I have 14 minutes left on this library machine. I wasted most of an hour playing ... well, you know what I was playing.
Scrabble has become kind of a curse word in my family. I'm afraid to say it.
Anyway, we are in Joplin, Mo., where Rex is a presenter at a conference. Kayti and I came out with him because I wanted to check out the area as a possible relocation spot.
So far, I am uninspired. In a gift shop today, where Kayti dragged me for some Webkinz event, I felt like I was speaking a foreign language when I tried to communicate with the clerks.
I'd love to recreate the whole conversation here, but now I have only 12 minutes left.
Suffice it to say, they don't have many people like me out here. This is white-bread country. It's the Midwest. People shine their sinks and clip their hedges and raise good, wholesome citizens. Not that there's anything wrong with that!
Maybe I just haven't run into any pockets of kooks. Where I can feel at home.
OK, down to 10 minutes now.
I had the same problem at the Denny's last evening, where Kayti dragged us for supper. (I stuck with just coffee. The greasy smell alone was an entire buffet to my stomach.) Usually, we get along very well with waitstaff. But at this place, even Rex -- dear, sweet, inoffensive Rex -- put them off.
So, in the 7 minutes I have remaining, let me affirm that this is indeed the Show Me state, as in "Show me the door."
I'm outta here!
xxxoo, Debbi (never Kayti)
Friday, April 25, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
8 seconds
The average time visitors spend at my blog is 8 seconds.
I guess I should be grateful for even that much. It could be worse, right? It's like if I ran for office. Any votes over 1 would give me a very warm, fuzzy feeling. Somebody likes me!
It's interesting to see who is being googled and directed to my blog. One person on my People I Have Knewn list was googled twice this month. And the second time, the search was for a photograph of him.
His name is Jay, he was in my high school class, and the last time I saw him was at our 25th class reunion. And I don't and would never have a photograph of him. Moreover, I can't imagine who would want one!
This is my first memory of him:
To my horror, I had just moved to Dover-Foxcroft. My freshman homeroom at Foxcroft Academy was in the school's cellar, right next to the cafeteria, which stunk to high heaven every day with the worst possible imaginable smells, like pea wiggle gone bad. It probably WAS pea wiggle gone bad. Or Welsh rarebit (is there any schoolchild on Earth who doesn't wonder where the rabbit meat was hidden under the melted cheese on Saltine crackers?).
My homeroom teacher, Mr. Arnold, was a scary, crotchety man who clearly loathed homeroom duties and made us carry giant wooden passes if we needed to go to the bathroom. He had also clearly given up caring what students did during study hall, at lunchtime, or during that murky end-of-day time waiting for the final klaxon to ring, as long as we didn't give him a headache.
So one day -- mind you, I was the very new girl -- I'm sitting at my desk, probably reading, and at the desk in front of me is Jay, an extremely tall, extremely unattractive boy, crude even by Dover-Foxcroft standards. Despite these handicaps, Jay gets a number of other boys to circle their desks around his, and they all proceed to play cards.
Suddenly, as if by some silent alarm only boys can hear, all the boys scoot their desks back and away from the center of their game, like planets spinning out of orbit, laughing and hooting and being totally stupid.
I keep reading, trying to ignore them, and while I'm fairly successful at that, I am not successful at missing the big reason they all scooted away. I'm left there at my desk, inhaling the biggest, smelliest fart I have ever encountered in a group situation.
What am I gonna do? I'm new, I'm a girl (and girls -- at least in that era -- did not act raucously in the face of a fart) and all these ugly hicks are chortling all around me, probably just waiting for me to wrinkle up my pert little nose and back away from what was presumably Jay's emission.
I couldn't give them the satisfaction, so I had to soldier on through the fumes, pretending I noticed nothing, while inside I was just dying from hatred of being in such a gross, rude place with such gross, rude people.
Naturally, Mr. Arnold took absolutely no notice of anything that was going on. He was undoubtedly too busy looking at porn magazines disguised as educational materials catalogs.
At our 25th high school reunion, Jay seemed to have forgotten that incident. I daresay that's because he cut so many huge, crony-pleasing farts in his high school career that he couldn't possibly remember them all. At the reunion he was quite pleasant, actually, although his looks hadn't improved.
