Summer Olympics Op-Ed

I love the Olympics. I really do. I love learning about the host country, watching the sporting events, and hearing the stories of the athletes' dedication, injuries, and success stories. I had a Dorothy Hamill haircut in the 70's and remember the excitement of the 1984 Los Angeles games when Mary Lou Retton's vault was awarded a 10. But here's what I don't get. Ping pong. Did the ancient Greeks deem ping pong so glorious that it should be included in their games?  The internet tells me that ping pong, or table tennis if I want to be professional about it, was not an Olympic sport until 1988. The games were in Seoul, South Korea that year.  Maybe it happened at the insistence of the host country, as it seems to be very popular among Asians. Not that you have to be Asian to play ping pong - excuse me, table tennis - but like the fields of medicine or fancy engineering, Asians are clearly better at it than everyone else.

And then there's Trampoline. Why is trampoline its own Olympic event? It seems logical to me that the trampoline would be an apparatus for gymnasts, regular gymnasts, but for some reason, they are separate at the Olympics. And by 'regular' gymnastics, I mean 'artistic' gymnastics, not rhythmic gymnastics. And rhythmic gymnastics aren't even gymnastics, they are dance. Why isn't dancing an Olympic sport? And where does synchronized swimming fall? NOBODY even knows what we are watching when that shit comes on. I'm secretly embarrassed for synchronized swimmers.If you are REQUIRED to wear nail polish and flamboyant water-proof make-up to win a medal, it's not a sport.

Even among the "real" sports, I get confused why all the events are necessary. Running includes 100 meters, 200, 400, 800, 1500, 5000, 10,000 meters all with or without hurdles for each gender. Add the team relays and marathon and steeplechase. Swimming is even worse with all the distances for each stroke style. It's dizzying. And all the heats and qualifying races - Lord, by the time I watch all the quarterfinals and semifinals and prelims and whatever, I am over it. I am asleep in time for the 10 or 20 second final relay at the end of the night where Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt are gilded and shown 400 times in instant replay replay replay replay.

And let's not forget how sexist the Olympic games are. Two words: Beach Volleyball. There's more crack at a woman's beach volleyball match than in a Colombian drug cartel. Are we not all wondering how those bikinis STAY ON? When Kerri Walsh Jennings dives, I am surprised EVERY TIME that her panties don't go flying into the stands. And why do women regular gymnasts - excuse me, artistic gymnasts - have 4 apparatus (apparati?) on which to compete and men have 6? Therefore the men have more opportunities to medal. I am pretty sure Simone Biles could handle the pommel horse (or trampoline) if given the chance, even if her heiney hangs out of her sexist glittery one-piece while Danell Leyva and the men's team get to wear shorts. Why do the women only have the heptathlon but the men get a decathlon? For the sake of feminism, let's equal things up a bit. We can do it, ladies!

If we did away with some events, we could add others like Dodgeball and Kickball. Dodgeball requires much more athleticism than pistol events or table tennis. If you are not going to make dodgeball or kickball Olympic events, why do they hammer them home in elementary school?  As Americans, we might be better off teaching trampoline in the third grade. Then again, maybe pistol and table tennis are more our speed because we can gobble McBurgers and fries during training.

And don't forget about the - wait! It's 8:00!  Prime time coverage is about to begin! It's time to watch. I love it. I really do. I wish there were 100 things different about it, but it's wonderful and exciting and emotional and educational and inspirational. The theme is playing! IT'S ON! IT'S ON! I CAN'T WAIT TO WATCH HANDBALL AND DRESSAGE!  Da Daaaaa Da Da Da Da Da, Dum Dum-Dee-Dum Da Da Da Da-Da Da Da......

Refrigerator Casserole

It's 1:00 on a lazy Saturday. A VERY lazy Saturday, because I am still in my pajamas. And hungry.  I assess the contents of the refrigerator and make a mental note: Go grocery shopping today. There is nothing in there but lonesome scraps. That's okay, I can always forge a meal from scraps. It's one of my personal talents.

There was half of a raw onion, Cool Whip, 10 day old steamed broccoli, Greek yogurt, jam, assorted cheese and a thousand condiments (Marty has a condiment problem). And there were the chicken tidbits I picked out of my Trader Joe garlic udon noodles earlier in the week. (There was too much chicken; I am mostly into the noodles.)  Bingo! I will make chicken noodles. With broccoli and cheese and a random condiment. Everything is good with noodles.

Before

I microwaved the chicken and broccoli, boiled some linguine, and mixed it all together with parmesan and maple chipotle finishing sauce that is no less than 3 years old.

After

I can't let anything spoil because I can't throw food away. I can't. It's a neurosis. An illness. My hard-wiring. I was brought up this way.  My mom's people were resourceful Mennonite farmers and to waste is to sin. I cannot sin in the kitchen. Anywhere else I'm okay to sin galore, but I CANNOT THROW AWAY FOOD!

Many times I catch myself calculating the age of leftovers and determining when I need to eat them before they mold or transform into a liquid. Marty will watch me settle down in front of a microwaved plate of two week old lasagna with a side of last week's spinach fritatta. He calls these combos and creations Refrigerator Casserole, and he does not partake.  He will say, offended by my delicacies, "Does that even TASTE good?" Sometimes, no, but that's not the point. He doesn't get it.  Very few people do.  And I've never had food poisoning either (except for the time I made my own oyster stew).

Was today's Refrigerator Casserole tasty?  Maybe not, but my dessert of Cool Whip and chocolate chips was scrumptious.

Waffle House Bargain

Rebekah and Dorothy (Reb & Dot) delight us from time to time by stopping in for an overnighter with or without their boys. We are conveniently located halfway between their home and Reb's family, normally a 10-hour trip. They are the most polite guests ever. They even travel with their own scented candle to burn in our bathroom because, as Reb puts it, "Boys are stinky." I doubted that a 7 or 14-year-old can create a stench in the bathroom worse than Marty's. "You'd be surprised," Reb replied. Dot nodded, and the look in her eyes made me a believer.

This time, Reb and Dot planned to overnight with us, but got a very late start. Although the boys were not with them for this trip, they didn't make it too far south before stopping overnight. "Maybe we can meet for breakfast instead?" they offered, "We have your quilt rack."

