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?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Lies, Lies, Lies
Having been an advocate for truth for most of my life, I amazed myself this morning by lying to an online Scrabble opponent. And, truth be told, wickedly enjoying it.
He asked me how old I am, and I said, "82." But wait -- that wasn't the good lie. He said, "Really?" and I said, "No. But I feel 82 sometimes." That wasn't the lie, either. In fact, that isn't a lie at all.
Eventually I told him I am 32.
That was the good lie.
Ah, 32. What an interesting age.
When I was 21, working in N.J., I had a brief fling with a man who was 35. I thought he was ANCIENT. He was very funny, and fairly smart, but he had a bit of a belly and lacked that kind of taut, golden body to which I was accustomed in men. At least, the men I slept with.
Of course, now 35 looks pretty young, and 32 is positively infanthood. Everything else that I told my Scrabble partner was true -- that I felt 82 due to too many horseback-riding accidents; that I'm married; that I have a daughter.
So far, so good. Then my friend told me he's 34, married, finds marriage & impending fatherhood "tough." He described himself as a "wild person" who craves freedom. When I commented, "Like Gaugin? You want to run off to Tahiti?" he responded, "Can't do it, so why talk about it?"
I almost shot back that I'd felt the same way at 34; in fact, that I had tried hard through therapy to accept my life as it was, and that I'd finally run off, maybe not to Tahiti, but to plenty of other places and adventures. However, if I was only 32, as I'd lied, he might have questioned how I'd done that at 34. So I zipped my lip in the nick of time, and let him believe that I'm a contented housewife and mother at the ripe old age of 32.
In our ensuing conversation, though, I was conscious of really missing my real life. To think of being married with child at age 32, and to imagine myself following that path, well, to be frank, it gives me the willies. It definitely would not have been me. I would have sublimated my whole self, and probably right about now, I'd be getting a divorce and going in the Peace Corps. Just like Mom!
As it is, I'm SO happy I've led the life, or more precisely, followed the path I have. If I couldn't be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32, I would have been very discontent pretending to be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32. Not, you understand, that I'm mature, secure, etc. at my current age, but it's a better time to be married and a parent -- better for me, for my husband, for my kid.
To me, Tahiti doesn't seem remotely enticing, except that it is warm year-round. Had I been able to offer that guy the wisdom of my experience, I would have said: Do everyone a favor. Go to Tahiti. Be who you are. Jump. Things will work out.
Speaking of jumping, guess what? I was given a choice at the newspaper of going full-time or being laid off. What do you think I chose?
He asked me how old I am, and I said, "82." But wait -- that wasn't the good lie. He said, "Really?" and I said, "No. But I feel 82 sometimes." That wasn't the lie, either. In fact, that isn't a lie at all.
Eventually I told him I am 32.
That was the good lie.
Ah, 32. What an interesting age.
When I was 21, working in N.J., I had a brief fling with a man who was 35. I thought he was ANCIENT. He was very funny, and fairly smart, but he had a bit of a belly and lacked that kind of taut, golden body to which I was accustomed in men. At least, the men I slept with.
Of course, now 35 looks pretty young, and 32 is positively infanthood. Everything else that I told my Scrabble partner was true -- that I felt 82 due to too many horseback-riding accidents; that I'm married; that I have a daughter.
So far, so good. Then my friend told me he's 34, married, finds marriage & impending fatherhood "tough." He described himself as a "wild person" who craves freedom. When I commented, "Like Gaugin? You want to run off to Tahiti?" he responded, "Can't do it, so why talk about it?"
I almost shot back that I'd felt the same way at 34; in fact, that I had tried hard through therapy to accept my life as it was, and that I'd finally run off, maybe not to Tahiti, but to plenty of other places and adventures. However, if I was only 32, as I'd lied, he might have questioned how I'd done that at 34. So I zipped my lip in the nick of time, and let him believe that I'm a contented housewife and mother at the ripe old age of 32.
