you just paid no attention to it. If the distracting noise got out of hand, someone was sure to turn around and say in an annoyed tone, “Shhhhh!”

And changing an appliance bulb brought back all these magical things.

Silly me!



 

In our human affairs of late, there are no paper records anymore. Computers are used in all aspects of running our lives. Old books use languages that are passé and difficult to understand. Not only that but also, everything about them seems to have changed.

Now is that so bad?

I still use pencil and paper sometimes, but I write better on the computer and I am so happy word processing has been invented. It had taken me months, several decades ago, to put up an index for a book, using three by five cards and several notebooks. Nowadays, I can do the same thing in a few hours with the proper computer program.

I am an oldie, but I couldn’t do without my computer and I always view the newest things or ideas with a welcoming attitude. Maybe because of that, whenever someone tells me old was better, depending on what they are talking about, I sometimes wonder about their minds.

For example, when somebody points to a hundred fifty year-old book, telling me what it says about style, syntax, and definitions of literary terms are truer than what we have today, his or her words scare me. For one simple reason: according to linguists, language is a living thing; therefore, it changes. Together with the language, other things also change.

True, there are some good, old things. Old wines for instance and antique knick knacks, maybe. The idea that we have old as history is good, because history is a witness that we have lived, and that is what old is: history and just that.

There is so much to be built and maintained in our lives. What we build must last for a long time without total rebuilding. This requires new thinking and new ways of organizing development. So the new comes up with better and more workable things, ideas, and institutions.

I should know about the old. I lived through old times, old assessments, and old prejudices. One of the good things I found about old is that old cannot control the new and the new has to take over the old. That I found to be the best thing about the old.

All this because someone quoted from a very old book, telling me the info in it was "truer."

 

First of all, let me say that I think YouTube is a great invention whose time had come. It is mostly enjoyable and it gives a chance to video-taping amateurs to show their work.

On the other hand, since some streets and schools have already become battleground with gang violence and unruly people, disturbing videos on YouTube seem to add applause to the turmoil.

Wouldn't it be great if the YouTube people could put some kind of a rating system like what we have in WC? This wouldn't curtail the video-makers' activities at all. Those who want to watch the disturbing videos could still do so, while the general public and especially children would not be subjected to material destructive for their psyches.

Some newspapers have published a story about an alarming development. In the story, teen gang members post photos posing with guns and boast of their talents in drug sales. There are other disturbing videos on YouTube showing teens fighting with hand-made signs at bus stops or showing other real or staged drive-by shootings and street brawls. All these things signal to the teens that acting like hoodlums is cool, whether they are part of a gang or not.

We could say the other social sites for teens promote this kind of understanding also, but photos and videos are more impressive because they are visual, and visual stimuli have more of a coercing power for the mind.

Lots of kids are happier with more wholesome activities, but with this pressure from the net, the media, and their peers can influence them the wrong way and make them adhere with what is popular.

Those who have studied gang behavior claim that the glamorization of the hooligan lifestyle has such a strong magnetism that even those who just “try” it cannot pull themselves together afterwards. With many children who are already in trouble, everyone from the net to the media should be careful what they make available to such young and impressionable people.

I’m all for the first amendment and the total freedom for arts, but I also think the young people should be protected; if not, our entire civilization, as we know it, can be put in jeopardy.




 

“Which is better? Plan and act consciously, or let events take care of themselves?”

Sometimes living follows a natural path through its journey of motion and pulls itself back again for a rest. Some insignificant thing on the spur of the moment seems to facilitate the journey. Sometimes another insignificant thing seems to slow it down.

Also, sometimes, even though you think you are traveling fast, it does not necessarily mean you are on the right road.

Then, you may get hurt or you may hurt yourself, because you are bound to get hurt or wounded on the way. Sometimes it will be your own shoes that get tight and hurt you; at other times, it will be stones hurled at you from the wayside.

So, either planned or unplanned, you stop and search for a treatment to heal yourself.

Finding cures may become a job, too. Some cures act like Bandaids. They keep the mind clean and clear for a period. But your wound, without access to air, may not totally heal. Even the tiniest wounds need oxygen; they need airing. They also need protection from the dirt and bacteria that may attack as if from nowhere.

