Wisdom of the Ages – Found in Pamphlets

My sister recently returned from a long vacation in Grantsburg, Wisconsin. From her descriptions of the place, it sounds like Grantsburg is the town that time, progress and WalMart has forgotten. Trips to the library, a thrift shop and a dollar store were highlights of her day. As a token of her appreciation for my watching her dog Satan, I mean, Carmella, for two weeks, she brought me back a couple of ancient recipe pamphlets:

Time for Seafood
The Party Book
Bride’s Guide to Cooking for 2
You Can Make Anything with Bisquick
Baking Powder in Action! (The exclamation point is the author’s, not mine)

I easily dispensed with the first pamphlet, Time for Seafood. In my world, there’s never time for seafood unless it’s a juicy lobster or succulent crabcakes from a four star restaurant. Have you heard of the saying, “Fish and guests stink after the third day”? I’d rather smell body sweat and decaying perfume than the greasy, clinging odor of fish. Experience has shown me that fish stinks right out of the chute—whether it’s out of a plastic bag flash frozen a decade ago or lying on a bed of dirty ice behind the glass counter at the grocery store. It just stinks. It was born to stink. That is fish’s mission.

The pamphlet, You Can Make Anything with Bisquick, filled me with optimism. It told me that wherever there’s fun, that’s where Bisquick will make me shine. Note to self: Find some fun. Buy Bisquick.

Baking Powder in Action! was instructive. I can see using it as a wellspring of party conversation or as the topic of a blog post. The writer states, “Even slight overmeasurements or undermeasurements of this ingredient can cause baking failures.” That explains it all. Oh, yes. My measuring spoons lack the calibration necessary to produce tasty baked goods of a superior grain and texture, shape, volume and lightness. I found other gems of wisdom: Don’t Guess at Fractions. I learned this the hard way during childhood mealtimes. One-fifth of my portion of veal scallopine was always guaranteed to provoke screams of disapproval from my four other siblings. The best part of the pamphlet was the cover photo of a smartly dressed woman pulling a pan of luscious biscuits out of the oven. Dressing smartly and baking powder knowledge are keys to success, you people.

Bride’s Guide to Cooking for 2 holds the key to why the divorce rate is so high in the U.S. New brides have forgotten, or have willfully disregarded, these words found in the very first paragraph:

It’s an exciting new job you have—cooking for two!

New brides, take note. It’s a job, not a marriage. Once you get those romantic notions of egalitarianism and give-and-take out of your head, you’ll be much better off.

So, which recipes are guaranteed to satisfy your husband’s man-sized appetite? The author used those words. Man-sized. I must be hermaphroditic because I have a man-sized appetite, too.

I leafed through pages showing recipes for French toast, scrambled eggs, Down-East Tuna Chowder (Where down east? Down east of the canned salmon and kipper snacks, that’s where). Of course there were the loafs—ham and meat. A wife is a wretched failure if she can’t make a decent meat loaf. She might as well depart to a nunnery or go to work as a cook in a high school cafeteria. Mastering a meat loaf is the holy grail of wifedom. Beef stroganoff is always a crowd pleaser (it certainly pleases me), but the Corn and Franks Country Style will bring your husband to his knees. He might even agree to do the dishes! Further on, there under Salads and Salad Dressings I found the hallmark of 50s era dining: Molded Gelatin salads. Mold a salad, save a marriage, that’s what I always say.

And no recipe book would be complete without including a recipe for Famous Pumpkin Pie. It goes to show, men. Pay attention. You will gladly be held onto, tightly, enduringly, till death do you part, with the certainty of pumpkin pie for dessert.

The final pamphlet, The Party Book, was written by an evangelist for party throwing. Apparently, everyone wants to throw a great party. Why? As the writer says, “No one can go on forever taking without giving.” Has anyone told Kim Kardashian that? Words of wisdom, girl.

Once upon a time, I decided to throw a party. No one showed up. Well, this is not entirely true. My sister was there. Living next door, she only had to walk across hers and my backyard to get to the party palace.

One other person eventually showed up quite late. She sat amid mountains of food. I remember mumbling some excuse for the missing guests, “Well, it’s an open house party. People show up when they want to and then leave.” I’m not sure she was convinced she had missed the hordes of departed guests. There was, still, a lot of food there in spite of my and my sister’s efforts to consume it all.