In our ensuing conversation, though, I was conscious of really missing my real life. To think of being married with child at age 32, and to imagine myself following that path, well, to be frank, it gives me the willies. It definitely would not have been me. I would have sublimated my whole self, and probably right about now, I'd be getting a divorce and going in the Peace Corps. Just like Mom!
As it is, I'm SO happy I've led the life, or more precisely, followed the path I have. If I couldn't be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32, I would have been very discontent pretending to be mature, secure and fulfilled at 32. Not, you understand, that I'm mature, secure, etc. at my current age, but it's a better time to be married and a parent -- better for me, for my husband, for my kid.
To me, Tahiti doesn't seem remotely enticing, except that it is warm year-round. Had I been able to offer that guy the wisdom of my experience, I would have said: Do everyone a favor. Go to Tahiti. Be who you are. Jump. Things will work out.
Speaking of jumping, guess what? I was given a choice at the newspaper of going full-time or being laid off. What do you think I chose?
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Guidance
There's a guidance counselor at my daughter KaTTy's school and the classroom teachers drum up business for her by telling the kids that if there's anything they feel the need to talk about, they can sign up to talk to her.
Naturally, my daughter signed up. I say naturally, but it was a big surprise to me. I don't think of my daughter as "troubled." I think of her as "spoiled." (I was about to say that I, as much as anyone, know that one doesn't have to be "troubled" to see a counselor, but then I thought, "Hell, I was ALWAYS troubled.")
So KaTTy comes home and says, "I went to see Mrs. Dube today."
What did you talk about? I asked.
She told me one item that I thought was a pretty valid subject, regarding hers and my relationship. Then she said she talked about how "our house is messy" and "it's noisy and she can't find anyplace to read" and "my parents never take me shopping or anything."
Upon hearing this, my eyebrows shot into outer space and have not returned since. I know Rex and I view things from the perspective of aging but loving adults, and that KaTTy views things from the perspective of a 9-year-old, but I hadn't realized our points of view were on the first and last pages, respectively, at opposite ends of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Our house is messy? Yeah, because there are 8 million toys stuffed into every conceivable nook and cranny, onto every available surface (including my snare drum and piano) and piled approximately three feet deep onto every floor. It's noisy? Yes, when the four dogs (two of whom KaTTy begged for) are barking at the three cats (one of whom KaTTy begged for) or the three horses (two of whom KaTTy begged for).
As for the shopping, or the "anything" that we never do for her, picture Rex and I scurrying about the house doing permanent backbends from trying to meet her demands. We've also worn out myriad hoops that we've been jumping through -- sometimes several at one leap -- since our daughter was born. In fact, her visit to the guidance counselor came hot on the heels of a rather large clothes-shopping excursion that involved driving two cars a total of 110 miles. I shan't go into details, but I assure you that that was the day my backbone calcified into permanent bendship.
Despite this horrendous track record, I am determined not to become a helicopter parent. I think when KaTTy goes to college, or to whatever life she chooses away from home, I'm going to apply for the witness protection program and get a new identity. I'm a witness. I witnessed my own fall from dignity.
This week I told KaTTy that she's on her own, that Rex and I are not going to help her one little bit. We won't take her to the library, we won't feed her puppy, we won't muck her pony's stall, we won't prepare a special, separate supper for her when she gags at what we've prepared. "What?" she yells, stomping around. "Aren't you going to FEED me?"
You see why I'm reading up on elder-abuse prevention; quick, before she turns 13. I am not joking. Mrs. Dube, take notice.
Naturally, my daughter signed up. I say naturally, but it was a big surprise to me. I don't think of my daughter as "troubled." I think of her as "spoiled." (I was about to say that I, as much as anyone, know that one doesn't have to be "troubled" to see a counselor, but then I thought, "Hell, I was ALWAYS troubled.")
So KaTTy comes home and says, "I went to see Mrs. Dube today."
What did you talk about? I asked.