Oh crap. I forgot about that quilt rack. Reb offered it on Facebook for 40 bucks months ago, and I said I'd take it. I'd been looking for a nice one to display my great-grandmother's quilt. Our house is actually a little out of the way for them. Staying overnight is a convenience, but given their late start I knew it would be more convenient for us to meet them along interstate 77 in the morning. It would take us only a half hour to get there - no biggie. They selected a Waffle House and texted the address. Our text messaging in the morning went something like this:

Reb:  We are hitting the road. See you at 11:15.

Me:  (10:54 a.m.) Damn construction delays. We are stopped, of course.

Reb: (11:05 a.m.) We're here. Moving yet?
Me: Order without us; don't let us hold you up. GPS says we still have 30 miles.
Reb: Gotcha.

Me: (11:15 a.m.) GPS still says 30 miles.
Reb: On a Saturday? Are they at least working on the road?
Me: Don't know. Still merging.
Reb: Oh joy. Lord. We'll leave it in the grass by the parking lot for you.
Me: Sounds perfect. This better be an amazing quilt fuckin rack. <smile emoji>

Me: (11:26 a.m.) I have to poop.
Reb: Eeewwwwwwwhhhh. I'm eating. You shouldda done that at home.

Me: (11:37 a.m.) Finally moving!
Dot: Are you talking about traffic or your bowels?!?
Me: Does it matter?

Me: (11:50 a.m.) 8 more miles!
Reb: Waiting for you in the parking lot. Got an offer of $75 for the quilt rack.
Me: SELL IT! I'm only willing to do $40.
Reb: Are you sure?
Me: YES! I would do it to you in a heartbeat.

And this is how it came to be that Reb & Dot got $75 richer by selling a quilt rack to a creepy stranger in a Waffle House parking lot, and how Marty and I drove 30 miles in 90 minutes to NOT have breakfast with our friends, AND return home empty-handed. After exchanging hugs and brief family news, they continued south, leaving Marty and me waving from the parking lot.

Furniture sales - Reb & Dot's next career.

Resolutions Update: Community

This year, I created not one, but several New Year's Resolutions geared toward personal growth. Since the year is now half over, I thought it was time for an update on the most complicated one: make a difference in the life of a stranger. It has been fun! Here is a report on the first 4 events in the Community category. "Paying it forward" feels good and is fun! Most of the time...

Retriever Aid.  Earlier this year, I posted about the Retrievers. I wonder how they are doing now?

Gave Blood.  Kathleen's church sponsored a blood drive, and I signed up. Donated blood provides immediate relief to a stranger having a bad day - goal met, and free! But sometimes I get queasy while bleeding into a pint bag, and once I passed out. It's not my favorite thing. However Dad's final surgery required 100 pints of blood, which blows my mind. Adult humans only have about 10 pints in their veins on a given day. In my lifetime I will never donate the amount of blood needed for a single surgery like dad's. I had NO queasiness or other emergencies at Kathleen's church, and enjoyed home made churchlady baked goods at the recovery table. What a good day. And a special thank-you to the universe for the women of the world who bake for charity.

Tony's Tip.  Marty took me out for a wonderful birthday dinner. Our food and service were excellent. I had a question for the server, Tony, about Albariño wine. He knew all about it, I tried it, and it was delicious. Tony advised Marty to order a cup of their rib eye chili - he loved it! After reading the dessert menu, I asked him what's the difference between chantilly, whipped cream and creme fraiche - he explained! Tony cleared our dishes promptly, and de-crumbed our table before coffee. My chantilly-drizzled coconut cake came with a lit candle on it (cute!), but no singing (thank God!). We left an obscene wad of cash on the table for him and skedaddled before he discovered it.

Hydrangeas.  This week, I filled a Ball jar with blooms from my hydrangea bush and left them on the sink in the ladies bathroom at work. After heating my lunch, I passed several residents (I work in Pediatrics) leaving the bathroom remarking how pretty the flowers were. Between our afternoon meetings, Jodi used the john and afterward said to me, "Did you see the flowers in the bathroom? I bet Diane did that. That's something Diane would do."  I replied, "Yes, probably Diane."

Fail: One Sunday, I cleaned out the freezer at the office. Two weeks prior, I put an anonymous note on the freezer door, asking coworkers to label all their food, or toss what they don't want prior to the cleaning. Thankfully, most of it was gone/labeled by the time I cleaned the freezer, revealing melted horrors on the left side - a strange, orange syrupy mess. A box of unclaimed heat-and-eat rice was frozen to it. I scraped and scraped at the mess until a gleaming freezer emerged. I would have needed a hazmat suit in another department, but our freezer was free from biologic samples and body fluids. Several handfuls of freezer burned and unclaimed food went into the trash. The 2 expired Lean Cuisine meals, I took home and ate later of course. So far, this freezer endeavor was the only random act of kindness that I did not enjoy. It was hard for me to remain cheerful and I found myself cursing careless colleagues, ruining the spirit of the task. Shame on me.

There are 6 months remaining in the year to find more opportunities to make a difference in someone else's life. I can't wait to see what inspires me!

The Eeyore Within

I have a (former) friend who is a complainer. I call her Eeyore behind her back. Eeyore, if you recall, is the donkey from the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and all his friends live. Eeyore is perpetually unhappy, complaining about everything. Being around Eeyores zaps my energy and brings me down. What a drag. Don't they notice they are sucking the air from the room? What my friend has taught me, is that I never want to be an Eeyore.

Of course sometimes I feel like Eeyore, I think we all do. Life gets complicated and makes us weary. When someone asks, “How’s it going?” it's so much easier to say “This sucks," than "I'm full of joy today!" and break into song. Yes, finding inspiration in the daily struggle is often a chore. In my line of work, I meet medically fragile children. It’s a privilege. When I am feeling Eeyoreish, I think of those children and I remember that my worst day is still pretty good compared to their situations. Sometimes I think about Tina.

Tina was 16 when she was diagnosed with bone cancer in her arm. Even after chemotherapy and radiation, she needed an amputation. To make things worse, she would need it amputated at the shoulder joint which would mean no prosthetic would be possible. She would live the rest of her life with 1 arm. But Tina and her family were gracious and grateful. They were SO pleased that the amputation would saveTina's life. Prior to surgery, Tina went to Glamour Shots as bald as could be, and posed in a tiara and sleeveless blouse, showing off both arms as a perfect pair for one last time. She was beautiful. She hung this picture on her hospital door to share with the nurses during her stay when they cut off her arm. She never once complained. She remained optimistic and cheerful right until the end. As a reminder of her spirit, her family buried her in the sparkling tiara a week before her would-be graduation.