But now I have this pamphlet, which is guaranteed to turn me into the Martha Stewart of party giving.

I learned that my big mistake regarding that flop of a party I gave had much to do with my not having “alternate guests in mind as substitutes for last minute cancellations.” Next time, I’ll know. I’m within shouting distance of a nursing home, the fire station and the neighborhood community center.

Knowing that at my next soiree I’ll be inundated with guests, I’m pressed with coming up with Games for a Crowd. But, no worries. This pamphlet lists many delightful ones, for example, Who Am I? and Murder. Now if those don’t break the ice, I don’t know what will. When the party starts to lag, just murder your guests and get new ones!

And, men, listen up: there’s a section in this pamphlet for you, too! Because, “these days men, as well as girls, fancy themselves cooks…” (We women wish they’d fancy themselves housecleaners, trashmen, computer repair experts and car mechanics, too, don’t we?)

Further into the pamphlet is a section on throwing Halloween parties. “Here comes a happy, noisy gathering!” Here comes a headache and a very long night. The author encourages the hostess to “give them the run of the house; it’s worth a cleanup the next day.” Yeah? Only if the hubby is doing the cleanup. No, not even then. Seriously? Let a bunch of drunken guests hang from the ceiling fans and play hockey in my breakfast room with my good china as a puck? I don’t really have any good china, but still!

I like the party titled, “Nibbles and Nightcaps for an Evening of TV.” Right up my alley. Position one or two guests in front of the TV (that’s me, my sister, her husband, and our dogs), set out food such as Applesauce Squares, Cashew and Peanut Brittle, Cream Puffs and Mocha Chocolate, and quietly watch TV. And because my sister and her husband live next door, they can show up in their pajamas. And when 9 o’clock rolls around, I can send them home, turn out the lights and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

Sounds like the best kind of party to me.

Who’d have thought all this wisdom would be found in a few thrift shop pamphlets? Knowledge is cheap, I guess.

Is there an antibiotic for stress germs?

Years ago, I recall laughing derisively at a TV commercial by a company selling a product guaranteed to calm “those annoying itch nerves.”

Itch nerves. I took neuroscience when I was collecting one of my degrees, and I don’t recall ever reading about itch nerves. When I did dissections in my anatomy class, I never gently plucked the itch nerve from among the other sensory nerves found clinging to a muscle.

However, I will say this: on the bottom of my left foot, in the instep area, an annoying itch frequently distracts me from solving the world’s problems. No, it’s not athlete’s foot. I’ve had that scourge and managed to rid myself of it eventually.

So, should I be skeptical about itch nerves? Yes. I am not, though, skeptical—well, as a matter of fact—I’m convinced without reservation that I’m suffering from an attack of the stress nerves.

I don’t worry about much, but when I do worry, it is the kind of shoving and pushing, overstuffed-chair amounts of worry, which then leads to gnawing, clanging stress. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been worried about finishing projects at work. Then, on top of that, I layered with a spatula, heaps of worry about my upcoming art show. I’ve lost confidence in my creative ability. I’m a Sunday driver of the artists’ community. A bush leaguer, dabbler, putterer. I’m no better than Thomas Kinkade, who I’ve mocked mercilessly in other posts.

And, as if those millstones weren’t enough, I’ve scooped up another couple pounds of worry with a trowel and have slathered it on. My dear little Boston Terrier, Stella, is not well. She’s at the vet right now waiting for results of her blood test. I know she’s ill because she hasn’t been herself for a week or so. I want the vet to find something, anything, any germ or deficiency that can be treated with a pill or a liquid, so that we can begin to mend.

But in the back of my mind, barely bubbling beneath the surface of my consciousness, is this nagging feeling that my stress has infected her. There may be no such thing as stress nerves, but I’m beginning to allow for an infection caused by stress germs.

On top of the stress, now I’m feeling guilty. For as long as I’ve had Stella, I’ve accepted the fact that every sneeze, every whimper and whine transforms me into an overprotective, smothering pet owner. Years ago, when Stella was a puppy, after the umpteenth visit to the vet in one month, I was told, gently, but firmly, that I needed to “stop raising my dog in a bubble.”

Well, I tried. I really did. I didn’t take Stella in on Friday when I first noticed some odd symptoms. I took her in this morning after a bout of uncontrollable shivering. Hers, not mine.