She told me one item that I thought was a pretty valid subject, regarding hers and my relationship. Then she said she talked about how "our house is messy" and "it's noisy and she can't find anyplace to read" and "my parents never take me shopping or anything."
Upon hearing this, my eyebrows shot into outer space and have not returned since. I know Rex and I view things from the perspective of aging but loving adults, and that KaTTy views things from the perspective of a 9-year-old, but I hadn't realized our points of view were on the first and last pages, respectively, at opposite ends of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Our house is messy? Yeah, because there are 8 million toys stuffed into every conceivable nook and cranny, onto every available surface (including my snare drum and piano) and piled approximately three feet deep onto every floor. It's noisy? Yes, when the four dogs (two of whom KaTTy begged for) are barking at the three cats (one of whom KaTTy begged for) or the three horses (two of whom KaTTy begged for).
As for the shopping, or the "anything" that we never do for her, picture Rex and I scurrying about the house doing permanent backbends from trying to meet her demands. We've also worn out myriad hoops that we've been jumping through -- sometimes several at one leap -- since our daughter was born. In fact, her visit to the guidance counselor came hot on the heels of a rather large clothes-shopping excursion that involved driving two cars a total of 110 miles. I shan't go into details, but I assure you that that was the day my backbone calcified into permanent bendship.
Despite this horrendous track record, I am determined not to become a helicopter parent. I think when KaTTy goes to college, or to whatever life she chooses away from home, I'm going to apply for the witness protection program and get a new identity. I'm a witness. I witnessed my own fall from dignity.
This week I told KaTTy that she's on her own, that Rex and I are not going to help her one little bit. We won't take her to the library, we won't feed her puppy, we won't muck her pony's stall, we won't prepare a special, separate supper for her when she gags at what we've prepared. "What?" she yells, stomping around. "Aren't you going to FEED me?"
You see why I'm reading up on elder-abuse prevention; quick, before she turns 13. I am not joking. Mrs. Dube, take notice.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Little League
I'm not Kayti. My name is Debbi. Kayti's only/9 years old. (Sung to the tune of an old pop tune called "I'm not Lisa.")
It has come to my attention that the name at the end of each blog entry is my daughter's. That's because she has a blog, too, on the same account. But I can attest to the fact that it is I, Debbi, who is writing this stuff. Please direct comments to me.
Kayti -- who, incidentally, has once again changed the spelling of her name, this time to "KaTTy," because she likes to make two capital T's together -- attended a Little League pitching clinic yesterday. She was the only girl among 15 or so boys.
One might think that the reason for this is that girls are not interested in playing baseball, or maybe pitching hardball. After yesterday's experience, I have another theory.
As I signed her up, the man in charge said, "Baseball? Not softball?" I said, "Baseball, right Kayti?" And Kayti nodded.
"Cause not many girls are signing up for Little League," the guy said in a cautionary tone. "They're signing up for softball."
I let that pass without comment.
Then, in the gym, a conversation with another man who apparently was somehow involved with the organization went something like this:
Him: Is your daughter sure she wants baseball, not softball?
Me: Yes.
Him: Most of the girls go out for softball by this age.
Me: Neat.
Him: It's really competitive. You'd be surprised.
Me: Well, Kayti wants to be in Little League.
Him: Just be prepared, because by the time she gets into junior high, she probably won't make the team. (This was IN FRONT of my child!)
Me: Why do you say that?
Him: Oh, there's a big difference in strength at that age.
Me: Well, maybe by the time she gets to junior high, there'll be a girls baseball team.
Him: Maybe!
I have to tell you, I found myself stewing over this conversation the whole hour of the clinic. I discussed it with another mother as we waited in the cafeteria. She said she thought this might be the first year there's a softball organization and that maybe girls were being steered to it, to get it off the ground.
Well, you know, maybe that's true, and maybe it's all done with girls' best interests at heart, but I really think it's no one else's business if my daughter chooses to play hardball. And maybe I'm just paranoid, but I also suspect there may be an undercurrent of "baseball is for boys" in the thinking here.