As sad a story as that is, I am inspired by Tina. She reminds me that no matter how bad things feel, my problems are always petty and life is wonderful and amazing every minute I get to live it. Even with its heartbreak, its complexities, life is a GIFT! We get to wake up every day and unwrap its mystery. None of our problems today or tomorrow are as big as Tina’s. We have nothing to complain about.

Other times, I think about the Watsons. They are parents to four children, two girls and two boys. The girls are healthy, but both boys have a genetic condition called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Their condition has progressed so they cannot move at all, except their eyes. They need ventilators to breathe. They are 5 and 2 years old. I recently spoke to their mother, Erica. Erica remarked to me how blessed they are as a family; how fortunate their family is, and how happy they are. I said “Erica, this is remarkable to me – with your sons fighting for every breath, how do you find yourself blessed?” She said, “When our first son was born, they told us it would be a miracle if he lived to be 5. He did. We are the parents of a miracle and we are so happy about that.” Erica inspires me. To find so much good in so much tragedy is uplifting.

When I feel my Inner Eeyore start to surface, I remember the struggles of Tina and the Watsons. The more I squash the urge to complain about life, the easier it gets. I’m not going to lie – I still have some work to do. I still complain. But I recognize that complaining forces me to dwell on the negative, and letting it go sets me free. When I feel good, I notice people around me feel good. Erica’s attitude is contagious! Tina’s spirit is contagious! Every time I think of them or tell their stories, I feel inspired to be a better person. To complain less. To not sweat the small stuff.  My worst day is still a pretty good day.

The Yellow Bus

I was reminded today of Grandpa’s yellow bus. I saw an old school bus parked in a field with long grass growing up around it. I thought about my Grandpa's bus.

After he retired from farming, my mother's dad drove a school bus for Conestoga Valley School District. He would back it into his driveway at the end of the day, and park it in the same place. He used to keep a large wedge of wood under the rear tire, although it didn’t appear to me that the bus would ever roll anywhere.

I loved that yellow bus. It was a funhouse to me! Grandpa kept the sliding doors slightly ajar, but I was small and had a hard time prying the rubber flaps open to hop aboard. The steps were high and black, and the driver seat was big. I would sit tall in that big seat. He kept a lightweight jacket on the seat-back, and sometimes I would wear it while I pretended to drive the bus. I adjusted the giant overhead mirror so I could see all the way to the back. For many years, my feet could not reach the pedals, but it didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I could flip all the bright red and yellow switches to make the lights work - headlights, tail lights, hazard lights, warning lights – who knew which was which? Over and over the flashing switches would blink on and off, making a ticking sound like the turn signals, and I would pretend to drive that bus. As best I could, I shifted the long, metal gear shift and flashed those lights, stopping to let imaginary kids in and out of the door with the big black flaps. To close the doors, I had to leave my driver seat and use two hands to maneuver the heavy silver handle. No matter what, I figured as long as that big block of wood was under the tire, I would be okay.

I would run fast up and down the aisle just for the sake of it. Sometimes I would tap the tops of each seat as I ran by to see how fast I could go without missing a seat. And sometimes I would jump out the emergency exit at the back because there was a pretend fire.

Grandpa always kept his bus very clean, and it smelled like vinyl and rubber. I would go from seat to seat and flip the cushions up from the back to find combs, barrettes, chewed gum, sticky dirt-covered sourballs, and pencils in the cracks. I never found money like I wanted to. I also never understood why Grandpa could keep a drawer full of candy in his desk in the house, but never any on that yellow bus for me to eat.

Then there was Easter. Never fail, every year an Easter egg was ALWAYS tucked inside the bus's exhaust pipe for us to find on our hunt. Sometimes there was an egg on the bumper or the tire, but never inside the bus.

Me finding Easter eggs behind the yellow bus, Easter, 1974. 

I remember riding with him one day, in the afternoon. I sat in the seat behind him, against the window. I could look up in the overhead mirror and see Grandpa’s face. I was very quiet, and nobody sat with me that day. Two big kids, probably 5th graders, tapped my head and I turned around in my seat. They asked me what my name was, and if I was a boy or girl. I told them I was a girl and my Grandpa was the bus driver. I must have been five, because that was the year I had a boyish Dorothy Hamill haircut. They were nice, and one of them gave me a ruler. I don’t remember if it was the same time or another time when I was riding the bus, that Grandpa told the kids to behave. Since I was in the front seat I didn’t know what was going on in the back, but I know Grandpa was mad. He told those kids to sit down or he was turning that bus around and going back to the school – Is that what you want? To go back to the school and have your parents come for you??  I was scared because I never heard Grandpa with anger in his voice before that, and probably never after that. Things must have resolved, because he didn’t turn the bus around. I sat there, riding in the seat behind him, watching his face in the overhead mirror. One by one the kids got off the bus until it was just me and Grandpa, riding home.

I was 12 when he died, and the yellow bus disappeared from his driveway. It left behind strange shallow oval divots in the pavement where the tires used to be - a quiet tribute in the blacktop to the man and his bus.

My grandparents, me, and the yellow bus in the background. There are only
two bus pictures in my entire album, both from the same day in 1974.

Myrtle's Gift

In the year since dad's death, some unexpected items have turned up around the house as mom sorts through his belongings. Among them are a pair of new-in-the-box river waders, countless pocket knives, and someone's gold crown (as in dental work, not royalty). "What do I DO with all this?" Mom often asks. Most of the pocket knives went as family Christmas presents. The gold crown went for scrap ($21!). The river waders are still up for grabs.

Another strange item was a ring. Mom asked me to look at it. "Have you ever seen this before?" she asked. It was a man's ring with a black Trojan or Roman soldier on it. Not my area of expertise.

"No." I said, "Where did you find it?"

"It was in the safe deposit box. I haven't been in the safe deposit box in decades."

I rolled the ring between my fingers. It felt light, but looked heavy - the discolored band may or may not be gold, and my guess is that the engraved Trojan is hematite. When I flipped it over, I noticed some engraving on the inside. "Oh look!" I exclaimed. "It says MRP to LJU 12-25-45! Aunt Myrtle gave this to Uncle Lloyd for Christmas after the war."