It feels like a dirty little secret, though, this sense that all of my habitual worrying and stress has been transmitted to my dog for years, resulting in a worrywart of a dog. I’ve infected my dog with stress germs. ARRRGH.

Animal whisperers say that dogs can pick up on human emotion. I feel tremendously sorry for Stella. I might as well have left her out in the cold, trapped in a lean-to with a frigid concrete floor, with nothing but a stick to play with.

For her sake, I need to change. And I will work on it this year. That’s what one of my New Year’s resolutions should have been.

Thank goodness my other Boston Terrier, Sally, was already neurotic and stressed when I picked her up from the pound. I didn’t cause that. Of course, no need to pile more on, eh?

Haiku of Hurried Love

Ah, Valentine’s Day. It can mean so much and yet it can mean so little.  I think of the great loves of history: Rocky and Bullwinkle, Chip and Dale, Tweety Bird and Sylvester, Pepé Le Pew and Every Cat on Earth, Krazy Kat and Ignatz. Oh, you’re too, too young to remember Krazy Kat and Ignatz? Well, so am I, but it has always been a favorite of mine. The cartoon launched in October 1913 and with that launch began an undying, unfulfilled love of a lifetime. No matter how many bricks Ignatz threw at Krazy Kat’s head, the cat continued to misinterpret the gesture as an expression of the rat’s undying love.

Roses fade, the petals drop to the floor, chocolates are eaten in a New York minute, the sparkly bauble ends up in the kitchen drain. Some love can last, others dissolve, some perish among the fires of betrayal and deception. Some loves change over time and become unrecognizable from that time when all was new.

But Haikus are forever.

Two to three e-mails,
And then we met for coffee.
Was there chemistry?

But you were smitten.
Flowers. Then clothes from Penney’s.
I’m not a size four.

How to escape from
The speeding locomotive
Of your boundless love?

What frightens me so?
Telling me I am the One?
Meeting your toddler?

Or your plan to hold
The wedding at the Nampa
VFW?

Happy Valentine’s Day to the true loves and lovers among you.

Watercolor Friday: Fast and Furious

Life has microscoped into brief seconds. All it takes is one additional obligation or duty or task and I can feel the ends of rope that I had carefully attached my life with, fraying wildly. This week and the next, I have my sister’s dog, Satan, I mean, Carmella, to care for. She’s not a bad dog at all. She’s sweet, lovable, alarmingly cute, and full of energy. But three dogs in the bed makes for no leg, arm or head room.

Work is busier than ever. I’m working on a media campaign that will last throughout the year. It means quite a few print ads to develop and a social media promotion that will consume a ton of time.

In the meantime, I’m scurrying to get at least 10-15 more paintings done for my upcoming gallery show on March 24. It’s exciting. I’m nervous. What if no one shows up? But, there is a press release here. A press release! My very first. And I always thought that the first press release about me might be one announcing my attempt to plummet 23 miles from the atmosphere while blogging.

I wish all of my readers could attend my show. Not so much that I need to fill the gallery, but because it would be delightful to meet you. We’d have a great time. I’d forget how utterly awkward I am around strangers. We could all hang out at the buffet while people make snarky comments about my art. We could pretend to be some avant-garde artsy gang and wear berets and black. People would want to know us!

Instead, I’ll drag my introverted self off to the show’s opening, plaster an enigmatic grin on my face, and constantly stuff my face with hors d’oeuvres just in case someone tries to talk to me.

My latest painting is done – it’s called Louise of Arabia.

Louise of Arabia by Snoring Dog Studio

Up, Up, and Then Down: Daredevil to Plunge 23 Miles to Earth

There are some people who should be asked, and not in a mocking way, “Do you have a death wish?”

And if they reply, “Why, no!” AND they’re having someone make them a special suit so that they can plummet 23 miles to earth, you shouldn’t take their response at face value. Frankly, I never want to use the word “plummet” in conversation. Not plummet, not hurtle, and not daredevil.

Felix Baumgartner is planning his fall to the earth some time this year, I believe. He has a team of people, who must be trying to kill him, working around the clock testing the suit. My feeling is that if you have to wear a special suit to participate in some activity, that activity is far too hazardous for sane individuals to be engaged in. And if that suit is still being tested — meaning it’s not an off-the-rack outfit — then nice people from the psych ward should invite you to spend some time at their facility for a while until you get this fanciful notion of plummeting to earth out of your head.