Hello! We're in the 21st century. We could see a woman president elected this year. Women are winning Nobel prizes in chemistry. Men are having sex changes. Beagles are winning the Westminster dog show! Anything can happen. Gee, by the year 2012, a girl could make the junior high baseball team!
Anyway, I really don't think the probability of making the junior high team has much to do with my 9-year-old daughter wanting to play in Little League. We are not basing today's decisions on how buff Kayti is in seventh grade, any more than we are not preventing third-grade boys from studying math because they probably won't be as smart as girls in junior high.
When I told my husband about the exchange at the pitching clinic, he laughed and said he'd gotten the same spiel from another Little League organizer. "I knew exactly how you'd react," he said. "I said to myself, 'Uh, oh. Debbi's going to get her panties in a twist over THIS one!' "
He's wrong, of course, as he almost always is. My panties, for the record, are not in a twist. A bunch, maybe. But not a twist.
Because if they were in a twist, I wouldn't be able to catch for Kayti as she practices her pitching. And we're going to be doing a lot of practicing. We were both pleased with what she learned in the clinic yesterday, even if she doesn't make the team in 2012.
It has come to my attention that the name at the end of each blog entry is my daughter's. That's because she has a blog, too, on the same account. But I can attest to the fact that it is I, Debbi, who is writing this stuff. Please direct comments to me.
Kayti -- who, incidentally, has once again changed the spelling of her name, this time to "KaTTy," because she likes to make two capital T's together -- attended a Little League pitching clinic yesterday. She was the only girl among 15 or so boys.
One might think that the reason for this is that girls are not interested in playing baseball, or maybe pitching hardball. After yesterday's experience, I have another theory.
As I signed her up, the man in charge said, "Baseball? Not softball?" I said, "Baseball, right Kayti?" And Kayti nodded.
"Cause not many girls are signing up for Little League," the guy said in a cautionary tone. "They're signing up for softball."
I let that pass without comment.
Then, in the gym, a conversation with another man who apparently was somehow involved with the organization went something like this:
Him: Is your daughter sure she wants baseball, not softball?
Me: Yes.
Him: Most of the girls go out for softball by this age.
Me: Neat.
Him: It's really competitive. You'd be surprised.
Me: Well, Kayti wants to be in Little League.
Him: Just be prepared, because by the time she gets into junior high, she probably won't make the team. (This was IN FRONT of my child!)
Me: Why do you say that?
Him: Oh, there's a big difference in strength at that age.
Me: Well, maybe by the time she gets to junior high, there'll be a girls baseball team.
Him: Maybe!
I have to tell you, I found myself stewing over this conversation the whole hour of the clinic. I discussed it with another mother as we waited in the cafeteria. She said she thought this might be the first year there's a softball organization and that maybe girls were being steered to it, to get it off the ground.
Well, you know, maybe that's true, and maybe it's all done with girls' best interests at heart, but I really think it's no one else's business if my daughter chooses to play hardball. And maybe I'm just paranoid, but I also suspect there may be an undercurrent of "baseball is for boys" in the thinking here.
Hello! We're in the 21st century. We could see a woman president elected this year. Women are winning Nobel prizes in chemistry. Men are having sex changes. Beagles are winning the Westminster dog show! Anything can happen. Gee, by the year 2012, a girl could make the junior high baseball team!
Anyway, I really don't think the probability of making the junior high team has much to do with my 9-year-old daughter wanting to play in Little League. We are not basing today's decisions on how buff Kayti is in seventh grade, any more than we are not preventing third-grade boys from studying math because they probably won't be as smart as girls in junior high.
When I told my husband about the exchange at the pitching clinic, he laughed and said he'd gotten the same spiel from another Little League organizer. "I knew exactly how you'd react," he said. "I said to myself, 'Uh, oh. Debbi's going to get her panties in a twist over THIS one!' "
He's wrong, of course, as he almost always is. My panties, for the record, are not in a twist. A bunch, maybe. But not a twist.
