Trick or Treacher's

If cats have nine lives, then it's safe to assume that Fish 'N Chips are good for a least a dozen. Residents and long-time acquaintances of our fair village can attest that the fate of Arthur Treacher's has hung in the balance on numerous occasions. Just when you are convinced that this time the puppies have really been hushed, doors reopen, and it's business as usual.

The faithless will say that 2008 looks dim for Art. There was actually a "For Sale" sign in the window for a time, and this blogger spotted a well-dressed gaggle gazing about the property a month or so ago. Soon after that, construction vehicles frequented the establishment, ripping up the parking lot and landscaping. Those with good vision will spot equipment still hanging about the front door. The shop itself is gutted, the only things resembling a working restaurant are the donuts on the fresh pavement.

I, however, can be counted among the devout believers. Past experience tells me that all of the carnage could simply be part of a well-deserved face lift. Until the sign is removed and I witness customers leaving with burgers or lattes, I will not count Arthur out.

I have learned an important lesson from the fortitude of Arthur Treacher's. Things aren't always as they appear.

Truth be told, I am often guilty of quick judgement. Recently I made an assumption at work that had me up in arms for a full 24 hours. I was sure of my conclusions and layered them into a solid reality, like fresh asphalt compacting under the roller's weight. Problem was, my deductions were built on a faulty foundation, and cracks formed in the pavement when the underlying truth pushed its way to the surface. Things were not as they appeared.

Likewise, one can drive through Danville and see a shell of a building and assume that a run-down old restaurant has met it's demise. I will not give in to that temptation. I have not eaten in Arthur Treacher's in at least 14 years, but I assure you that if it is resurrected again, I will be first in line to honor the long tradition of fried fish, cornmeal, and good, old-fashioned hope.

Capstone

So I've figured out why I've had a pervasive feeling of dread and despair of late. It's my Sociology class.

This class is a "Capstone Experience" - a Senior requirement that is supposed to be like caramel on pumpkin cheesecake, the crowning moment of my illustrious college career. The main objective of this particular capstone is to spend eight hours a week in an internship, and then go to class and talk about your placement.

Well, I have this happy little assignment at a local elementary school. Everyone else is at detention centers, judge's offices, probation offices, Children & Youth and the like. Each week I am barraged with stories of neglect, abuse and perversion - and those are the light topics from my fellow students. My professor (a therapist), apparently concerned that we might find the world too carefree after such hopeful reports, peppers the conversation with stories from his abundant case files. Who knew a little piece of rural America could harbor so much smut!

I leave each week feeling like I need a shower and an episode of Barney to balance out all of the exposure to society's dark underbelly.

Since I've realized the problem, I have developed some joyful counter-measures. I go out of my way to look at the sunrise and sunset. I smile at as many children as possible throughout the day, wherever I am. I spend some extra time each day counting my blessings and thanking God for them. I find a piece of good news and soak in it liberally, like pumpkin cheesecake in a pool of caramel.

Outside the Box

"Mother, I have smelled autumn, and it's inside this box!" My son's voice rang from the recesses of the mud room closet. With global warming finally losing the battle of the seasons, we had decided it was time to deck the halls with orange, rust, yellow and brown.

"You're right!" I caught a whiff of fall as I lowered the plastic bin from the shelf. Prying open the lid in the living room was like the redemption of Pandora's box: memories came pouring out in the essence of clove, apple, and some undefinable crispness which spilled from the bin and enveloped the room.

I find that in the height of seasons, like February, July and November, I feel claustrophobic and restless. I come alive at the turn of seasons. Maybe it's the promise in the unknown, like the intrigue of the big red X on a treasure map when the journey is just underway. Maybe it's because the wind blows more violently in April and October, scattering the stagnant and rousing the lethargic.

Autumn is a paradox. Can summer die? Can winter be born?

The warm sun on my face and the cold breeze at my back is like a friend I don't quite trust, but feel drawn to just the same. The sharpness of the air is that same necessary slyness needed to outwit such a companion. The bursts of color on the trees and from stalwart flowers mirror the adrenaline rush of a chase, a battle of wits, a maneuver well played.

My house is alive with the fire of fall.

Up to my neck and rising will work for this post, too.

My sister has gone missing, and I think I finally believe in global warming.

Perhaps she has taken another extended trip now that the Northwest Passage is open again.

Up to my neck and rising

I'm reading Reviving Ophelia. It's been on my "gotta get to it" list for quite awhile. Now that I'm in a counseling internship and at the brink of adolescent adventure with my daughter, it rose to the top of the stack.