Regarding the suicide suit test, Baumgartner says, “This test was enormously important for our self-confidence. The success has given us an additional boost to rise to the challenges that still lie ahead.”

Large and frequent shots of heroin would also boost one’s confidence. Follow that up with a fifth of Vodka and you’d be singing and tap dancing your way back to your landing on the cacti in Roswell, New Mexico.

It’s interesting that this is all going to take place in Roswell, near the site of another famous crash landing, that of aliens from another planet. Why can’t Baumgartner learn from the experience of those poor unfortunate souls? Been there, done that, have been made the butt of jokes and bad television for decades, Mr. Rocketman.

The energetic and hyper folks at Red Bull are sponsoring Baumgartner’s death plunge. Here’s a question that Baumgartner’s PR team can ask: how many cans of Red Bull does one have to drink to get up the nerve to jump out of a capsule 23 miles above earth?

Scientists, people who rarely take risks and, instead expect others to do so, are very excited about Baumgartner’s stunt. Of course! They’ll be seated comfortably in lounge chairs below, a can of Red Bull in the built-in cup holder. They’ll be busily scribbling notes onto their clipboards in hopes of publishing articles in scientific journals. There will be graphs. On one axis is speed, on the other, body part spread.

This is all so, so fraught with danger. I don’t care how much pre-testing and simulating is done, you cannot possibly prepare for the unexpected. Before we talk about the unexpected, let’s talk about the expected, however. Expect crashing into a few birds while you’re hurtling to terra very firma, Baumgartner. At 760 miles per hour, I don’t imagine slamming into feathers will feel, well, feathery. It might be the only time feathers feel like a 10 story brick building. That’s gonna leave a mark.

As far as the unexpected: Listen Team Baumgartner: Weather doesn’t just happen outside our front doors. It takes place 23 miles up, too. I bet raindrops falling on one’s head at 760 miles an hour feel like bullets. I don’t need science to figure out that. Pray for good weather.

Team Medical Director, Jonathan Clark, hopes their findings can eventually have an impact on space travel and tourism.

Not on my space travel and tourism, thanks but no thanks. I won’t pay to hurtle downward from the sky just to shave a couple of hours off my arrival time.

“We’ll be setting new standards for aviation. Never before has anyone gone supersonic without being in an aircraft,” Clark said.

That is so funny! Because, of course, we’ve all been hoping and praying that someone will invent personal supersonic travel. Gosh, how I’ll miss the cramped leg room, stale peanuts, and the armrest hog next to me when we all give up flying by plane for this new standard for aviation. No more harrowing runway landings, no more waiting on the tarmac for one’s gate to open up. We’ll all be dropped from the sky to land somewhere near our homes, workplaces or vacation spots. I wonder if the two-baggage limit will still apply.

I can guarantee this: Baumgartner will have the trip of a lifetime. I can also guarantee this: not one iota of scientific discovery, not one inch toward scientific progress would be made if scientists were standing by waiting for me to take a risk. I’ve been uncomfortable just writing a post that includes the words “plummet” and “hurtle.” So, thank you, Mr. Baumgartner, and all you other Baumgartners out there, for being foolhardy enough to take the risks I won’t.

Related articles

• Skydiver Felix Baumgartner planning 36km record bid – BBC News (bbc.co.uk)

Online Dating: It’s Really Just a Dart Board

This morning, a news item on online dating hit the front page of Google news in the Health section. An odd placement, I thought at first. But, perhaps not. Online dating — the entire experience, in fact — can cause serious health effects as well as lasting regret.

Buried further into the article was this paragraph:

One downside to Internet dating has to do with one of its defining characteristics: the profile. In the real world, it takes days or even weeks for the mating dance to unfold, as people learn each other’s likes and dislikes and stumble through the awkward but often rewarding process of finding common ground. Online, that process is telescoped and front-loaded, packaged into a neat little digital profile, usually with an equally artificial video attached. That leaves less mystery and surprise when singles meet face to face.

Are you KIDDING? Less mystery and surprise? Clearly, the author of this news item has never ever experienced online dating for herself.

Like reality TV, news and the labels on cosmetics, when it comes to what men write in their profiles, you can not, and should not, be too hasty to take it all at face value. The English language is a beautiful and powerful thing. It can start wars, end wars, persuade you to spend your last dime on a new brand of mascara and it can lead you to think that what this man wrote in his personal profile is the most remarkable piece of fact and forthrightness. Too often, though, the profiles read as bargain book fiction. You might not believe you need special skills to interpret what you read in these profiles, but, frankly, if you don’t develop and use them, it’s buyer beware AND the shock of your life when you find out he’s a loser addicted to reality T.V. and living in someone’s basement with his pet iguana.