So you do the best you can and keep moving, because standing on the side of the road, worrying about your wounds will not get you to your destination.

If someone watches out for you, there might be flowers on the path you travel. The trick is not to step on those flowers in the dark. Flowers are delicate beings to be appreciated and enjoyed.

What if the path is too fast and it needs someone traveling with the speed of light? And you are not a fast walker? How do you walk on a path that moves faster than you?

Remember those moving walkways in the airports? Remember how some people try to walk on them, carrying heavy bags? Then, do you remember how others stay on the right side and just let the road take them wherever?

It might not be fast, but if you stay on the right side, the road will get you to your destination. If you get off a moving road, it is a long walk. If you try to walk on a moving road, you may seem to travel faster, but your effort will take a toll on your health and may cause serious injuries. You would not like to stop at midway, due to injuries, do you?

So then, maybe it is better to just stop and stay on the right side of the road when the road, on its own, moves too fast for you, and then, start walking when the road stands there motionless for you to take it.

 

"I never knew dying could be so much fun," Art Buchwald, the column writer, wrote last year.

Last February, his doctors told Buchwald because of his kidney problems, he had a few weeks to live. At age 80, Buchwald didn't want to be hooked up to a dialysis machine for the rest of his life. So he checked into a hospice to die on his own terms.

Then something unexpected happened. He didn't die and his kidneys kept working. He left the hospice and went back to his home on Martha's Vineyard to enjoy his time left.

“No one wants to die, but if you were faced with a terminal illness, you would probably pick the way that columnist Art Buchwald died - not by his own hand, but in the way and place he chose.

Then, he started writing again, and the book, "Too Soon to Say Goodbye," came out of this experience.

He still passed away from the same affliction about a month and a half ago.

Art Buchwald did not opt to kill himself, because he didn’t have the legal right to do so, but he still chose the way he died and was able to spend his final days in an atmosphere of comfort, compassion, control and respect.

The argument is if the pain of the final days are too much to bear, a person ought to be able to choose the time and method of his dying. Oregon has laws for that. Oregon's experience with its death with dignity law is instructive. Before it was enacted in 1998, only about 20 percent of terminally ill patients sought hospice care. Today, 54 percent do.

I can see how this idea could be abused, but the death-with-dignity option can be available only to those who want it and meet the qualifications.

Few will likely use it anyhow.

In other words, the goal of the death with dignity legislation is not just giving terminally ill patients a way to kill themselves. It's also about better pain management and greater access to hospice care, so that patients can be comfortable in their final days. It's also about giving the terminally ill the peace of mind of knowing that an early exit is available if the suffering becomes too much.

After having written this much in favor of the idea, if push came to shove and I'd have to make a choice, I would probably let nature take its course, because for some of us, some beliefs are so nailed in that getting around them may become a trauma. I think I'd still go with "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."

Now, how's that for the paradox of the mind and the heart!





 

My son G. just adopted three year-old a chow mix from the North Shore Animal League. I was so delighted when the lady called me to check up on his information. I am glad they care about who the owners are and if the pet will be cared for.

Although we live in Florida and our son lives in Long Island, I am delighted he has a pet. Just the news of the dog made me deliriously happy.

When we lived all together more than a decade and a half ago, our New Foundland Joe had become my son’s best friend. After the dog died and we moved away, he was hesitant to get another pet, because he was working too many hours. His schedule is better now; so I guess he believes he can keep a dog.

Funny thing is, I am dying to see the dog. He says he’ll send pictures, but he doesn’t want to make the dog too nervous by clicking the camera just yet. My son says the dog is already attached to him and follows him all around the place.

This doggie news brings lots of memories. When we had Joe and the kids got out of hand, I would tell them that the dog told me this or that, like time to go to bed. Since I was the only one (!) who could talk to the dog and my children were so innocent, I got away with this whopper for quite a while. Even after they caught on to me, the kids enjoyed the memory of Joe’s conversations. The deceit of Joe’s talk-ability never hurt my standing at all. Santa, on the other hand, was not as lucky.

Talking about talking to animals, I believe--even if they do not understand our exact words--they do understand us, especially if we let ourselves move into their energy and move along with them. Someone I once met who worked at a shelter had told me the same dog or cat who would not go along with one family and would end up getting returned would adapt perfectly with another family. Maybe pets, too, have character traits that can be matched with the owners.