On page 22, Pipher quotes a Stevie Smith poem, "they are not waving, they are drowning."

How can we as women be lifeguards to our girls when this quote sums us up just as well, if not better, than the girls we are to rescue?

We smile and wave at Home & School Meetings, countless sports practices, our own work places, volunteer activities and church events, but almost all of us aren't really waving at all. We're struggling for breath!

We want to be Every Woman, and end up spent. We want to give our girls this great model of how to "do it all" while we are so stressed that we can't even find our own vehicle in a parking lot. In fact, we don't even remember driving to the store.

My thoughts are coming so rapidly, and all I want to do is get them down on this page, but of course, I can't. There are birthday cakes to make, field notes to write, laundry to do, emails to send, cards to address, classes to attend, carpools to drive...I'll wave goodbye for now.

The Weight of Wait

I am a recovering control freak.

In the past, the trials that have stymied me the most always involved waiting. There was the Wait of '94 when Gregory was at Officer Training School. Could he pass Vigilant Warrior to graduate as a 2nd Lt.? The Second Wait of '94 featured almost a year (interrupted by the other Wait) of expecting to be expecting. Then there was the Great Wait of '98, while we sought a discharge from the Air Force and a job back home. The Wait of '03 tested my patience and my sanity during a house-building venture.

Today, I am able to report that the most recent Wait has ended. Gregory has received an invitation to Candidacy in the Diaconate Formation Program. It many not seem like much to some, but to us, this invitation unveils an entirely new path for our future. My husband will quite likely be a clergyman in three years; an ordained minister of the Church.

It has been about 20 months since this wait began. Although there were moments of frustration, this trial had a decidedly different feel to it. I prayed constantly for a resolution, but I found that my request was truly for God's will to be done, and for it to be done when He thought best. I wanted Gregory to continue in the program, but not at any expense. Not if God had a different plan in mind.

In Waits Past, I had an agenda. I wanted a certain result, and according to a self-prescribed time table. I was not above setting deadlines for God! I realize now that my problem wasn't waiting as much as it was controlling. I don't believe that I trusted God enough to leave the details to His care.

Now...I have learned enough along the way to avoid saying that I am cured of control freakism completely. I'm sure some flare-ups lurk ahead. But, thanks be to God,

I am a recovering control freak.

Press Release

I, dauntless frontierswoman that I am, have explored and tamed the landscape of Page Seven.

Roughin' It

I was looking at the packing tips for our vacation destination - a Christian campground in the hills of Ohio - and noticed their request that all handheld games, iPods and other electronics be left at home to promote family quality time. "Surely that can't include computers!" I thought.

Now I was ready and willing to forego other modern amenities, but traveling without my laptop was akin to leaving some other needed accessory like, say, my contact lenses behind! My new novel was on the hard-drive after all, and all that fresh air and serenity was sure to be a writer's boon. The laptop was definitely coming.

We arrived, registered and located our rustic one-room cabin. As this was our second year, we knew what to expect. The cabins are complete with a small refrigerator, a microwave, and, new this year, air-conditioning, but have no running water.

We all absolutely love these cabins. We feel like the Ingalls. Well, the Ingalls with air conditioning, a refrigerator and a microwave. We quickly made the cabin homey and set out to meet the neighbors. In truth, we didn't actually need to meet the neighbors, since our real neighbors from good old Pa were also our Ohio cabin neighbors!

Anyway, the next few days were filled with spiritual growth and "holy fun". There were trails to hike, horses to ride, services to attend, ill children to tend and deluges to survive. Before I knew it, Friday had arrived and it was time to pack for home. I picked up my computer bag from the corner and put it in the van. It was the first time I touched it all week.

2 weeks

To avoid further confusion I must clarify my last post. My vacation, starting tomorrow, will last only one week.

My comment regarding time spent longing for vacation was an attempt at whimsical rhetoric. On average, people have two weeks of vacation per year, so I was simply discussing vacation as a whole, not mine in specific.

The other week of vacation is typically spent in the highly desirable get-away of Southern Virginia.

Our Turn

We leave for our highly anticipated vacation on Saturday morning. We spend 50 weeks a year looking forward to the other 2.

Any writing time I've had in the past 10 days or so has been devoted to my new novel. Yes, I am pretending to be a writer now. Don't start lining up at Barnes & Noble just yet: I'm only on page six.