So, don’t be misled by the article author’s words. Here’s a short tutorial on how to interpret a man’s personal profile, offered up through actual examples. The misspelled words are theirs, not mine.

Professional executive, financially secure, looking for a woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to ask for it. Someone who enjoys being treated like a lady.

Welcome to a 21st century Neanderthal nightmare. “Someone who enjoys being treated like a lady” means that you can expect to wear whatever he chooses for you and it won’t be comfortable clothing and sensible shoes. Don’t be surprised to find yourself dressed up as his little French maid one day, Trixie the goodhearted prostitute another day, and June Cleaver on another. He doesn’t believe women have worthwhile opinions or independent thoughts, so don’t bother to express any.

Last I am big on personal hygiene and expect the same from the ideal woman for me. If you are missing something in your life and would like to know more send me your photo and I will return with one of mine so we can chat to check out our chemistry.

He’s “big on personal hygiene.” Heard about obsessive-compulsive disorder? You can’t wash your hands enough for this guy. There’s an antimicrobial wash around every corner in his home. Sex with him likely includes a sterile field complete with gloves, facemask and scrubs followed up by a Betadine wash.

I am a hopeless romantic, candlelight, fine wine, hottubs, massages, erotic chats I believe it is all about the one you are with. I am a viril man with a strong libido and I enjoy all forms of intimacy.

All “forms of intimacy,” huh? You CAN get arrested for having sex in Walmart’s parking lot in broad daylight — you know that, don’t you? His “strong libido” means you’ll be having sex whenever HE wants it. It won’t matter if you’ve just returned home from having your appendix removed, either.

I am looking for a girly girl with a positive personality that has a good body. Please no over weight women because it takes too long and is usually too difficult to loose weight. Do not worry about the size of your boobs or if you are presently a perfect 10 we will fix that part later if you want to. I know 99% of the women on Craigslist (or any other dating site) do not look like the women in the photo. I also know there are no ugly women. There are only poor women who do not have the money to make them look really good. Here is my goal, plan, and fantasy. If we meet each other, like each other, and have some things in common with each other and you later become my girlfriend, I will pay for a professional makeover for you at some of the best beauty spas in Salt Lake. This is a win win arrangement for both of us. You will receive a complete and professional makeover that will make you look like a beauty queen and help boost your self esteem. I get a hot looking girlfriend I always dreamed about! We both win!

We have now plumbed the depths of a truly lost soul. Here’s a 54 year old man whose winning approach is to prey on the frailty and misfortune of unattractive, poor women. He thinks his fantasy can be bought. Maybe it can. I suspect this guy is as homely as a dry creek bed. I suspect, too, that he’s never been in a relationship — not even one with his mother. I’m sure this guy has never been married. There’s a law on the books in his town that forbids it. Did you read the fine print? Before this poor woman gets her transformation, she’s got to become his girlfriend. Then, and only then, will he give her 30 bucks to spend at the makeup counter at ShopKo.

The first thing people notice about me is that I always seem to be in good spirits.

Ladies, he’s drunk or stoned 24-7. He can’t start the day without his beer and cornflakes. Or, he’s as three dimensional as a page off his daily affirmations calendar. Don’t look for depth here. Especially don’t look for honest and deep conversation and a forthcoming nature. He’s explored the lint in his navel more than he’s checked out his own psyche.

I would LOVE someone to CHERISH… who is smiles when they wake up in the morning as she reaches for me knowing I will be there for her to love, and to love her in return. I want to call you from work and let you know that I can’t get you off my mind..how much I love you…how i get tingles when you touch me..and how you make me feel when we are together. Someone who likes to play knowing she can be a goodbadgirl with me and still be respected, worshiped, and adored.

Look up the word “smarmy” in the dictionary and you’ll find this guy’s photo. Then, look up the word “stalker,” because next to that word you’ll find his other photo. Life with him will be a special form of incarceration; yes, you’ll have a better mattress and better food, but no parole or escape, unless you flee in the night while he’s sleeping off the “love potion” he seems to exist on.

