Hindsight

STAPLES IS NEVER going to hire me.

I'm lying in bed, thinking over the answers I gave to the company's online questionnaire for potential employees.

I'm not the sort of person who can give unconditional answers. Many times I hesitated between the options "Agree" and "Disagree."

For example, take the statement, "I smile a lot," or words to that effect.

Well, I do smile a lot, on purpose, because it makes those little pouchy things at the corners of my lips go away. Inside, however, I may not be smiling. So, does the statement mean "I smile a lot because I am happy" or "I smile a lot so maybe I can reverse the aging process and look forward to someday getting carded when buying wine"?

I had to answer "Agree" to "I smile a lot," which may give the wrong impression, but there was no instruction to use the back of the page to elaborate if necessary.

The questionnaire had a lot of leadership statements. I tend to think of being a leader as a good thing, while being a follower conjures up images of sheep jumping off cliffs. It hurts to say it, but I am not a natural leader. Still, given statements by Staples such as "People tend to view me as a leader," I had to say "Agree," because I have a great number of people fooled. But to the statement "I tend to follow rather than lead," I also had to mark "Agree."

In fact, filling out the form forced me to confront the fact that my public and private personas don't have much in common and would probably get divorced if they could agree on who gets custody of the id. I think what Staples is going to have to conclude is that I am one confused babe.

The clincher, the statement that I realize sinks my ship, is this one: "People tend to believe what I say." I almost picked "Strongly agree" for that one. What stopped me were memories of people laughing at things I said in earnest, thinking I was joking. If I said to one of my friends, "I LOVE this ballpoint pen!" I would get a laugh. I can't count the times I've had to say, "No, really, I'm not kidding. I love this ballpoint pen."

So I had to say "Disagree" to that one. But if they'd just given me a chance to explain, I would point out that there are just as many times that I have had to assure someone, "I was KIDDING!" It seems that people believe me when I say what to me are totally outrageous things that no one could possibly take seriously, and when I make simple, straightforward observations that to me are obviously heartfelt, people think I'm yanking their chains.

But Staples will only deduce that I am a bald-faced liar and everyone can see through my falsehoods and no one will ever buy so much as a No. 2 pencil from me, choosing to dismiss my assertions that it is, indeed, a No. 2. "See? It says it right there on the side! If you would just LOOK at it!"

It would only take a couple of customers complaining to management before I'd be thrown out. "Yes, ma'am, it was THAT ASSOCIATE over THERE! Tried to tell me a pencil was a No. 2! Lying through her TEETH!"

So, in six months, will I take the test again, making wiser choices? Skewing the answers toward what Staples wants in its product associates?

Probably.

My Little Farm

It has occurred to me that My Little Farm so far has no posts about my little farm.

My first thought is, "Some farm." Today there's a bonfire on the next lot being developed on the private road along one side of my land. My horses are probably going to have to be treated for smoke inhalation.

The name of that private road is "Sunny Way." I am really embarrassed to be living next to a road named Sunny Way. I guess it's better than "John and Marie Drive," as another road in town is named. Still, it sounds far too subdivisiony.

The good thing about that lot being developed is that Sunny Way had to be extended further up the side of my land, so now my back three acres has road frontage. I guess I am going to have to put it up for sale so I can continue to support my husband in the manner to which he has become accustomed.

I'm sorry, I'm kind of down today. Yesterday there was a glitch in getting my prescription and I think the pharmacist was a little wary of me after I said, "So, what do I do? Go off it for 10 days and be angry and irritated?" I think she was afraid I was going to cause a scene. I had to reassure her that it was not a rhetorical question, just an innocent inquiry.

We had a couple of nice days. Now we're back to rain. And the Yankees beat the Red Sox last night in a come-from-behind win. It was ugly. And today the game will in all likelihood be rained out.

I think I will just go back to bed!

Lynn's Brightest Friend

I took the "RPM Challenge" last February and compiled an album of original songs in the specified amount of time. Even though my album -- "Lame Duck Girlfriend" -- is shorter than required, they kindly included it in their Jukebox.