Uncle Lloyd was my dad's uncle. He was the eldest of 5, born on a Lampeter farm in 1910. He joined the army in 1941, and fought with the Allies in Europe. I need to read the yellowed newspaper clippings for the whole story, but Uncle Lloyd was wounded while rescuing other wounded soldiers under German artillery fire in Belgium or France in 1943. He was awarded a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his actions. Uncle Lloyd's sister gave birth to a son in 1943, my dad, and named him after her heroic brother.

Uncle Lloyd in Europe during the war, mounted on weaponry. Weiner jokes are timeless.

Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Myrtle in Pennsylvania, date unknown.

Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Myrtle were 36 when they married, and had no children. I don't have any specific memories of Uncle Lloyd, who died in 1981, but I do remember Aunt Myrtle. She was tall, gangly, cheerful and always wearing cat-eye glasses. She outlived her husband by 13 years.

This 60 year old ring - a gift between lovers - has perhaps spent half of its life in a safe deposit box. But this week, I wore it to work. A vintage accessory last worn by a World War II decorated veteran saw the light of day.

It's All in the Name

<A story from 2011. As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent: Me.>

I got married and made Gershwin my last name. Shannon Gershwin. I kept my middle name the same, and moved my maiden name to the middle. Shannon Lee Jones Gershwin. Simple enough, yes?

Not at the DMV.

I had to renew my driver's license. When I changed my name and changed my license to match in 2006, there was no problem. Today, Mr. Carter, the DMV agent, had issues with my name. 

Mr. C: (studying computer screen) There you are. I couldn't find you in my database under Gershwin.  You are under Jones.

SG: But my last name is Gershwin, not Jones.

Mr. C: Jones-Gershwin then?

SG: No, Gershwin. Here is my license.

Mr. C: Well we can put the hyphen on the new license.

SG: There is no hyphen. There's only 1 last name. Gershwin.

Mr. C: But in the database it will automatically hyphen because you can't have 2 last names in the database.

SG: I don't have 2 last names. I just have 1. Gershwin.

Mr. C: Do you have your marriage certificate?

SG: No. Since my current license has been correct for the past 5 years with my married name, it didn't occur to me that I would need it today.

Mr. C: Well, I have to verify the name change.

SG: They verified the name change in 2006. My current license is correct. I don't understand what is happening.

Mr. C: Well the hyphen is going to be in there.

SG: Why? It's not in my current license. There is no hyphen. My name will be wrong on the license if there is a hyphen.

Mr. C: I can't change the database without proof of your name change.

SG: But I didn't change my name since 2006 when they correctly printed my license. I don't understand why it wasn't a problem then. Please don't make me come back on another day.

Mr. C: Hey Judy, can you come over here for a second??

Mr. Carter gets Judy involved, who showed him how to move my names around. Then he sends me to the photo lady. The photo lady gives me my print-out. With a hyphen.

SG: Excuse me, Mr. Carter?

Mr. C: Yes?

SG: There's a hyphen.

Mr. C: You said there was no hyphen!

SG: Right. I mean there's a hyphen here on the printout.

Mr. C: I took that dang hyphen out. Lemme see that...

And back to his desk we go. He summons Judy and fixes the hyphen. Again.

SG: Are you going to charge me another $32.00?

Mr. C: Not unless you give me any more lip.

SG: Thanks.

Mr. C: You have a nice day young lady. 

Back I go to the photo lady. All is resolved. From the DMV, I head across town to the travel agent, Mary, who needs to see our passports before booking international airline tickets. I give her the passports.

Mary: So now do you go by Gershwin, or Jones-Gershwin?

SG: Gershwin. Just Gershwin.

Mary: Okay, I just have to make sure your airline tickets match your passport exactly.

SG: Well the passport says Shannon Lee Jones Gershwin, so does it matter?

Mary: What did we do for your trip to Ireland last year?

SG: I don't know, but it worked.

Mary: Well your credit card says Shannon Jones Gershwin and your AAA card says Shannon L. Gershwin.

SG: A lot of American documentation doesn't accept 2 middle names. It's not a problem in Europe, I guess I should move there. I wonder if George H. W. Bush ever went through this.

Mary: I'll look up your file from the trip to Ireland.

SG: That would be great.

Mary: So why does Marty's passport have an R for a middle name instead of his full middle name?  That's highly unusual.

SG: I don't know why it's like that. Nobody called Interpol on our honeymoon, so I guess it's no problem. 

Mary: Why did they put Marty instead of Martin? They aren't supposed to allow nicknames on passports.

SG: It's not a nickname. His name is Marty. Just Marty. It's not Martin. Birth certificate says Marty...

And so went my day.

Christian Love Gone Awry

Mom emailed me this story last night. It's a story too good not to share - classic Mom!

We had Maundy Service at church tonight. First a potluck dinner. (I told Fellowship Committee you said hi and they said "Get your butt up here we need you!") After that we have a service up in the sanctuary and communion. I was busy during dinner, but I noticed that this unkempt woman with no teeth was at the potluck. (No she did not come with the bearded lady you are always asking about!) So Louise and I had to do some cleaning up, and we got into service late. They were singing. We sat in the last row of seated people and I noticed that the unkempt lady was sitting across the aisle and back a few rows by herself so I went over to her (trying to do the friendly Christian love thing) and asked her if she wanted to come over and sit with me so she wouldn’t have to be all alone. So she did and seemed very happy to share my songbook and Bible. At the end of the service, we introduced ourselves and I gave her a hug. I invited her to come to Sunday School, and she could be in my class (the bearded lady is in my class so why not have one with no teeth) and come to church after Sunday School. Ok, so then I no more than get home and pull into the driveway and unload my dishes when my phone rings and it is Louise telling me that the toothless lady’s house has bedbugs, and I should be careful I didn’t now have them. So I went into the garage and undressed. Naked, I ran upstairs and went right into the shower imagining bedbugs falling off of me as I was going up the steps. I then went into the garage and carefully took the clothes down to the basement and put them into the washer (I hope I don’t ruin my new pink sweater). I swept off my shoes as they had cutout holes and I imagined the bedbugs just getting into those holes. Now I feel itchy all over and in my hair I can feel things crawling around and all for trying to show my Christian love!!!  I can’t stop scratching!!! I hate to get into my bed tonight with my NEW MATTRESS. Oh dear!

Morrow Mountain Misadventure

Wanda picked me up at 10:00 on Sunday. Before we left the house, I told her, "I think I am going to exhume my old hiking boots for today's hike. I love my Salomon hiking shoes, but I need to revive my old L.L. Beans if I want ankle support in the Grand Canyon this Spring. I haven't worn them in about 6 years since buying the hiking shoes, so I wore them around in the yard this week. I don't think they will rub or pinch."