I was recently divorced from a heartless cold woman and I am looking for a woman with the heart of gold that I can share my life (good and Bad) with. I am always willing to do whatever it takes within my means to make my partner happy, but sometimes people require you to be rich in order to make them happy (lets call them High maintenance).

He’s recently divorced. In fact, the ink isn’t even dry on the papers. It’s possible that he’s writing this right outside the courthouse. He describes the ex as “heartless” and “cold.” How dare she fail to acknowledge his special manliness and refuse to gut and dress the deer he so bravely fought to the ground? And notice that he’s capitalized “Bad.” That wasn’t an accident. Because this one’s either on parole for domestic assault or his gambling problem is so serious the pawn shop has a special room reserved for all his stuff. He’s pretty up front about his financial status. He’s not rich. Better expect a date where you not only pay for the meal and entertainment, but you also pick him up and pay his motel bill. Let’s call him Not Worth Maintenance.

Listen, if you’re going to venture into online dating, or you’re still looking for that special someone on the Internet, take the time to read thoughtfully. Most of us spend at least a half hour analyzing the email messages sent by a coworker or the status update on our friend’s Facebook page. A person you’re thinking of having a relationship with deserves at least that much scrutiny.

I Met Him Online by Snoring Dog Studio

Obsession, Obsessions and Ghosts

If you’re going to obsess over something, make it worthwhile; be sure there’s an honor bestowed because of it. And this: ghosts should make a sincere effort to be frightful, otherwise they earn nothing but scorn for their bumps in the night.

I read two ghost stories on my vacation this past week and two tales of obsession. Reading at this volume happens only during time off from work and away from my home. My parents’ home is nearly the perfect place to get a lot of reading done. I’m amazed that I can tune out Wheel of Fortune that easily.

I began my short break with A Beautiful Blue Death, by Charles Finch, a badly written mystery featuring the affable Charles Lenox as its main character. Lenox, a gentleman of wealthy means, solves crimes in his spare time. He has a lot of spare time. His butler attends to his every need, his cook feeds him regularly, and his driver shuttles him from one clue to another. Lady Jane, his neighbor, plays a minor role: offering, at frequent and regular intervals, tea and little cakes. In this book, Lenox tirelessly trudges the streets of London, obsessed with finding the killer of a young maid in the service of a wealthy aristocrat. Though it wasn’t his job, and often getting in the way of the police, he was driven to complete his mission. It gave his life meaning. I think had he been less obsessed with being at home in time for tea everyday, the crime would have been solved much sooner and many pages fewer. Another literary criticism: If you’re writing a murder mystery, you ought not to focus so much on what the main character eats unless it’s pivotal to the plot.

I knew that the other book I was going to read also had obsession as its theme; the word was in the title. The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession by David Grann, carried me into the jungles of the Amazon. It’s a fascinating story about Percy Fawcett, a remarkable man obsessed with finding the once opulent and advanced city called El Dorado, code-named “Z” by the explorer. The book is much more than that. It’s a grim accounting of the urgent, zealous desire of men to dominate and subjugate the untamed land as well as the native Indians of the South American jungles.

In the 21st century, our use of the word “obsessed” falls wimpily and superficially into the annals of history compared to what the explorers in the service of the Royal Geographical Society endured to map and investigate the far reaches of the jungles and rivers of Brazil, Bolivia, Paraguay and Peru. I won’t spoil it for you, but I will say this, there will be bugs—awful, horrific pus-creating, maggot-producing, and festering limb-swelling bugs. Your little camping trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area? That was a picnic in your screened-in front porch compared to an hour in the thick jungles of the Amazon.

The first ghost story I read was The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters. I do love a good, scary ghost story. Unfortunately, this one was hardly scary. And the protagonist, Dr. Faraday, was so annoying I wanted to punch him in the neck. I can’t stand a man who can’t take “No” for an answer. And I hate it, hate it, when the dog has to die! Anyway, again, I won’t give away the tale. My sister says it was one of the scariest books she’s ever read. I’m going to urge her to see a doctor for her nervous condition.

The second ghost story I read was Oscar Wilde’s The Canterville Ghost. I’d never read Mr. Wilde before and my introduction to him was a treat. This was less a ghost story and more an amusing contrast between American and British upper class. The main characters refuse to be frightened by the ghost; instead, they push all sorts of American products on him to take care of the noisy clanging of the chains and the ghost’s insomnia. The ghost, Sir Simon, attempts his haunting duties with theatrical panache and flair, with less than satisfying results. It was later adapted as a movie starring Charles Laughton as the ghost.