I can't tell you why, in one month, two people have come looking for Jay at my blog, or anywhere, for that matter.
But there you go, people. I've given Jay a lot more of my time and thought than I ever thought I would. And next time you're here, if you're looking for Jay, you have a reason to stay longer than 8 seconds.
I guess I should be grateful for even that much. It could be worse, right? It's like if I ran for office. Any votes over 1 would give me a very warm, fuzzy feeling. Somebody likes me!
It's interesting to see who is being googled and directed to my blog. One person on my People I Have Knewn list was googled twice this month. And the second time, the search was for a photograph of him.
His name is Jay, he was in my high school class, and the last time I saw him was at our 25th class reunion. And I don't and would never have a photograph of him. Moreover, I can't imagine who would want one!
This is my first memory of him:
To my horror, I had just moved to Dover-Foxcroft. My freshman homeroom at Foxcroft Academy was in the school's cellar, right next to the cafeteria, which stunk to high heaven every day with the worst possible imaginable smells, like pea wiggle gone bad. It probably WAS pea wiggle gone bad. Or Welsh rarebit (is there any schoolchild on Earth who doesn't wonder where the rabbit meat was hidden under the melted cheese on Saltine crackers?).
My homeroom teacher, Mr. Arnold, was a scary, crotchety man who clearly loathed homeroom duties and made us carry giant wooden passes if we needed to go to the bathroom. He had also clearly given up caring what students did during study hall, at lunchtime, or during that murky end-of-day time waiting for the final klaxon to ring, as long as we didn't give him a headache.
So one day -- mind you, I was the very new girl -- I'm sitting at my desk, probably reading, and at the desk in front of me is Jay, an extremely tall, extremely unattractive boy, crude even by Dover-Foxcroft standards. Despite these handicaps, Jay gets a number of other boys to circle their desks around his, and they all proceed to play cards.
Suddenly, as if by some silent alarm only boys can hear, all the boys scoot their desks back and away from the center of their game, like planets spinning out of orbit, laughing and hooting and being totally stupid.
I keep reading, trying to ignore them, and while I'm fairly successful at that, I am not successful at missing the big reason they all scooted away. I'm left there at my desk, inhaling the biggest, smelliest fart I have ever encountered in a group situation.
What am I gonna do? I'm new, I'm a girl (and girls -- at least in that era -- did not act raucously in the face of a fart) and all these ugly hicks are chortling all around me, probably just waiting for me to wrinkle up my pert little nose and back away from what was presumably Jay's emission.
I couldn't give them the satisfaction, so I had to soldier on through the fumes, pretending I noticed nothing, while inside I was just dying from hatred of being in such a gross, rude place with such gross, rude people.
Naturally, Mr. Arnold took absolutely no notice of anything that was going on. He was undoubtedly too busy looking at porn magazines disguised as educational materials catalogs.
At our 25th high school reunion, Jay seemed to have forgotten that incident. I daresay that's because he cut so many huge, crony-pleasing farts in his high school career that he couldn't possibly remember them all. At the reunion he was quite pleasant, actually, although his looks hadn't improved.
I can't tell you why, in one month, two people have come looking for Jay at my blog, or anywhere, for that matter.
But there you go, people. I've given Jay a lot more of my time and thought than I ever thought I would. And next time you're here, if you're looking for Jay, you have a reason to stay longer than 8 seconds.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Clicking with the Spirits
I am consumed with guilt every time I go to Scrabulous.com. I think, if instead of going to Scrabulous.com, I wrote a few pages on a novel, I'd be selling the movie rights by now. If instead of going to Scrabulous.com, I got on the treadmill, I'd be wearing a size 6 by now. My daughter heaps on more guilt by telling me that I love Scrabble more than I love her.
Yes, I really love playing Scrabble online! It's literally a religion. Here's why I think so:
Once upon a time, I became interested in the Swedenborgians. The original Swedenborg -- I forget his first name -- was unbelievably learned. He was not only a scientist who made major contributions to human knowledge, but also a man of literary accomplishments. Apparently, he was not known by his immediate community as a nutcase.