She suggested I bring my Salomons for back-up. I replied, "You know how I hate to carry things on the trail."

"You can keep them in the car for afterwards - you don't have to carry them in your pack."

"Nah, it'll be fine." Famous last words.

After a long, winding drive, we arrived at Morrow Mountain State Park just before noon. We always start our hikes with empty bladders, so we parked at the facilities at the entrance. As we exited the toilets, I stepped on something. I felt it stuck to the back of my boot. I looked down as I walked. I couldn't believe what I saw.

"Wanda, LOOK!"

I had stepped on nothing. The thick sole of my right aged hiking boot had split in two. It slapped like a flip flop when I walked, hinged under the ball of my foot.

"What on EARTH!?! They were just fine the other day! And look at the other one!"

The second boot was flopping just as completely by the time we reached the car. "Oh my God," I said, "we drove all this way and I can't hike with these."

Wanda pondered as I oozed apologies for not taking her advice. If I had brought my shoes, we'd be on our way up the mountain. I felt so foolish. What a waste of gas.

"Let's drive back to Badin and see if there is anything there. If we could buy duct tape and fix them like in Wild, would you hike?" Wanda asked. 

Not at all in favor of hiking in boots held together with tape, but too guilty to fuss, I said, "Sure."

Image courtesy the internet. Not my boot but you get the idea.

Badin's population is less than 2,000. Not only were there no duct tape or shoe stores there, nothing was open on Sunday but church. Wanda pulled up Google Maps and we decided to go 7 miles farther, into Albermarle, hoping it offered footwear. Or duct tape. If not, we would bail out on Morrow Mountain and head home.

We were looking for WalMart per Google, but I saw Hibbitt Sports first. "Let's try Hibbitt. I hope they are open." We pulled into the strip mall and she parked her Honda. Crossing the parking lot, I felt like I was wearing scuba flippers. I had to lift my knees high like a majorette with each step and thunk-slap, thunk-slap, thunk-slap my way along. Wanda was greatly entertained by my march of shame, and I attracted stares from a few shoppers who skipped church. By the time we entered the store, we were both laughing. Each step I took left black crumbles from my soles on the carpet, like a trail of crushed Oreos. We laughed harder.

We walked the perimeter of the store, my knees still high, to the "Women's Shoes" wall. No hiking footwear, but plenty of sneakers. At the first bench in the shoe section, I took off my boots and selected a shoe from the wall. The salesclerk, a strapping buck of 25, brought me a pair in my size. They fit, so we eagerly trotted after him to the check-out counter. It felt good not to march. I put my boots on the counter as I paid. He saw them and asked, "Do you want me to put these boots in the empty box?"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT. You can keep the box, and you can keep the boots, thanks."  He picked up the boots in a two-fingered pinch and daintily dropped them in the can. We left the store, and returned to Morrow Mountain. "Thanks for being so patient!" I told Wanda, "Barring any middle-aged menstrual emergencies at the summit, I think we salvaged the day!"

"Don't jinx us," she giggled, and we started up the trail.

New sneakers, minutes after purchase, from the passenger seat of Wanda's car.

What I Am Thinking During Yoga Class

Oh no, I am almost late and it's packed! Two spots left - do I unroll my mat up front beside the instructor, or back in the corner? CORNER, definitely. I need to be earlier next time so I have the option of strategic mat placement. Hiding is preferred.

Okay, all settled in. She has a voice for Public Radio - sleepy-soft. Oooooom. Tell me a story. Yes, release the tension. Oooooom. Spine straight. Unclench jaw. Palms up. Is this the same soundtrack as last time? Sam Smith, always Sam Smith. Lean to the right. I could do this at home. Why don't I do yoga at home?

Up. Reach reach reach. Swan dive into forward fold. Oh Lawd I need a pedicure. Pumice emergency. Up into Flatback. Chair pose. I wish I had an ass like the girl in front of me. Forward fold. HOW did cat hair get on my mat? Does the cat hair have to be EVERYWHERE? Flatback. Chair. She has a 25-year old butt. I have the butt of a 25-year old couch cushion. Forward fold. Should my knees be bent this far? Maybe I can just grab that snaggled toenail and rip it off. Nope. Seems attached. Pedicure.

Down to the mat again. Plank. I like plank. I like any position that does not involve bending at the waist. This is because I am shaped like an oak barrel which does not lend itself to comfortable bending or twisting. Lift arm and opposite leg. Balance. Am I the oldest one here? They are all so young this time. Where is that mid-50's couple? Switch sides. Balance. Good girl. Is this Stevie Wonder remade for yoga? Whose idea was that? I wonder if he knows. Stevie should never be imitated. Downward-facing dog. Must not fart! Pinch pinch pinch! Must! Not! Fart! Lift which leg? Good, that is helpful.

Lunge pose; hands on mat. My belly is in the way. Why is my belly always in the way? Chin buried in cleavage. What now? Elbows to the floor? Pinch pinch pinch. Reach through where? Oh!Oh! Am I supposed to get my shoulder on the floor? Twisted child what? I am so tangled - Oh! Oooooh this feels nice. I think I got it. But how am I going to get up?

Okay, back onto all fours. Cat, Cow. The yoga poses everybody can do. Her young butt is nice but Cow position in those tight spandex pants reveals ALL of the curves and folds of her undercarriage. It's a little upsetting, frankly. Cat, Cow-avert-my-eyes, Cat, Cow-avert-my-eyes. I am glad there is no one behind me staring into my couch cushion. Horrifying thought. Ease up. Ease? Herky-jerky yoga is more my style.

Oh God we are turning! NO NO NO NOW I AM IN THE FRONT AND IN THE CORNER FLANKED WITH MIRRORS EVERYONE CAN SEE ME NO NO NOOOOO. Oh, look at that - I am not the oldest one. Bonus! Turn feet, warrior pose. Triangle. Oh GOD my belly is like an accordian rolling and unrolling with the bending. Is everyone looking at my belly? Stay calm. Avert eyes in the mirror from the girl next to me because I have seen her spandex lady bits. Turn feet, repeat. PLEASE can we turn back around? I can't handle all these mirrors. Humiliation. Blind yoga. That's what I need.