Because if they were in a twist, I wouldn't be able to catch for Kayti as she practices her pitching. And we're going to be doing a lot of practicing. We were both pleased with what she learned in the clinic yesterday, even if she doesn't make the team in 2012.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Little Housekeeping On The Prairie
I got a comment! I got a comment! Thanks, whoever sent it!
I reviewed it, approved it and tried to publish it long ago, but it didn't appear in the blog because I didn't select it before hitting Publish. For heaven's sake, why should I have to select it? It was the only one there!
It has been forever since I wrote, and the reason is that I got a comment (a comment!) telling me I should write more often -- or else! It was the "or else" that affected my subconscious, which does not respond well to threats. It (my subconscious) gets all stubborn and huffy.
Of course, that's not the only reason I haven't written. The other reason is ONLINE SCRABBLE.
Why would I sit and laboriously pull thoughts out of my cobwebby brain and organize them in a blog entry that practically nobody reads, when I can sit and toss handfuls of well-arranged tiles onto a Scrabble board, 24/7 if I choose, playing opponents at whatever level of cleverness I choose, some of whom are actually standing in line for me to play them? If there is a heaven, this has got to be it!
Here's how it works. You go to scrabulous.com and register. Then you sign in, click on a room, invite someone to play with you. You can have a chat with your opponent while you play, or ignore him/her completely while you concentrate on not running out of time or on creating your third seven-letter word in a row.
So far, almost all my opponents have been very nice. That changed a couple days ago when I played this guy who kept beating me and asking me for rematches. Now, I have to say that I was not in my best form. I had the flu and was very groggy from working late the night before. So not only was I playing badly (and getting lousy letters, I might add), but I was extremely vulnerable emotionally.
You perhaps can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing our third game, this guy, whose user name is something like glennng2447 (not sure about the numbers), wrote, "You should take up tiddlywinks or hopscotch." I shrugged it off, thinking the guy had a somewhat mean sense of humor. But then he wrote, "You are a really bad Scrabble player." I couldn't believe it! What kind of person needs to dump on someone he's just beaten three times?
My first reaction was to feel crushed and hurt; my second was, in the Scrabulous tradition of using text message abbreviations for everything, fu and thycio. Can't use that kind of language on Scrabulous, though, so I resorted to a milder expletive and resolved to not get mad, get even.
So I'm formulating ways to sabotage this person, to humiliate him, to force him to his knees and beg for mercy. It's kind of fun.
Please come play with me. I'm stickfarmer, of course. You can generally find me in Bingo Boomers or The Lounge. But no tricks! Don't yank my chain! You'll be sorry!
I reviewed it, approved it and tried to publish it long ago, but it didn't appear in the blog because I didn't select it before hitting Publish. For heaven's sake, why should I have to select it? It was the only one there!
It has been forever since I wrote, and the reason is that I got a comment (a comment!) telling me I should write more often -- or else! It was the "or else" that affected my subconscious, which does not respond well to threats. It (my subconscious) gets all stubborn and huffy.
Of course, that's not the only reason I haven't written. The other reason is ONLINE SCRABBLE.
Why would I sit and laboriously pull thoughts out of my cobwebby brain and organize them in a blog entry that practically nobody reads, when I can sit and toss handfuls of well-arranged tiles onto a Scrabble board, 24/7 if I choose, playing opponents at whatever level of cleverness I choose, some of whom are actually standing in line for me to play them? If there is a heaven, this has got to be it!
Here's how it works. You go to scrabulous.com and register. Then you sign in, click on a room, invite someone to play with you. You can have a chat with your opponent while you play, or ignore him/her completely while you concentrate on not running out of time or on creating your third seven-letter word in a row.
So far, almost all my opponents have been very nice. That changed a couple days ago when I played this guy who kept beating me and asking me for rematches. Now, I have to say that I was not in my best form. I had the flu and was very groggy from working late the night before. So not only was I playing badly (and getting lousy letters, I might add), but I was extremely vulnerable emotionally.