If you'd like to listen to my 5 songs, click on the Lynn's Brightest Friend link at the side of my blog. When you're redirected, scroll down to the band Lynn's Brightest Friend, and then just choose which song to listen to! It's as simple as that!

The sax on "Inspection Sticker Blues" was kindly provided by my nephew Kyle Hardy. I did everything else.

P.S. If you know Willie Nelson, please have him listen to "Savannah Home." It would be perfect for him.

On Comments, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen

A number of you -- oh, why am I being modest? HUNDREDS of you -- have written to complain that you cannot post comments and also to wonder why your name is not in my "People I Have Knewn" listing.

My advice to you: Be patient. My strategy will work. It's working now, actually; it just doesn't look like it. You must trust in me. You must trust that I have your best interests at heart. Even though you tell me what you want, and tell me clearly, I know better. You think you want your name on the list now. You have a perfect right to express yourself. I hear you, but I know better.

Sound familiar? I learned that argument from our president. Oh, I hate that guy. He goes to Australia and touts democratic ideals, I read. Democratic ideals? This from a man who has flouted our own laws, abused his power, quashed our freedoms.

OK, calm down, calm down. Pop a couple pills. Breathe deeply. Relax.

Now, about comments. I believe you may post comments by clicking on "O (or some other number, but probably 0) Comments" at the bottom of each post. I am currently allowing anyone to comment, but that may change if any naughty comments are left. Also, I think you can sort of subscribe to My Little Farm by clicking on the Atom link wherever it appears. It connects you (I think) to the RSS feed.

I think of so many things to write about while I'm doing other things. Then when I sit in front of the computer they flee like lemmings. You can actually see them exiting my head, like dandelion fluff. Here's one that remains however:

I was taking a driver safety class for older people (for the record, I was the youngest person there) and I took an instant dislike to the instructor. He had the annoying habit of posing questions then adopting this smug smile that says, wordlessly, "It's a simple answer, but you'll never get it." He also kept turning to one of the two men in the class for confirmation or elaboration, as though we women weren't on his level. But what really got my goat was when he mentioned that my dark-colored glasses frames were of the type that used to be referred as "birth-control glasses."

Meaning what? That they're so ugly no man could see past them to the fabulously sexy body beyond?

I was stunned but, of course, commented mildy, "They didn't work."

Which got a laugh, but if there had been a scimitar within reach, class would have been quickly at an end while everyone except me searched for a box and ice to pack his severed penis in and called 911 and asked for the mini-limb-reattachment squad.

Oh, the wrath of a woman scorned.

Yesterday I was filling out an online application to work at Staples (I am panicking at my lack of income) and one of the statements I had to agree or disagree with read: "I say whatever is on my mind."

Most people who know me will strongly disagree with my answer, which was "strongly disagree." Contrary to popular opinion, I repress SO MUCH of what I am thinking that I have to have several nightmares a night to compensate.

Wouldn't it be fun to say whatever is on my mind? Take the example of the driver safety instructor. The above scene would be rewritten:

Instructor: "We used to call those 'birth-control glasses.' "

Me: "You stupid f***-wad. Shut the f*** up. Who's your supervisor? I'm going to get you f***ing fired!"

Harsh, but probably more healthful for both of us.

Mozart

Coming up is our major offering for the day, Mozart's Symphony No. 39. The piece was written in 1788, near the end of Mozart's short but musically prolific life, and displays a mature lyricism that foreshadows the grandeur of his two final works.

Back in Mozart's time, it wasn't quite as unusual as it is today to make a living from writing music. Today, many composers survive hand-to-mouth if they quit their day job to pursue their calling. But in Mozart's day there were people called "patrons" who actually employed composers like they'd employ a butler. No home was really complete without its own composer.

Still, Mozart wasn't good with the money he earned and he and his wife Constanza often faced financial difficulty. In the book "Mozart: A Personal View," author Baron von Gottlieb quotes a letter Mozart wrote in which he describes a typical exchange in his household:

"She'll stand in my studio door (Mozart wrote) and harangue me."

Constanza: Wolfgang, what are you doing?

Wolfgang: Writing music.

Constanza (tapping foot): Really? And who is it for?

