Who cares?

It's true: the honey badger really don't care

ONLY WORDS--SEMANTICALLY SPEAKING

Elementary students are being asked to identify "high-frequency words." I know the English language pretty well, but that term was a mystery to me. I guessed, and then researched, finding that high frequency words are the most frequently used words in the English language. Why not say that, then,instead of introducing quasi-scientific jargon into the language. I think of high-frequency words as ear-piercing sounds, or those audible only to dogs.

Rachel, please change

Rachel Ray, I know you think it's clever to squeeze the juice out of a lemon by holding it cut side down, so as to capture the seeds in your hand, but I wince every time I see you do it. Today, you squeezed the juice, through your bare fingers, over an already cooked steak. I realize your hands are clean, but still--why not squeeze the top uncut part of the lemon, and use a little strainer to catch the seeds. I'm not overly fastidious, but I couldn't bring myself to squeeze juice through my fingers even if I were the only one to eat it. Ickk.

Toxic Forwards

Obsessive compulsive behavior is present a little bit in each of us. We all have our little idiosyncrasies, such as being made slightly crazy by toothpaste caps being left off, toilet seats being left up, cupboard doors being left ajar. Only when a compulsion begins to interfere with the way we live our lives does a problem arise. If you need to go back inside the house to make sure you didn't leave the hairdryer on, or turn the burner off under the kettle, that isn't a problem. It affects only yourself, and causes no harm. If you go back inside 20 times to check the same thing, you probably have a problem because it consumes too much of your time, and thus would make you run late for appointments and such. Some people are so conscious of their repetitive behaviors that the awareness is more of a problem than the behaviors themselves. They label themselves as obsessive compulsive, and live by that diagnosis. Probably one of the worst things for them is to open any email that implores them to forward the message under penalties ranging from bad luck to death for recipients and their families if they fail to forward the attached treatise. Ironically, the emails are usually religious or inspirational in nature, with angels, beautiful flowers and rainbows, and adorable children and animals. Wonderful, and often specific, awards await them if they comply. But---failure to do as bid will result in equally wondrous punishments. Make no mistake about it; you will suffer if you don't obey. Talk about your "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." Vengeance will rain down upon those who doth not forward what is commanded, or requested via emailing forwards to 7 or more of your friends. Though difficult to figure out where the email originated, it's probably safe to assume it wasn't written by God. Greeting card sales are down somewhat, so perhaps those verse writers branched out into the internet. Imagine if your obsessive compulsion is triggered by the prospect of an unlocked front door, and you need to check to make sure no one breaks in while you're away and steals the family silver. Now imagine that your obsessiveness is aroused by believing you or your loved ones are going to hell if you don't forward an insipid email to your circle of friends. I would label those emails as hazardous to the health of an obsessive compulsive. I would advise them to compulsively press the delete button.

Better Left Undone

I'm glad I never wrote a fan letter to Andy Rooney.

Death by Chipmunk

Today I woke up to the smell of smoke. Dave was outside so I called to him before dialing 9-1-1. Oh, he said, I forgot to close the door, not to mention the bedroom window which still contains the air conditioner, and thus allows a stream of air, or toxic fumes, into the house. He had decided to oust a chipmunk, which evidently had flipped him off the day before. He had bought a smoke bomb of some sort, toxic in nature, and launched it into the chipmunk hole right near the front of our house. Or so he says. I'm sure the chipmunk just ran out his back entrance hole, but I was breathing in all the fumes. But at least I only have a headache, I'm not dead.

How I Spent My Vacation

This is my Blog, so I guess I can be as self-indulgent as I wish, without regard to being considered as bragging or anything. And all this happened so long ago, this is my way of affrirming its reality. Since our lives then were so routine and, let's face it, dull, anything out of the ordinary stands out as memorable, though now only by me, a la those Madison County Bridges.

When I was 25 years old, I resigned from teaching English at HVC. No one could understand why, because I'd been granted tenure, probably with the assumption I would remain at my old Alma Mater until retirement. The thought served to suffocate me, so I resigned from my job. I didn't even have another lined up, but that was not a big deal in those days. I needed to finish my Master's Degree, but instead of continuing at Albany State, I took the giant leap of enrolling at Oneonta. I'd never really gone anyplace by myself before, so it really was an adventure. During that summer, I reached many levels of understanding, of myself and others, that were completely new to me. I have vivid memories of that summer, but what I'm recalling now occurred after that summer ended.

I'd become friends with a girl named Dee, who lived in Watkins Glen. She was a teacher of course; I think all of the students enrolled that summer were teachers or prospective teachers. We vowed to continue our friendship, as so many college friends do, but Dee actually arranged a winter vacation during February break at Lake Placid. She had recruited four of her hometown friends, and I invited Barbara to go with me. (My sister was married by then.) My car was ailing, so I borrowed Dorothy's car, and B. and I drove to Lake Placid on a Friday night during a snowstorm. The roads then were rural, not like now, and we did a lot of slipping and sliding, but I don't think we minded. We were off on vacation! The 5 other girls were not able to arrive until the next day, because of the weather , so B. and I drove up to the hotel where Dee had made reservations. It was on a hill, and when we drove up to it in the dark and snow, we both had the instant impression of ---- Bates Motel. It loomed up in the darkness, unlighted and deserted-looking. We decided to look elsewhere for the night's lodging. Down the slippery slope we went, and in effect started knocking on doors. Motel after motel told us they had no vacancies, even though the signs said otherwise. Finally, a motel conceded to let us in for the night, but it had no heat. By then, we didn't care, anything but "Psycho."

The next morning the five from Watkins Glen arrived, and we all checked in at the gloomy hotel on the hill. The morning light and a group of seven allayed our fears, though it was a spooky-looking place. That day we all went to the Olympic training site on Mt. Von Hoevenburg. We had to leave our cars in a lot and pile into an open-backed truck for the trip to the top of the bobsled run. Three passengers snuggled onto each sled, behind the professional who steered and the one who was at the rudder, a tight fit, with everybody's legs wrapped around each others'. They put a helmet on each of our heads and took off. All I remember is being sideways, as the bobsled was on the icy wall of the run, and feeling the ice and snow kicked up by the runners. You could see nothing but ice and snow. It was exhilerating. I would never do it now. I think that may have been one of the last long runs offered, because Miss Rhiengold's sled had tipped over, injuring her, the weekend before, and they were about to modify the tourist run.

The seven of us were to decide on where to go for dinner, after our day of wagon rides, and hiking up and speeding down Mt. Whiteface. I must say here that the Watkins Glen contingent seemed to lag behind even Valley Falls in terms of coolness, or, in today's lingo, hotness. Not to say they weren't great people, but as far as style went, they were not there yet. They suggested some place like Flora's Tearoom, or such. ( I didn't have anything against tearooms exactly, but even today, The Whistling Kettle makes me shudder.) I spotted a brightly lit Steak House restaurant, and said why not go in as we are right here. Tht decision turned out to be a very positive one, at least for me and Barbara. (To be continued)