Something very personal happens between me and most dogs I meet. The same thing is true of G.; yet, my husband and my other son are different. They sometimes say, “It is just an animal.”

Well, I know that. Just my heart doesn’t.

While I am writing this, I thought of telling my son to put a micro chip on the dog. If something happens to the dog, G. will fall apart and so shall I, even without meeting the dog.

If I ever get grandchildren, I’ll love them, I’m sure; although, I have a feeling I am saying I’ll love them out of social responsibility.

Right now, where grandpets are concerned I turn to jelly more.

Long live my new grandpet, Raven!

 

We writers run out of ideas because we get bored by what is around us. What is around us can become so familiar that it feels dull and commonplace.

A writer, however, does not need to get on a plane or visit a foreign country to clear his head and help him focus him attention on a spectacular subject. His subject is usually around him, within walking distance, and sometimes not even that.

One’s home, his neighborhood, the people and the stuff they're trying to sell in garage sales can definitely make a writer come up with a myriad of ideas.

There are millions of stories in what people pick up and keep as trinkets throughout their lives. Try a white elephant sale, a county fair, or a local festival. You may end up feeling as if you knew the personal habits and longings of the people simply by the possessions they keep or try to sell. These types of activities happen every weekend and right close by.

All of these local gems are treasure-troves for ideas. Not only do they make our imaginations work, they give us insights into the characters we meet. Also, getting our feet wet in something new makes us humble and that humility keeps us open to new information and this makes us creative.

Feeling like we’ve seen everything means we've run out of ideas. As writers, we must accept more stuff is nearby to generate fresh perspectives and story opportunities for us.

And all this heehawing is because I am trying to psych myself up for the St. Lucie County Fair this weekend.

You can tell I don't like crowds, unless I get to watch them from a safe distance.

 

I can't believe what I just read.
http://news.aol.com/topnews/articles/_a/some-fake-fur-has-dog-hair-group-says/20...

I am letting the article speak for itself.

I never liked fur; I don't wear fur; and I am jumpy already with Comcast doing a number on our connection.

And I can't believe I am ranting like this. Some day I'll look back and laugh at me for ranting. In the meantime, I am ranting.
 

We were at a wonderful luncheon today at my favorite restaurant with some nice people, though they are not necessarily the friends we usually hang out with. Everything was perfect; except, at one point, the conversation made me nervous, because these very knowledgeable people I was with started talking about fashion.

Fashion is one of my least favorite subjects and I was just about to slide under the table when a thought occurred that I could use these bits of conversation in fiction. Unfortunately, I couldn’t write them down, but concentrated hard so I would remember later. What I remember is bits and pieces, but something is better than nothing.

“I hate it when people wear boots with cropped pants!”

“I don’t like Macy’s, do you?”

“I always go to…(the name of a boutique) …across from the Marriott’s resort.”

“After I invested in several prints, Emilio Pucci got rid of them. I never win!”

“Big puffy jackets are in, they say.”
“I heard cropped jackets and leather bombers, didn’t you?” (I wondered where any one of them would wear those things in Florida.)

“Bulgari has a new set of jewelry. I loved it. They look so old fashioned.” (At this point, one of the husbands looked at my husband and said, “Oh, oh!” Hubby laughed smugly. He knows I’m no threat.)

A remark directed to me, “Sweetie, you should write something on fashion. It would sell like hotcakes.”

At this point, hubby ventured to explain my writing philosophy, but I hushed him and said, “I may…now.”

So here I am.

Really nice people and I did enjoy them because they were so different, but darn, I won’t eat out with them again. Runway talk makes me itchy.

 

It seems wild honeybees are disappearing and they are dying off somewhere away from their hives. Honeybees are important to crops. It is said one out of three things we eat is pollinated by honeybees, the only crops pollinated by the wind being wheat and corn.

The disappearance of the bees has been going on for about two years now. It was first thought that a mite from Southeast Asia was killing them off, but now no one is sure. Flowers have been disappearing with the honeybees as well.

But it is not only the honeybees; other pollinator flies are lessening in number also. Moreover, this is not just one country's problem; it seems to be a worldwide thing, although the problem is mostly noted in US and Europe.