You perhaps can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing our third game, this guy, whose user name is something like glennng2447 (not sure about the numbers), wrote, "You should take up tiddlywinks or hopscotch." I shrugged it off, thinking the guy had a somewhat mean sense of humor. But then he wrote, "You are a really bad Scrabble player." I couldn't believe it! What kind of person needs to dump on someone he's just beaten three times?
My first reaction was to feel crushed and hurt; my second was, in the Scrabulous tradition of using text message abbreviations for everything, fu and thycio. Can't use that kind of language on Scrabulous, though, so I resorted to a milder expletive and resolved to not get mad, get even.
So I'm formulating ways to sabotage this person, to humiliate him, to force him to his knees and beg for mercy. It's kind of fun.
Please come play with me. I'm stickfarmer, of course. You can generally find me in Bingo Boomers or The Lounge. But no tricks! Don't yank my chain! You'll be sorry!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Failure
Hello, faithful readers. I have bad news: I have forgotten how to access the editing tools for my Web site. Therefore, I am unable to write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog.
It seems this computer defeats me at every turn.
But I'll do the Pollyanna thing and find the "glad" in it. The glad is that I can't write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog. Glad for YOU, anyway.
It is the end of January and we have just a couple more months of winter. It has already gone on way too long. If I hadn't been raising seven puppies I don't know how I would have occupied myself thus far.
Some people are critical of those like myself who actually spawn puppies on purpose. This is the first time I've given in to the urge, and I've learned a lot.
(Pause)
I'm sure you thought I was going to launch a list of things I've learned. Fooled ya! Much as I'd like to do that, I shall refrain at the moment, because I have sat here long enough, playing Scrabulous, mostly. Plus, it's your Christmas present.
So enjoy. If any of you would like to know what I have to say about puppy raising, send a self-addressed email or SASE. Operators are standing by.
It seems this computer defeats me at every turn.
But I'll do the Pollyanna thing and find the "glad" in it. The glad is that I can't write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog. Glad for YOU, anyway.
It is the end of January and we have just a couple more months of winter. It has already gone on way too long. If I hadn't been raising seven puppies I don't know how I would have occupied myself thus far.
Some people are critical of those like myself who actually spawn puppies on purpose. This is the first time I've given in to the urge, and I've learned a lot.
(Pause)
I'm sure you thought I was going to launch a list of things I've learned. Fooled ya! Much as I'd like to do that, I shall refrain at the moment, because I have sat here long enough, playing Scrabulous, mostly. Plus, it's your Christmas present.
So enjoy. If any of you would like to know what I have to say about puppy raising, send a self-addressed email or SASE. Operators are standing by.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Christmas Card Hell
You cannot imagine how difficult it is for me to do Christmas cards. Many people breeze through the process; some even have a stamp made with their signatures on it -- "Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex" -- and simply assembly-line box after box. How can they do that?
This Christmas, I almost found out. I took two boxes of cards, retrieved a relatively new list of addresses, and forced myself to open each card and callously write, "Love, Debbi, Rex, Kayti and the other 28 animals here at the Stick Farm," with nary a thought as to who might be receiving it. Then I addressed envelope after envelope, callously going down the list of addressees and consciously willing myself to not think of the recipients lest I be moved to write a few extra lines with some fond or funny remembrance.
A smart person would have just (again, callously) stuffed the cards into the envelopes, added postage and put them in the mailbox. Had I done that, the cards would have been received well before the appointed holiday. Apparently, though, "smart" and "Phi Beta Kappa," "magna cum laude" and "summa cum laude" are not synonymous.
No, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to whip up a tiny little letter to accompany the cards, and, what's worse, aspire to include a tiny little picture. I knew it was a mistake, but I couldn't help myself.
Why was it a mistake, you ask? Several reasons:
A. My computer and its printer are not on speaking terms. They have crossed their respective arms and turned their respective backs to each other, and no amount of begging on my part can repair the relationship. So any documents, such as the aforementioned Christmas letter, must be emailed to someone who can print them out.