Down to the floor. YES! Is this Hall and Oates? On my back. No one can see me now. Knees to chest. Grab ankles. Accordian belly pushes boobs into my windpipe. Yoga is for thin people. Release (but don't fart). Repeat. Corpse pose. Rest. AMEN.

Resolutions Update #1: Retrievers

Marty brought in today's mail and tossed it on the kitchen table, where it usually lives for a few weeks until it accumulates and we finally toss it. "You got a card," he said. It's strange to get a card when it's not Christmastime. I opened the card and started to read it. "Oh!" I gasped and tears immediately filled my eyes. "What is it?!?" Marty asked, confused. I told him my story:

Earlier in the week, I took Moby to the Pet Hospital for a yearly check-up. He had eye surgery there in 2014. They only treat emergencies and special cases - Moby gets his regular care from the place around the corner.

In the waiting area, I sat next to a quiet middle-aged man in a camouflage baseball cap, well-worn cowboy boots and jeans. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands splayed with his fingertips touching. I could feel his distress in the silence. His vet came out to chat with him, and I overheard their conversation. His dog was recovering (from something) at home and going on therapeutic walks with the man per the doctor's orders. Yesterday, the man came in from the barn and the dog was lying on the kitchen floor in pain. Since then she isn't putting any weight one of her legs. The vet advised to give the dog a week of rest before further treatment, and she would be right back with prescriptions for pain. She exited the waiting area. I said to the man (like an annoying busybody), "Your dog has a bad leg?" He looked at me, with a half-hearted smile, "Which one?" he answered. I was puzzled. "Which leg?" "No," he responded, "Which dog? I have two retrievers. One had surgery last month and re-injured herself at home. The other one is having surgery today on his elbow. I can't believe this is happening all at once." I asked if this was a genetic condition. "No. Just a run of bad luck." Then Moby was called to the back. His exam took 15 minutes.

As I paid Moby's $35 fee, I looked around for the man in the waiting area. He was gone. I asked the receptionist about him. I described the man and his retrievers to the girl at the desk. She knew immediately who I was talking about. I asked if I could donate to the balance on his account. I told her that my New Year's resolution was to periodically benefit the life of a stranger, and today I chose him. She said, "Sure you can donate! He paid his balance this morning, but today's surgery will cost $3,800." I donated. I told the clerk that she could tell the man about the donation if she wanted to, from "an anonymous stranger." It didn't seem like much of a contribution toward a fee that big, but I felt that it was definitely enough to make a difference in the man's spirit and ease his burden. The look on the face of the assistant was priceless. "He has spent a lot of money here this year and it's only February. Thank you so much." I walked to the parking lot smiling to myself and feeling good about anonymously helping a dog-loving stranger.

In today's mail was a card from the Pet Hospital. It was full of messages from the employees there, including "Valerie at reception," gushing their thanks. They told me how much they care about the man and his dogs, what a wonderful choice I had made for my act of kindness, and how inspirational my New Year's resolution is. I had no idea that my decision would impact so many more lives than that of one sad man in cowboy boots.

The Little Red Hen, Dutchified

In honor of the previous post, I present to you a revised version of the childhood classic, The Little Red Hen with Pennsylvania Dutch flair. (Note: Many words are presented as they are pronounced in Dutch Country)

The Little Red Hen lived on a Lancaster County farm. On this farm, she was friends with the pious pig, the plain cat and the yoney frog.  One day, she found sprouted potatoes in her root cellar. She said to her friends, "Who will help me plant these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I'm prayin' to the Lord Chesus."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am goin' to sewing circle."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "It's time to churn ice cream. Butter peekin."

"Praise Be, I'll go on and plant 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint, and she planted the potatoes herself.

When the potatoes were grown, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me dig these patadas once't?"

"Not I," said the pious pig, "I have Bible study - the book of Cheramiah."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am bakin' shoofly pies, raisin pies and whoopie pies for the bake sale."
"Not I," said the yoney frog, as he stirred his fragrant cauldron of apple butter over the open fire.

"Praise Be, I'll go on and dig 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

When the potatoes were harvested, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me peel these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I have to sing in the choir."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "The milk's turnin' so I need to make smearcase."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "The ot hoss needs cleant."

"Praise Be, I'll peel and boil 'em myself," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

She peeled and boiled and mashed the potatoes. She made from memory her grandmother's potato fastnacht dough. Then she asked her friends, "Who will help me fry these fastnachts?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "It is well (it is well)! With my soul (with my soul)!" he sang.
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I need to redd up the table and wash the dishes."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "I need to wash. I'm sour."

"Praise Be, I'll fry 'em myself, "said the Little Red Hen without complaint. She fried them and shook them up in a paper bag full of cinnamon sugar. When she was done, she generously filled a giant plate high with fastnachts. She wiped her wings on her dirty apron, took off the apron and hung it on the back of the door. She carried the plate to the porch and asked her friends, "Who will help me eat the fastnachts?"

"I will!" said the pious pig.
"I will!" said the plain cat.
"I will!" said the yoney frog.

"Komm Essen!" said the Little Red Hen. And she shared her fastnachts with all her friends because she made 30 dozen and her friends were all such hard workers. "You dare eat them til they're all," she said.  And they did.

What Did You Say?

English is delightfully idiosyncratic. And regional. And sometimes just plain wrong.

Anyone who has traveled  through or lived in several areas of the country recognizes these differences quickly not just by the accents we bear but the words we use. There is the ever-popular 'pop' versus 'soda' debate, 'hoagie' versus 'sub' and 'shopping cart' versus 'buggy.'

I was born in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and lived in the Upper Midwest, South, and Deep South during my adult years. I have been caught with the wrong terminology several times, or questioned about what I am saying. Some of it is clearly Dutchie. My favorite Dutchism is "to rutch" as in "Children rutch in their car seats," or "By the end of the 2-hour wedding ceremony, I was rutchy."  It's a great word, meaning to squirm or the inability to be still. Throwing a baseball with my dad was always "having a catch" not "playing catch."  I think this might not be Dutchie, but I do think it is regional. I "call in sick" but I do not "call out sick." What does that say about me?

Some of my personal "isms" are only isms in the wrong part of the country. For example, from life in the Midwest, I say "kitty corner" instead of "catty corner". But I REFUSE to call Duck Duck Goose "Duck Duck Gray Goose" - sorry, Minnesotans, that's just WRONG. I have picked up some clear grammatical English horrors as well. From West Virginia, I learned to say "It's pouring down the rain." From North Carolina, I learned to say "I might could do that." 