Beekeepers are stumped. They are losing armies and armies of bees without any bee bodies around. The losses are in billions.

This malady now has an acronym and a name: CCD or the Colony Collapse Disorder. The disappearance of the bees has encouraged several theories, most of them not totally explainable.

One of the plausable theories is by the Russian scientists who say, ""Bursts of magnetic fields induce jumps of misdirection in bees by a mechanism of magnetic resonance." Yet, it is also suggested that the Russians are using their mind-control techniques on the bees to weaken the western world. If they were so great with mind control, wouldn't they use it on the Chechens first?

While this thing is sounding more and more like Dean Koontz novel to me, I would hate to see the flowers gone. Imagine a world without flowers, although we are not there yet.

On the other hand, let the scientists worry about this Colony Collapse Disorder for the time being, but to writers this event may be a boon. Story weavers among us, just imagine what a great storyline can be constructed from this scientific fact, although it would need quite a bit of research.

Anyone up for it?




 

Truth is we ran away to Florida in 1992 because we did not want to shovel snow on a 300 feet driveway in winter, and also, did not want to rake leaves in a very large yard with 200+ oak trees in fall. Still the memory of it all haunts me as if it was the greatest thing we ever did.

Not only the memory of where I lived but the memory of where I visited in the northeast comes back with every news story. When I heard of the ten to twelve feet snow in upstate NY, I remembered Saratoga Springs. Someone called that city the spa of the Northeast, I don't know why. Is it because of the horses? Horses in a spa? Doesn't make sense. Still, I wonder now, how the town looks under all that snow.

I remember people hosing the mud-caked horses in front of the clubhouse after a race. I am not a horse person, so I don't know what they do with horses in the cold, since the stables look quite drafty. Someone told me they put heaters here and there and blanket the horses. But what if all that snow got into the stables?

Then, I wonder if the kids still put up lemonade stands on the sidewalks; although, this has nothing to do with the snow. We went there in summer and also in fall when the lemonade stands and restaurant-waiters who claimed their apple pies were the best in town were a reality. I bet the apple-pie thing is still on, but do the kids nowadays put up lemonade stands and become paper carriers? So many things in our culture change over the years...

But all snow? Unbelievable!

Another thing that shocks is how cold it got where I live. South Florida, this time of the year, is warm. The temperature is usually in the eighties.

For the last two or three days, however, we are freezing. Right now in the morning, it is 37 degrees and sunny; the weatherman says we'll see 65 in the afternoon. When we say frigid sixties here, everyone laughs, but the houses must be built differently in FL; they are difficult to heat. Our cooling system is working non-stop now as the heating system, which doesn't do much for allergy sufferers, because the system heats up the pollen accumulated on the same wires used for air-conditioning.

Still, shoveling the snow scares me more. Then, imagine 10 feet!









 

Recent news reports say that women have more germs in their offices and around their desks compared to men, but men have more germs in their wallets. (And I thought the only germs in the offices were the cranky office mates.)

The study (not too extensive) was funded by the Clorox company.

"The moldiest spot in the workers' offices was the bottom of their desk drawers, where many staffers stash food," the study says.

I have great respect for Clorox, but it makes me choke. Chlorine smell is not good for asthma. This study nevertheless made me give a thorough wiping to everthing with Clorox wipes, while wearing a mask. Anyone who would see me could think I was out holding up my own desk.

The reason for the germy offices is blamed on hand lotion. Since women use more hand lotion than men and women touch everything, hand lotion traps germs. Next time there's a flu or cold bug going around I am going to set up hand-lotion traps for those buggers.

The food part made me laugh. Most anyone I know snacks at their desks, even if they go out for lunch.

As to our male counterparts, you guys get ready to use discolored wallets. Your wives, girlfriends, sisters, or mothers will get you with Clorox. I am betting on that.

We are not to use soap and water. That only pushes the germs around. What it prescribed is disinfectant wipes or sprays, so people like me can be germ-free even if they choke to death.

On the other hand, I wonder if the Clorox's sales have been down.

 

It appears to me, through some abracadabra, the publishing media stays ahead of all tabloid events. Before we can even digest and get over our shock and awe or disgust, a book is published on the event.

Here's one: There's an author already for the astronaut-diaper-love-triangle. That was lightning quick. Too quick before I could even say diaper.