Addendum

If I were commenting on my sister's adventures, I would draw her attention to the wisdom given on the Little A'Le'Inn website:

Please remember when traveling to always think of safety first. This includes being prepared for emergencies, vehicle troubles, sickness, adverse weather conditions, and unexpected events. Always have extra water, food, clothing, batteries, blankets, and check your vehicle fluid levels, as well as hoses and belts under the vehicle's hood. Always check the weather reports before leaving and along the way. Being prepared can and will save lives of those that we love. Never take a trip of long distance without letting someone know where you are going and when you expect to arrive. Make certain to include times that you expect to leave and arrive, phone numbers, and places that you intend on staying. Make contact before leaving on your trip and once you get where you are going so that others will know what to do and how to handle things should you not make the connection at your expect times.Do not forget to include a map of the intended roads that you plan on traveling. Map out your routes and have fun so that others do not need to worry needlessly about you.

Red dots, but no other punctuation

In the days before Clustr, it was fun to imagine who might come by and sit a bit with my thoughts. Despite the fact that I had no evidence to support that anyone was caught in one of my prongs, I still enjoyed thinking about these imaginary new acquaintances.

Now I have a pretty good handle on the location of those passers-by. As I mentioned previously, many of the dots coincide nicely with my sister's summer jaunt through the States. But, alas, the lone red dot on the map is the only way of knowing that my beloved sister dropped in to see me for a moment. She leaves no other evidence behind, which is not in keeping with her standard practice, I might add. (I have many memoirs from her stay in my home over Independence Day, for example.)

It is comforting, in a way, to have proof that she checks in from the road. It is also disturbing to find that she is Hitting-and-Running with Letters. Perhaps my small thoughts do not provoke any responses. Perhaps she now thinks it a threat to her career to be found on the blog of an amateur such as myself. I wouldn't know, for she doesn't leave any comments.

I am not a vindictive type, but I have decided that I will remain silent on her blog as well. I will visit, read, shed a tear or utter a guffaw, and move on. She is my mentor, after all.

Dear Sister, if you have come to place another dot, know you are welcome. I look forward to sitting in silence with you as we peruse each other's lives from afar. Godspeed.

Homeland Insecurity

It started when I went to the pantry to get some "top shelf" commodities, and noticed an insect that looked disconcertingly like the genus identified by my sister as "mealy bug" which invaded her home during a plague earlier in the '00's. When Sister saw a similar bug in my kitchen back in '05, she suggested a defense strategy that rivaled anything Homeland Security could employ.

Shaken, but not stirred, (I've been scientifically proven not to be an overly emotional person, don't forget) I thought that I should go through some of my dry goods to verify their integrity. It would only take a few minutes, after all, and I could then rest assured that Summer '07 would not go down in family history as the Year of the Mealy Bug Epidemic.

As I was removing items from the shelf, I was slow to respond to what I first registered as a calming, waterfall type of sound. That peaceful noise was actually a full bag of sugar slowly sifting down the shelves of the pantry and resting in the wide seams of the plank flooring. So much for a few minutes...

The next shelf down, a full box of thin spaghetti broke open, spilling strands of pasta like Pick-Up Sticks into the white pools of sugar.

There were no bugs to be found in the pantry, mealy or otherwise. Although now, with granules of sugar hiding in recesses out of vacuum reach and thin spaghetti stuck between the baseboard and the wall, I'm sure bugs of several species have sensed the breach in our security and are planning a massive offensive. We're projecting '08 to be the Year of the Exterminator.

Mind your P's and J's

Last night's entertainment was taking the Myers Briggs Inventory. Gregory had to complete it as part of his Diaconate Formation program. I could have guessed the results without answering the questions, but it was fun anyway.

Some background on my husband. He has always wanted to be an astronaut, a football player, an architect, a pilot, a monk, and anything else we happen to see in a movie or documentary. This is the man who had to determine if he was decisive. He went back and forth for several minutes on that one. Not surprisingly, he scored right in the middle of all types. He is Everyman.

I, on the other hand, was clearly an INTJ. No wibbly-wobblies here. To interpret, I am an introverted, intuitive, thinking, judging individual, as opposed to an extroverted, sensing, feeling, perceiving person. I discovered that INTJs have had a huge impact on corporate culture, and are highly desirable leaders. Wow, if I were a feeling type, I would feel like an under-achiever.

As we drifted off to sleep last night, Gregory reflected on his results, or lack thereof. "I'm Google." he said. "I just want to get as much information about something as I can and then move on to the next topic." Pause. "I should have been a detective." Pause. "At least for a month."

Clubber update

A quick update to my voluminous Book Club devotees: I finished reading Hosseini's second book, A Thousand Splendid Suns, last week. Another remarkable work. He embraces a concept that modern culture has denounced: redemptive suffering.

If you have had the privilege of reading either of these books, please share your impressions. If you haven't - run to the library or bookstore NOW!