W: Uh, the emperor.

C: Oh, right; excuse the sarcasm, but has he paid for it up front?

W: No ...

C: Jesus, Wolfgang, we have to live somehow. Why don't you go get a job?

W: I'm a composer! I'm working hard!

C: Well, it's not bringing in any money. The dentist is hounding me to pay for little Wolfie's extractions. How can I pay?

W: Stanzie, I will not commute to a menial job.

C: Really! Too good for honest work, are you? Look, Mother was saying the butcher shop needs help. At least it would pay the rent.

W: For God's sake, Stanzie, get off my case.

C: You could compose in your spare time.

W: Yeah, once I got all the blood washed off. And if I didn't chop my fingers off while preparing pork loin for Frau Schnabelbein.

c: Why don't you just TRY it? It might work out. And FYI, the Schnabelbeins don't eat pork.

Fortunately, Mozart ignored his wife and eventually died penniless from an unidentified illness and was buried in a pauper's grave. Contrary to legend, it was not always unmarked. For years after his death, Stanzie maintained a marker engraved with the phrase, "I told you so."

And now, Symphony No. 39.

Drooling Banjos

The other night I lost my way as I drove home from work at 1:30 a.m. One minute I was barreling down the monster hill 2 miles from home, the next I was tooling along a dark, narrow lane that I didn't immediately recognize, hemmed in by hemlocks on both sides.

I can account for the missing 5 minutes. I was listening to an audiobook which had just reached an exciting part. So wrapped up was I in the story that I was pounding the steering wheel, screaming, "Stephanie's in on it! Stephanie's in on it!" Alas, the protagonist paid me no attention.

As I pounded and screamed, I drove two miles, turned right, went past my own road, stopped at a stop sign, crossed an intersection and drove about another mile. It's scary how I managed all that and yet have no memory of it. But I do remember that Stephanie had a tell-tale tattoo on her inner thigh that was all that was left of her after she was tortured and killed by her former OSS handlers.

It's a good thing the book was over, or I might have ended up in Vermont.

Actually, Vermont sounds pretty good to me these days. I'm having escapist dreams. They come to me whenever I venture into my yard and forget to look away from the pile of junk in front of the 30-by-70 Quonset hut my husband stores his important extra parts in. They come to me when I hear my gelding coughing from excess dust in the paddock. They come to me when the mornings are crisp and clear and the day, now that my daughter goes to public school, stretches ahead of me like a long, intriguing road.

They also come to me when I look at the schedule at my newspaper job and see that I've drawn maybe two four-hour shifts in the coming week. My job is dwindling away to nothing. Everyone who's anyone at the paper is jumping the print publication ship and signing up with the online crew. No one seems to be the least bit interested in the print side of the operation. I'm having what one of my co-workers referred to recently as a "crisis of relevance."

Even I can see that print news just cannot compete with electronic news. I worked the wires the other night -- pulling stories off the news service wires and laying them out for the next morning's edition -- and at the end of my shift, after putting the paper to bed, I visited Verizon Online. Its headlines were pretty much the stories I had just put in the paper. No one need read the paper in the morning. Just power up the computer and they'll get the same thing.

I do find it difficult to accept that eventually print newspapers will not be wanted at all. As a kid I loved spreading the funnies out on the floor to read, and I loved the columns and classified ads and editorial cartoons and the serial Christmas stories. As an adult, I've loved putting them together and reading all the funny stuff that doesn't get in and being part of a newsroom. I don't know what people will read in the bathroom if there are no more print newspapers. I guess they'll have computers mounted directly in front of the john. Now that I think of it, I'm surprised my husband hasn't installed one there yet.

One thing I am sure of, though, is that I don't want to be part of the newspaper Webolution. This is why: Because there are too many people spouting just about everything on the Internet, myself included, and there doesn't seem to be any quality control. Where we expected to be able to trust our print newspapers, where print newspaperpeople committed themselves to earning trust, the Web just doesn't seem trustworthy to me. It seems rampant and wild.

But I suppose I had better get used to fossilization, because that's where I'm headed.

And I thought it was only Vermont!