And the other, which is from today's Newsday. "A Carle Place attorney who once represented Anna Nicole Smith said the former model signed a contract in the late 1990s giving him the exclusive book and movie rights to her story."

The woman isn't even buried yet!

It takes me months to round up my characters and put my stories together. Okay, so I am not too into it or too fast or too capable, but it took even Isaac Asimov, possibly the most prolific of writers of all time, at least a month to write a novel.

I think these bookish facts point to more than a writing capability. I think the publishing community is into black arts and they are all receiving messages from the great beyond. Too bad my sixth sense is at an all time low, but there may be writers among us on this site who could jump on the money-making wagon.

Maybe we should all work on our ESPs, instead of grammar and syntax.

Where are you, the authors of Writing.com? Are there no psychics among us who can start writing the story of the next hair-raising scandal before it happens? Our site could use a millionaire or two.

 

Most good literature happens by unloading one's emotional baggage. True. I love to look into emotional baggage when its components are neatly folded and tucked, then put in a chic valise to make them seem so neat and fashionable. I don't, however, like it when smelly garbage is offered as emotional baggage, without enclosing it in a plastic thrash bag.

If we were to put our everyday garbage without putting it in a thrash can and without enclosing it in a thrash bag, no garbage collector would take away our garbage. Imagine each piece of garbage--torn packaging, broken things, diapers, used tissues, leftover spoiled food, fruit and vegetable peelings, dog doodoo--laid wide open on the curbside. Passers by could pass out from the stink if they can't hold their breath long enough.

On the plus side, it is good to express ourselves through dumping. It makes us feel better. Venting helps anybody. Shrinks and priests encourage people to do just that to clean up the elements of society. Venting is what some blogs, personal journals, and diaries are for.

On the other hand, there seems to flourish an idea that literature is personal garbage that reeks all over the place. It probably started with the encouragement of journaling, which has been taken the wrong way. Journaling is fine. I love doing it myself. One can find lots of good stuff--among all the garbage--in one's own personal journal to turn into good writing, but a personal diary or a journal entry that rambles on and on with expletives and says the same thing over and over again is not literature. It is venting.

The subject of this entry came to me when I received a review yesterday for "Invalid Item" . It was a very nice review, which I appreciated greatly, about the new everyday writing challenge group that is just forming. The rules are easy on the writer; only personal garbage dumping type of daily journaling is not allowed, just because I would like the writers of this site to practice serious writing (settings, beginnings and endings to their stories, poetry, non-fiction etc.).

The reviewer felt the daily writing I expected was lacking because of the ban on the daily personal garbage. Like I said before, there is nothing wrong with daily garbage dumping; moreover, it is needed. But most of time, it is not literature or even good writing. Also, we all do it to the nth degree already.

See, I can vent, too.

 

I just found out something about my blogging style. I am a generalist blogger.
A blog expert, or rather someone who considers himself a blog expert, told me this after seeing my blog.

I guess this is one of those things that I am, without catching on to what I am, since recently, I have been plastered with numerous labels concerning what I am. Ouch!

Bloggers are classified according to the type of writing they do in their blogs. At least, I am not a dialectical materialist or a political blogger. This friend tells me lifestyle bloggers and personal-life-dumping bloggers are the most common. Although my blogs have to do with my life, I like to keep the personals inside a real-life note-book.

Yet, if wishes were horses… I wish I were a geek blogger, but that would be so far out for me. My traveling to Andromeda galaxy in this lifetime is more possible than my understanding any computer language, let alone doing anything with it. But I so admire geeks. I think we should erect statues for geeks and I am not kidding.

In my eyes, geeks are more powerful than mythical gods. What makes them godly is their performance. They are never show-offs or high-brows of the snobbish kind, but true-to-life doers, and their mythical feats can be neatly summarized in a pithy slogan: it's the programming, stupid.

True geeks are elegant species who inspire a sort of techno-passion in klutzes like me. When I listen into the conversations of geeks, I think I am in an alien universe where the geek language has more ups and downs than Chinese. I could learn Chinese if I tried hard enough, but as hard as I try, computerisms pass me by, and no matter how much I aspire toward technical literacy, I could at best be a user and not a very good one at that.