He claimed to be in contact with spirits who told him what the "other side" was like. And he wrote it all down verbatim, in great detail.
His sources said that in the afterlife, spirits are grouped by a kind of attraction system. If you were a spirit, you'd have constant access to communication with like spirits -- people whom on Earth you'd think of as boon companions, or soul mates, or best friends forever. It's a meeting of passion, I gather; a merger of a deeper commonality.
But these spirits are not locked into our kind of space and time; they are free to travel, bodiless, and maybe even faceless.
As in most of my studies, I soon grew tired of facts (read: something somebody else wrote) and let my mind range free over the possibilities (read: daydreaming). So what I took away from Swedenborg's theories is basically what you just read in the preceding paragraphs.
But doesn't that much sound exactly like the Internet? Bodiless, faceless interaction with spirits with shared passions? Not moving from our desks, yet ranging all over the world, through many time zones (if not yet time periods, like the Mesozoic Era or the Stone Age). Finding souls with whom you literally click?
That's why I find myself ceaselessly gravitating to Scrabulous.com. Not everyone I play is a kindred spirit, but the chances of finding one there are better than, say, in a meeting of the Limerick Historical Society. (Believe me, I know -- I went to a singalong they sponsored, and they weren't singing protest songs.)
And it's faster to get to Scrabulous.com -- and to park there -- than to visit Harvard Square, where I also think kindred spirits are likely to abound.
I'm not a big believer in an afterlife. In fact, I deliberately try not to believe in one, because I think believing in an afterlife gives us license to rationalize treating people badly in this life.
So this meeting of the minds via Internet excites me. I don't have to wait till I die to cavort with all these other people!
So, I cavort on, fulfilling my spiritual needs on Scrabulous.com. It's just another aspect of my life, like music, or animals, or my family. Why shouldn't Scrabble get some time, too?
Well, whether it should or not, it does, and that is that. Guess where I'm going now?
Yes, I really love playing Scrabble online! It's literally a religion. Here's why I think so:
Once upon a time, I became interested in the Swedenborgians. The original Swedenborg -- I forget his first name -- was unbelievably learned. He was not only a scientist who made major contributions to human knowledge, but also a man of literary accomplishments. Apparently, he was not known by his immediate community as a nutcase.
He claimed to be in contact with spirits who told him what the "other side" was like. And he wrote it all down verbatim, in great detail.
His sources said that in the afterlife, spirits are grouped by a kind of attraction system. If you were a spirit, you'd have constant access to communication with like spirits -- people whom on Earth you'd think of as boon companions, or soul mates, or best friends forever. It's a meeting of passion, I gather; a merger of a deeper commonality.
But these spirits are not locked into our kind of space and time; they are free to travel, bodiless, and maybe even faceless.
As in most of my studies, I soon grew tired of facts (read: something somebody else wrote) and let my mind range free over the possibilities (read: daydreaming). So what I took away from Swedenborg's theories is basically what you just read in the preceding paragraphs.
But doesn't that much sound exactly like the Internet? Bodiless, faceless interaction with spirits with shared passions? Not moving from our desks, yet ranging all over the world, through many time zones (if not yet time periods, like the Mesozoic Era or the Stone Age). Finding souls with whom you literally click?
That's why I find myself ceaselessly gravitating to Scrabulous.com. Not everyone I play is a kindred spirit, but the chances of finding one there are better than, say, in a meeting of the Limerick Historical Society. (Believe me, I know -- I went to a singalong they sponsored, and they weren't singing protest songs.)
And it's faster to get to Scrabulous.com -- and to park there -- than to visit Harvard Square, where I also think kindred spirits are likely to abound.
I'm not a big believer in an afterlife. In fact, I deliberately try not to believe in one, because I think believing in an afterlife gives us license to rationalize treating people badly in this life.
So this meeting of the minds via Internet excites me. I don't have to wait till I die to cavort with all these other people!
So, I cavort on, fulfilling my spiritual needs on Scrabulous.com. It's just another aspect of my life, like music, or animals, or my family. Why shouldn't Scrabble get some time, too?
Well, whether it should or not, it does, and that is that. Guess where I'm going now?
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