B. My husband, Rex, is the keeper of the digital camera, and he won't let me use it. I don't blame him; I've lost a number of digital cameras and/or the batteries that energize them. But it's quite inconvenient to have to set up a photo shoot.
C. My computer and Rex's digital camera are not on speaking terms, either. Rex is a very busy man, and uploading pictures and pasting them into my Christmas letters is not high on his priority list.
D. Once the letter is actually printed and copied, it's been so long that I have to spend a few days locating the cards and envelopes.
E. Finally, there is the folding and stuffing to do, and then one must acquire and apply postage, and dig up one of the 8,000 or so sheets of return-address stickers that I've received over the past year (never responding with a donation, of course) which have disappeared into some parallel universe, apparently.
F. Did I say "finally"? Silly me. The last, and possibly most crucial, step has arrived: dropping the envelopes into a mailbox.
By now it is past New Year's, and, as in most years, I'm tempted to say, the heck with it. Nobody wants to hear from me, anyway.
But I've come so far, and the effort has been so Herculean and has involved so much cooperation, however reluctantly given, and coordination, that I do eventually remember to stop at a post office. By now, of course, I have to comb the car for the envelopes, which were on the passenger front seat for the longest time, but migrated downward and backward in a poignant attempt to mail themselves.
If only I could have resisted writing the letter, how much happier we all would have been! Remind me next year.
Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex
This Christmas, I almost found out. I took two boxes of cards, retrieved a relatively new list of addresses, and forced myself to open each card and callously write, "Love, Debbi, Rex, Kayti and the other 28 animals here at the Stick Farm," with nary a thought as to who might be receiving it. Then I addressed envelope after envelope, callously going down the list of addressees and consciously willing myself to not think of the recipients lest I be moved to write a few extra lines with some fond or funny remembrance.
A smart person would have just (again, callously) stuffed the cards into the envelopes, added postage and put them in the mailbox. Had I done that, the cards would have been received well before the appointed holiday. Apparently, though, "smart" and "Phi Beta Kappa," "magna cum laude" and "summa cum laude" are not synonymous.
No, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to whip up a tiny little letter to accompany the cards, and, what's worse, aspire to include a tiny little picture. I knew it was a mistake, but I couldn't help myself.
Why was it a mistake, you ask? Several reasons:
A. My computer and its printer are not on speaking terms. They have crossed their respective arms and turned their respective backs to each other, and no amount of begging on my part can repair the relationship. So any documents, such as the aforementioned Christmas letter, must be emailed to someone who can print them out.
B. My husband, Rex, is the keeper of the digital camera, and he won't let me use it. I don't blame him; I've lost a number of digital cameras and/or the batteries that energize them. But it's quite inconvenient to have to set up a photo shoot.
C. My computer and Rex's digital camera are not on speaking terms, either. Rex is a very busy man, and uploading pictures and pasting them into my Christmas letters is not high on his priority list.
D. Once the letter is actually printed and copied, it's been so long that I have to spend a few days locating the cards and envelopes.
E. Finally, there is the folding and stuffing to do, and then one must acquire and apply postage, and dig up one of the 8,000 or so sheets of return-address stickers that I've received over the past year (never responding with a donation, of course) which have disappeared into some parallel universe, apparently.
F. Did I say "finally"? Silly me. The last, and possibly most crucial, step has arrived: dropping the envelopes into a mailbox.
By now it is past New Year's, and, as in most years, I'm tempted to say, the heck with it. Nobody wants to hear from me, anyway.
But I've come so far, and the effort has been so Herculean and has involved so much cooperation, however reluctantly given, and coordination, that I do eventually remember to stop at a post office. By now, of course, I have to comb the car for the envelopes, which were on the passenger front seat for the longest time, but migrated downward and backward in a poignant attempt to mail themselves.
If only I could have resisted writing the letter, how much happier we all would have been! Remind me next year.
Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex
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