Although there are alpha geeks, as in alpha males, the she-geeks abound in the same arena. Their technical pursuits are not limited only to perfect programming, but these goddesses know every contraption and device before they are even invented. Seeing is believing, they know what to do when the computer makes a weird clicking sound, saying the primary hard drive is not found. They know to use the freezer to recover data and they also know to seal the hard disk in a ziplock bag to prevent condensation. Who'd have thought!

In my next lifetime, say a hundred years from now, God is going to let me get born as a geek and then, I'll be a geek blogger.

Now, who says I don't write science fiction?



 

Literally speaking, Anita Shreve wrote Sea Glass; I have old glass, literally…all over the house.

Something about glass enchants me. Maybe it is because glass is liquid originally and maybe as a kid, I watched a bottlemaker blow into the hot liquid to turn it into a vase.

But I am not talking about fancy antique glass like Steuben glass or old lead and flint glass. The few pieces I have of those are tucked into the dining room hutch, and since I am afraid of the lead in them, they just stand there like wallflowers in a dance. The real partiers in my house are cups and saucers and bowls and plates that will be crude antiques give or take another decade.

Tucked in the back of each cupboard and drawer, I find an old piece. Just a while ago, I found a large green bowl I used to use as a secondary punch bowl. This is from the time when anything indoors was in fashionable avocado. That is sixties for the youngsters.

Come to think of it, does anyone serve punch anymore? Anyhow, I think we gave away my real punchbowl with the tiny handled cups hanging from its side when we moved south. Still I sneaked this green oldie, just a sidekick of the real punchbowl, to Florida on the backseat of my car wrapped in tee-shirts.

For old times' sake I gave it a little tap and it answered me with a little thud. Most of the other glass items ring when tapped; this bowl thuds.

Some of the other pieces, mostly see-through glass cups with handles have developed a foggy frost; I call it glass dementia, since it has happened in time probably because of the composition. The Antiques Roadshow people call it sick glass and they say the culprit is calcium. They recommend leaving the glass in a water and vinegar mix. I don’t know if I have the nerve to go that far for commonplace things I have too many of.

My favorite glass pieces are plates and the bone-china mugs. I don't like chipped anything, but I refuse to throw away a mug with the picture of a purple iris on its side and a tiny chip on its lip.

Maybe I have difficulty letting go of old glass because, when I pick up an old piece, I may be looking through the glass to the years past and I may think I see something of a prize.


 

Who says old women can't watch the Super Bowl? I am just doing that and typing at the same time. For Super Bowl fare, I baked burritos for hubby. He tasted one and said, "Why, this is only peppered beans in a caboose."

Isn't that the idea?

Since I don't know how to make that caboose and I am too uninformed in the art of putting burritos together, my burritos are frozen. They only need to be baked, and since I don't have the time or patience for an hour's bake time in the conventional oven, mine get done in the microwave, then put in the toaster over to give them that "fancy" look.

Well, hubby's burritos came out okay. I burned part of the caboose in mine. As I felt the blushing grin spreading wide across my face, I tried hard to contain myself so as not to frighten hubby. He must have sensed something, because he gave me a sip of his beer.

I do not drink beer, but it is Super Bowl, so what the heck! What if it gets mixed up with my cappuccino! Burnt burrito and cappuccino beer. A new taste, for sure.

Right now, we're in second quarter. 9 to 14 in favor of Chicago. Hubby asks me Bears or Colts? I say, Colts. He says Bears. He goes with Bears because he has a cousin in Chicago. I say Colts because I like horses. I also like bears, but colts look so cute standing on thin legs, as these Colts are doing now. Maybe they'll pick up and run, but who knows?

The trouble with football and me is that I can't watch it with rapt attention. As much as football is an infallible godsend for most of the population, I can't help but overlook that indulgence.

I guess I'll always be a football newbie. This year, a burnt burrito may have something to do with it.



 

Are we getting pettier and pettier each day? Even New York Times, the paper who claims to be so high-brow?

A few days ago, NY Times ran an article titled "Raining E-Blows on Egos" by Lisa W. Foderaro. The writer claims some of those explicit subject lines can embarrass some people and give them psychological hang-ups especially with the fear that their boss and office mates will see that they receive that kind (!) of e-mails.