Over time, I have generally cleansed my verbal palate of Pennsylvania Dutch terms, like "rutchy," and you will no longer hear me saying, "Are you a sophomore now, or a freshman yet?" (yet meaning 'still') or "I'll be right back - wait here once" (no meaning at all, just an extra word).

It has been a long time since I was reprimanded for an ism, but it happened this week. It was a word choice I have been using as long as I can remember, and never knew it offended the ears. I thought, "How am I this old and never knew?" I was among friends when I told a story about a time when "the electric went out." The group all perked up their ears. "What did you say?" They thought I was trying to be cute. Um, no. Until I was confronted with my error, it had never occurred to me that 'electric' is not a noun. Poor grammar is never cute after the age of 4.

When I got home, I emailed or texted about 20 friends and family in all areas of the country. WHERE did I pick this up? I asked them to tell me what caused a blackout or what the purpose of a generator is.  As it turns out, in the South, everyone refers to electricity as power. "There's no power." They often call their power bill "the light bill" which makes me crazy, but I digress. North of Virginia, power is referred to as electricity. "The electricity is out."  And one lone person responded that a blackout happens "when the electric is out."  AH HA! The culprit was MOM! I should have known. I unwittingly had blurted a colloquial Momism to 10 people! "Ugh," I groaned. I thought I sanitized my grammar years ago from all of its Momisms! I learned the hard way that "it's all" is always inappropriate (as in 'the sugar bowl is empty; the sugar is all') and "let's get left" (as in 'we are late, let's get going, we need to get left).

I will now be more generous with my friends and their isms. When Jo says "Dog, go to your pent!" I won't let it drive me bonkers. When Susie says, "I wanted red but I landed up with blue," I will smile and nod. And I will remind myself that there is no such thing as electric.

Chicken Bones and Christmas Carols

On Saturday I texted food-phobic Kathleen to torture her: "Lunch=10-day old rotisserie chicken bits in couscous. Now I am boiling down the carcass until I get a nice good broth."

"Yuck."

"Some people drink bone broth because it's so good for you. When it cools it's like jello from the collagen."

"Okay, you're grossing me out."

Because she is a concerned friend (and a scientist), she emailed me 2 studies that discuss gastric distress, diarrhea, and debilitation from food-borne bacteria. She explained, indignantly, "They recruited people to drink E.coli!  Who would DO that?" I might do that regularly in my kitchen, I'm not sure. She has decided I have a genetic immunity to E. coli.

I always share my "I grossed out Kathleen" successes with Mom, because I learned all my food habits from her. I grew up on bone broth, and lots of stuff much grosser than that. Mom's reply was lovely:

You know what I had to think about the other day when you said that Kathleen was turned off about your boiling the chicken bones for broth? I just remembered all those times when I was a young girl that I rode my bike over to Anna Rohrer’s house to give her chicken bones!! She always seemed really happy to see me with those bags of bones, and let me come in. She had an icebox and I was always so happy if I was there when the ice man came and put this HUGE block of ice in her fridge. How cool - we just had a boring electric fridge, no big ice block!! I would often ask Mom if I could ride the bones over to Anna’s whenever we ate something with bones in it. Sometimes she told me, “No, not these bones."

Anna lived down the road. She was not married, and took care of her Mother. Her Mother lived with her and she always wanted to talk to me. She always sat on her rocking chair and I sat on a little stool that she probably rested her feet on when I was not there. I remember thinking she was SO old but I wonder just how old she really was. I bet not that old! I wonder!

Anna and her mother lived on the end of an Amish house, Joe King's place. They were not Amish, they were Mennonite like us. I think Anna had nothing, and Joe King just gave her a place to live. The whole neighborhood would give her things, so basically we all looked after Anna Rohrer and her Mom. She came to our house to use our phone, and Mom gave her stuff from the garden. Even if she had nothing, Anna used to be a giver with the little she had. This always amazed me. At Christmas time, she would take my sister and me and another farm family’s 2 daughters (we were all the same age) down to southern Lancaster County. She knew very poor people there. The four of us girls would go door-to-door with Anna and sing Christmas carols to these people and Anna gave them each an orange. "Where did she get those oranges?" I thought. The houses we went into were indescribably terrible. I have a picture of the 4 of us girls taken right before we went on one of these trips. I put it out at Christmas just as a reminder of our Christmases with Anna. So anyway, chicken bones have nice memories for me.

Anna's chorus, about 1955.

The Book, Chapter 2

Chapter 2
DATING: CHOOSING A MATE

Obviously there is no such thing as the ideal mate, therefore the Single Woman exists. Many people continue to ask us, “So why are you still single?” and to avoid a lengthy and exhausting explanation we often retort, “I just haven’t found the right guy,” when in reality, the right guy hasn’t found us. Why? Because the wrong guys won’t leave us alone.

There are many different types of men. The good, the bad, and the ones who continue to haunt our subconscious. Men also come in great variety, each with their own fortes and weaknesses.

The Innocent

This type of man appeals to our nurturing side. He is often younger than we are, and not yet jaded by the trials of life. We are attracted to him because we seek a softer edge. They amuse us at first, but ultimately we want to grab them by the scruff and shake sense into them. We want to scream that indeed he WON’T get rich selling Amway, and moving out of his mother’s house IS a good idea.

The Guilty
The Guilty Men are usually older than us, and often married. They are found in droves in the workplace. They seek to fulfill their own needs to be attractive and bolster wavering manhood. They achieve one of two reactions in the Single Woman: curiosity or disgust. If the man is attractive, curiosity results from the possible danger of the relationship, whether it be an illicit affair or to spark gossip among friends and family. The disgust reaction results toward the Guilty Man with the bad comb-over who winks and tells you he likes your dress, darlin'. There’s the coworker who runs into you in public, saying “I thought that was you! I recognized you from behind.” The Guilty Man may behave extremely inappropriately in a moment of frustration. For example, after happy hour with a group of other coworkers he may tackle you in the parking lot for a quick feel or persuade you to let him walk you home and then linger in your bushes when you reject his doorway advances. In any case, the Guilty Man is never a good choice because he is truly not interested in you but in himself.