I recommend each one of these books for your next vacation. Also, I recommend eating lots of chocolate as well. I found my Dad’s stash.

Oklahoma! in Texas and the Neighborhood Psycho

Oklahoma, like Nebraska, is a fly over state, so why anyone would feel inspired to create a musical about the place escapes good sense.

This past week my mom and I went to see and hear the musical, Oklahoma! The name of the musical feels entitled to an exclamation point. What with the furious enthusiasm displayed throughout the play, I suppose it’s justified.

During intermission, I leaned over and whispered in my mom’s ear, “This is the most insipid thing I’ve ever watched.”

But not just insipid — implausible, embarrassingly silly, and just all wrong. It’s part dark comedy and part fantasy. No one gets up in the morning in Oklahoma and sings about how beautiful the morning is. That happens in Hawaii, or California, and perhaps Oregon, but not in OK. What was Curly, the lead, looking at that could have inspired a four minute croon? Cornfields? Prairie dogs? The edge of the world?

All that happy singing, combined with the love story between Lori and Curly, juxtaposed with the sinister role of the antagonist, Judd, who at one point tries to rape Lori, was disturbing. And then add the bit of slapstick between Will and his slutty girlfriend — well, it was quite jarring. I think the actor who played Judd, the spurned ranch hand, was inspired by the role Jack Nicholson played in the Shining.

Anyway, I’m here in Texas visiting my parents. My oldest brother and his family live next door, so I’m thrilled to have been able to see them, too. My mom and I have walked to Target a few times, for exercise and ingredients. She has a good, sturdy cart she bought to carry her purchases. She doesn’t at all seem to mind not driving.

I recaulked the tub in the guest bathroom, I made a chicken soup and beef pot pie, I changed the batteries in two smoke alarms at 3am, and I scrubbed the kitchen appliances. I added one more label to the ones stuck to all the kitchen cabinets and doors to identify the contents within. Mine was “Toaster.” And I met the neighborhood psycho, who called me an SOB for no apparent reason. It’s been a wonderful visit.

At one point my Dad asked me if I’d ever consider moving in with them. I said, “Sure, but you know that would include my two dogs.” He answered by making a face.

Well, that’s that, I guess.

I Have a Troll. I Will Starve the Troll.

Troll (Painting by John Bauer courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

A troll has wandered into the Facebook page that I manage at my workplace. I post something; he, then, makes a long-winded comment with links to other articles for me to read. He says things like,

“In any case, I’ll have to dig up that paper that kind of dismisses your assertion about [fill in the blanks with whatever I’ve posted that moment].”

The experience has been going on for a few days now. It’s utterly tiresome. It’s like high school—trying to avoid the most obnoxious kid in school only to turn away from your locker to find him standing there, again.

Or worse. It’s like being stalked. Whenever I leave my house and try to engage with the community, he’s there, waiting to tell me how much he knows and how little I do.

I’m not the only one he’s stalking. I’ve found him on other Facebook pages of tobacco prevention public health agencies, doing the same thing. I’ve noticed that some of the Facebook moderators humor him, even praise him for offering up his insights and wisdom.

But he isn’t there to help anyone, really. His first goal is to make himself look like the most intelligent, the most well-read person in the room. His second goal is to undermine everything my program’s mission stands for. Worse than that, the outcome is that by constantly providing disagreement, contrary viewpoints, and links to dozens of other sources, the information in a post becomes just one big confusing mess. I have to hope that our fans can sort through it all.

Because, frankly, people who want to quit their addiction to tobacco just want to quit. They want to be rid of the demon. They’re searching for an answer that works for them. It’s unlikely that most of them want to engage in a protracted, back-and-forth argument over which research is the most valid and whether the methodology used was flawed.

A great deal of the fans we have on our Facebook page are young people between the ages of 18-24. I doubt most of these people have the time or the inclination to read journal articles. But they will read the comment left by the Wisest Troll on the Block. And they might be confused, they might not understand a word he says. But they might catch one pseudo-factoid offered up by my Troll and go away thinking, “It isn’t so bad to be addicted to nicotine, after all.”