I could quote her, but I won't. Instead, I'll say what I understood from what she wrote. She claims that when office mates and bosses catch one of those organ augmentation stuff or certain undesirable invitations on the subject lines of the e-mails, the receiver may be excessively embarrassed or may become the target of teasing, which could lead to serious psychological problems.

I had to laugh. You know, anyone who has worked in an office has to have some stamina to endure a bunch of stuff in the first place. If people can't take that, they are already in dire psychological trouble. They might as well go to business for themselves or else.

Surely, this is not a pleasant situation and some junk e-mail do carry friendly tones to fool the onlooker at first sight, but that's just it. Everyone gets those e-mails, and everyone knows what they are.

After all, "delete" is only a click away.


 

This morning, I saw a squirrel trying to scale a wall of my house. Salamanders, too, love to climb the walls as they scamper after tiny flies.

The walls that link together to house something form the embracing arms of security. A wall that stands alone, however, arouses curiosity. Do you ever look at a wall and wonder what is hiding behind it?

Robert Frost said in the "The Mending Wall":
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall...”

"Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What was I walling in or walling out
And to whom I was like to give offense..."

Walls have had an immense influence on mankind since the dawn of civilization. The first walls were the cave walls. Man left his first traces of existence on the cave walls as the first hint of his soul and imagination, since he created art despite his new and unfamiliar status on the planet earth.

Ever since, the walls have become mankind’s showcase. Man has made his walls out of a myriad of materials: wood like knotty pine, teak, cherry, mahogany, oak, sticks, tree trunks or logs, dry stone, cement, brick, glass, metal, plastic, hay, flesh, suspicion or sensitivity.

He has filled these walls or left them hollowed. Then, he has painted the walls drab gray or in all colors or whitewashed them. Sometimes has kept them in their natural tones; he has wall-papered them not only with paper but with plastics and other invented materials; and he has paneled them with wood and synthetic materials.

On top of these walls, he has hung tapestry, billboards, lamps, neon lights, flower boxes, paintings, mirrors, signs, inscriptions, advertisements, manifestos, photos, writing, and even poetry.

Then, after ivy climbed the walls of some of his schools, the man has made those schools above and beyond the reach of others, calling them Ivy League Schools.

As if all this wasn’t enough, man has invited the wall both in concept and expression into his language. Man walls in his feelings, walls out the unwanted, and stonewalls someone else’s offer of progress. He keeps four walls around himself, and when this becomes too much to handle for him, he climbs the walls, making off-the-wall comments. When he can’t proceed or his mind is blocked, he runs into a wall. He smirks at girls who are wallflowers standing on wall-to-wall carpeting. If he is too drunk or gets an ophthalmologic illness, he becomes walleyed.

Man has given the name "wall" to natural structures and phenomena like the canyon walls, sea walls, the eye wall inside a hurricane, walls of time, the cell walls inside his body, and many other things in his universe.

Sometimes man’s imagination and extra sensory perception take over for him to see apparitions drift through the walls. For possibly the similar reason, when he is afraid to tell his secrets, he’ll whisper to say, "the walls have ears," personifying the walls. He even gives four walls to his Pandora’s Box. Then, as a masochist, he opens that box.

Occasionally, man reveres what a wall represents, as in the case of the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem and the black granite wall of Vietnam War Memorial. Sometimes, man brings down a wall constructed for one reason when its purpose has run out of fashion or it doesn’t serve his purposes anymore such as the Berlin Wall. Some nasty walls like prison walls are visible. Others may be invisible, but their malicious effects are felt deeply inside the humanity's psyche like the Iron Curtain, the Walls of Prejudice or Bias, Walls of Revenge, and Walls of Anger.

Man attaches walls to everything in his life. He is the mason who builds the walls, only to protest and whine about them. Then, he tries to break through these walls or to bring them down, and for that, he spends more effort than erecting them.

This getting rid of the walls business has to be carried out with caution, without banging into walls, hurting oneself, or hurting anyone who is walled in by one thing or another. Especially in the case of an inner child who is trapped inside the man’s being, one has to break down the walls gently but with firm hands, since inner children are especially sensitive.

So, why does man build a wall? Probably, to challenge himself, since challenges employ and entertain. If only man wouldn't scrape his skin while climbing or breaking through!