The Desperate
Often times we don’t realize he is desperate until it is too late. The Desperate Man will bend over backward to charm, schmooze, flatter, flirt and pull out the stops just to get you to go out with him. Once this is achieved, however, we realize his level of desperation and wish ourselves elsewhere. The Desperate Man will tell you stories of playing paintball with his young nephews and expect you to take interest because it is his most interesting hobby. If he feels the date is going well, he will say that the moment should last forever, or that you are the moon and the stars. Although the Single Woman may appreciate this, the moment is always ruined by the broccoli in his teeth or the whitehead he hasn’t realized has boiled up on his neck.

The New Divorcee
Our hearts go out to the New Divorcee.  We want to comfort him in his recovery, but must be aware of assuming the role of the Rebound Single Woman. We are taken in by his woeful tales of cheating hearts and love lost. We allow him to cry on our shoulder, but we need to be strong and say: “Get a therapist.” This is ultimately what they need, and the Single Woman should never attempt to fill that role. If she does, once therapy with you is finished, so is the relationship. The New Divorcee with children is another story. Beware the man with a pregnant 15-year old daughter or full custody of his brood. The Single Woman is never ready for that, and guess what – neither is he.

The Idiot
This type of man differs from all the others because he briefly has us contemplating never dating again. The idiot is sometimes a stranger, honking and waving suggestively as he roars by on the highway. More often, he takes you to dinner and various racial slurs and homophobia surface at inopportune moments. He may make remarks like “you’d be sexy if you did some sit-ups”, or “Wow, you can drive a stick-shift?” The Idiot often surprises us by appearing normal at first and revealing his shocking idiocy after an almost-perfect date, or even after a string of successful dates. The Idiot may have stalking tendencies, like the neighbor who gets fed up with your “no thank you” refusals for a lunch date and leaves candles burning on your porch or cards on your windshield. He thinks he’s being romantic to win you, when in reality he’s just caused you to purchase pepper spray and keep it close.

The Bitter
The Bitter Man is resentful of secure, independent women. He proclaims to be a modern man, but truthfully seeks a woman who is needy, insecure, and assumes a mother-like role. When this does not happen, he becomes bitter. His mother is his version of the ideal female, and therefore no one else can ever quite measure up. No one can ever sacrifice enough for him, or treat him with enough respect or adoration. He truly does not want a partner, but a subordinate. The Bitter Man may be bitter when you meet, or evolve into a Bitter Man as the relationship continues. If the Single Woman is smart, it will not take her long to detect these qualities and she will bolt in a hurry.

The Almost-Ideal
This is the best type of man we can hope for. He is as close to perfect as we can expect – is polite, funny, has good hygiene and a steady job. Although he does not recycle, watches too much television, and vacuums his carpet yearly, he loves his mother but does not live with her. Sometimes we pick fights with the Almost-Ideal just to be sure he can fend for himself, but most importantly, they are our friends and we grow to love them dearly. We adjust to their imperfections, they adjust to ours. 

The Book, Chapter 1

I got a text from Jo. It simply said, "Chapter 416: Beat Your Children Often." Since 1996, Jo and I have been writing "The Book." It started out as our own little Survival Guide for Women. I was going to write for The Single Woman, she would write for The Married Woman. Jo thinks we now have enough material for 3 survival books - Single Women, Married Women, and Raising Children. Of course she does not and never has beaten her children, but has thought about it. Often, apparently. Especially in their adolescence. Since it's been 20 years since we started The Book and we have pulled together half of 1 chapter, I think we need to get the first book written before we get lofty ideas about a trilogy.

When Jo and I met in 1996, we were from opposite worlds. Although we were both in our mid-20's, I left home for college at 18, had lived in several states and dated a spectrum of men. She commuted to college, never moved out of her parents' house, and married the only man she ever dated. She loved to hear my sordid tales of failed romances and bad dates; I loved to be with her family and loved being part of all their holidays, weddings and baby showers. I thought how nice it would be to have such a large, close family; she dreamed of how nice it would be to move away from them. We made a good pair then, and we make a good pair now.

Jo was there for the best of my Dating Years. She saw me date them all, from the high school drop-out Christian zealot who dropped to his knees in front of me to pray to God to ask for strength in avoiding temptation while we were making out, to the anesthesiologist who drove a convertible Porsche (which I mistook for a Mazda Miata, whoops) and called me "Doll." Her family tried to fix me up with every single man they knew, including Jo's brother. No thanks. Years before, in college, Lynn called me the One Date Wonder - I would date anyone, but rarely twice. Lynn warned me about Carl The Snarl, our dormitory Housing Director when we were sophomores. He flirted relentlessly until I finally agreed to a date. He picked me up on a motorcycle - surprise!!!- and drove us to a party while steering with one hand, caressing my bare leg with the other as I struggled to keep my dress from flapping off. It seemed I had a decent relationship once every 5 years, and countless dates with One Date Losers during the years in-between. I got married at 35.

Jo, on the other hand, grew up very rural, the youngest of five including two prim and proper sisters. By my worldly standards, Jo probably had slim pickins in the Eligible Bachelor department, but found someone who suited her. They moved from their parents' homes to a trailer in her parents' front yard as man and wife. Her mother-in-law treated her cooly, but Jo found joy in decorating her own place, invited me often, and believed in deep, undying love. She divorced his ass 10 years later. She remarried at 40 to the second man she ever dated, who had full custody of 3 children and an ex-wife who, let's just say, is in every way so very, very far from perfect.

Hence Chapter 416 will be Beat Your Children Often. Or Whatever You Do, Don't Remarry. In the early days, with limited life experience, our chapters of The Book were much more lighthearted before the realities of marriage, divorce, and stepchildren jaded us. Our original Table of Contents was this:

Section 1, The Single Woman
1. Mom's Couch: Not as Comfortable at 30 as It Was at 20
2. Dating: Choosing a Mate
3. What's Wrong with Everyone Else's Mate

Section 2, The Married Woman
4. How to Be Married to Another Woman's Son
5. How to Raise a Son Fit to Marry
6. Good Responses to "Are You Pregnant Yet?"

Section 3, The Childless Woman
7. How to Raise Children
8. How Other People Should Raise Their Children

Now we can add Chapters like:
9. Hope for an Arranged Marriage: Blame Your Parents When It All Turns to Shit
10. Men Are Useless: See Chapter 9
11. Divorce Solves All Your Problems
12. Food Solves All the Problems that Divorce Creates
13. Get a Personal Counselor: See Chapters 9, 10, 11, 12
14. Love Your Body but Tweeze Often
15. Widowed Mothers
16. Men Are Still Useless

Over the years, we have named a thousand chapters. We have a lot of work to do.