This is the yin and yang of the Internet. A lot of information is at our fingertips; a lot of information is incorrect, misleading and useless. And there is nothing worse than a single individual, or several individuals, with an agenda who can easily hijack the conversation and take it somewhere else to further their purposes.

It’s a fine line between permitting free discourse and creating an environment in which the primary purposes and messages are lost.

My approach now is to ignore the Troll in hopes that he’ll tire of the one-sided conversation he’s having. I’m prepared to wait him out for as long as I have to. He and his other Troll friends have violated the page’s policy at least a few times. Now I’m waiting on word from a few legal experts to find out if I can block him. According to the Troll Tribe he comes from, they don’t think a taxpayer-funded agency has the legal standing to block people on Facebook. We’ll see.

In the meantime, these comments from the Geeky Guide were comforting at least:

The mistake we all get into is trying to reason with the troll and bring him over to our side of view. But in many cases, the troll has pretty much made up his or her mind and will spend the rest of the discussion enjoying your attempts at changing the situation. But since they’re resolute in not accepting an alternative point of view, the discussion is effectively at a standstill and your repeated attempts (no matter how logical) will fail. And this is what the troll wants – he wants you to give up on reasonable argument and descend into emotional responses like insults and name-calling. And this is where the troll thrives.

Hypocrisy and Self-Righteous Indignation Don’t Mix, Newt

And if you are going to make this about Jesus then little things like the number of wives you divorced in a hospital bed becomes relevant. - Margaret and Helen

And if you’re going to make this about the sanctity of marriage, then little things like adultery and hypocrisy can be swept aside and become your media opportunity to show false outrage and indignation over the evil nature of news reporting.

I loathe Newt Gingrich.

There, I’ve said it. Gingrich is a repugnant, repugnant, vile man. Urging us all to see him as the “smartest man in the room” is like dressing a slop-covered pig in a ball gown. It’s pretty—the rhinestones, the satin, the long train—but underneath it all, it’s still slop and a pig.

Forgive me, pigs. You are a noble beast. I needed a metaphor and you were available.

I wonder sometimes if we Americans have lost the capacity for outrage and disgust. Or, we’re so damn morally “it’s all relative” that we can excuse hideous behavior. We can partition off our disgust into a dark, airless corner where it won’t taint our laissez-faire attitude about our politicians’ behavior and character.

Hypocrisy. You think it mixes well with politics? You want that? Really?

I know how I’d react if we stood by and ignored a thief condemning stealing in others. I know what my reaction would be towards a child molester if he derided unwed mothers for their sinful predicament. And my reaction towards hypocritical politicians who speak out against gay marriage because it violates the sanctity of the institution? Disgust, of course.

I also pledge to uphold the institution of marriage through personal fidelity to my spouse and respect for the marital bonds of others. Newt Gingrich (Yes, that Newt Gingrich.)

It doesn’t matter to me if a person is Republican, Democrat, Independent, or Apolitical. It doesn’t matter to me if a person has never held a political office and is quietly, anonymously toiling away at a factory. Talk the walk. If you’ve walked in the shoes of an adulterer, you don’t have a right to spew indignation and self-righteous anger because someone reminds you that your present opinions about the sanctity of marriage screams loudly in direct conflict with your past.

Okay, you do have a right to behave like a petulant, rageful hypocrite. This is America, after all. Land of the free and the freely repulsive.

Have we so lost our way, though, that we can no longer demand or expect decent, authentic behavior in our politicians? I, for one, never ever said, “Let’s lower the bar. Let’s let the worst of us represent our interests in government.” Which of you just gave up and stopped expecting better?

This is my bugaboo—my inability and refusal to say it’s okay that you’ve been a swine, a cad, a cheater, and a liar if you’re living a life that flies in the face of that, or if you’re falsely honoring an institution that you’ve violated numerous times, AND withholding it from others you believe aren’t fit to experience it.

Redemption. We all love a good redemption story. But Newt’s redemption story is written in the sand. It’s as temporary and insubstantial as chalk on a sidewalk.

And to go along with Newt’s redemption sandwich are huge side orders of deflection, which drew applause from the depraved and the nincompoops in the audience during the last debate. It’s a strategy used by small children, who, upon being told on by a sibling for stealing, shriek, “Johnny is a tattletale! Being a tattletale is bad!”

Some of us fall for that ploy and are distracted from the underlying sin. Some of us don’t.

Sometimes it helps to laugh. Maybe.