On a Roll

Imagine my excitement when my ClustrMap displayed little dots of readership extending into the country's interior! Hmm, that's funny...the dots look strikingly similar to my sister's cross country route.

While my sister's state count rises, and other family and friends plan trips to Disney or exotic ports and beaches, our family adventures top out at the purchase of a new grill. Oh, and of course there was the water system install last week. Riveting.

Purchases actually are high drama in our home due to what my friend Tina calls "information constipation". Gregory, ever vigilant, launches into full-on research mode as soon as I mention the word "BUY". Consumer Report has nothing on him, I assure you.

Back in 'aught 5, a poor unsuspecting book salesman came to the door, offering what basically amounted to a souped-up encyclopedia set. The deal was simple - hear the spiel and decide on the spot, no thinking allowed. The poor boy never saw it coming. Gregory launched (nicely, but very confidently) into a pitch of his own about expecting one to make a major purchase without adequate information. He'd need company stats, competitor pricing, customer reviews, free trials! I've never seen a salesman run away before.

The grill problem has been heating up for about a year now. Gregory insisted nothing was wrong with the rusty model we had, despite one flattened plastic wheel (how, by the way, can a plastic wheel go flat???) and another non-existent wheel, which caused alarming instability in an appliance with explosive warnings all over it. The attachment system for the propane tank was also broken, so the tank was propped up with scrap wood, which would jostle loose while trying to maneuver the grill out of the garage without the aid of wheels, causing the tank to fall through the platform and onto the gravel. Once started, the element only had one setting - high. I saw the whole thing as a sure fire hazard. Gregory, meanwhile, was Googling replacement parts. Why get a new grill when we could gut the one we had? He had just gotten new bricks for the thing four years ago, after all. He hadn't gotten his money's worth of of them yet!

With the fear of months of print-outs, spreadsheets and metal weather-testing prominent in my mind, I took a bold step. I went to the store, picked out a grill that was on sale and seemed nice, and bought it, without Gregory.

He took it well. He and Phillip spent an enjoyable evening assembling it in the basement last night, with only one part left over. We plan to roll it out for hamburgers this evening, cooked over a medium flame.

Apparently the boys talked last evening of turning the old grill into a planter. Whether the idea is a result of research into our proposed composting and recycling plan or a remnant from last year's do-it-yourself landscaping investigation, one can't be sure.

In the Patch

I have recently returned from a writer's conference several states away. There I received private, professional instruction. I learned during the session, as my mentor examined my work, that I fail to go deep enough. For example, in the post "If glasses can be found, so can I", I never discuss the story that inspired the title. She explained that readers want to go with me to the "dark places". For some morbid reason, it appears that you may like to hear the details of my misery.

Truth be told, the title for that particular post came from a moment of redemption. As I said, it had been a lousy day. I was just about to send the kids to the showers and collapse with a book when I remembered that I had promised my neighbor that we would pick some of their strawberries while they were away. I very reluctantly gathered the family and some plastic containers and headed out.

The early summer sun packed a punch that day, and we grew quite warm before the bottom of our containers were covered. My daughter began to complain that her glasses were slipping down her nose as she bent over the plants. I distractedly took them from her and slipped them over the collar of my shirt.

With container volume and attitudes on the rise, we decided to head for home. Kaylee casually extended her hand for her glasses. I paused for a moment. I had completely forgotten that I even had them. I reached up toward my neck to retrieve them, and...you guessed it...they were gone.

In the past thirty minutes we had picked through two different patches, totaling an area of approximately 400 square feet. In the movie version of this story, the camera would zoom out at this point, showing me as a tiny dot in the midst of the low, red-spotted shrubbery.

I hit bottom. I held a heated conversation with God. I envisioned hours of futilely combing through dirt and plants. It was at this low point that the power of that panicked prayer kicked in. I realized that this was a moment of decision. I have read, and even taught, that the largest jumps in our spiritual development come in the smallest choices.

So I made a choice. I took a deep breath and began to look. Within five minutes, the glasses were found. And so was I.

Join the Club

One of my summer musts is carving out extra reading time. I recently finished Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner. I highly recommend the work to any of my adult readers. I suspect, though, that I am one of the last fiction aficionados to read the work. Hosseini's next book is out now, and I am anxious to peruse that as well. I would love to get a book clubbish thing going here, where we can discuss literary devices, plot twits, and the like.

I began my sign language class last evening, which I suspect will mean that I will need to be using my fingers in a slightly different exercise in the next few weeks. I will do my best to remain faithful to this exercise, too.

A most sincere thanks to Mr. Thunder for his insightful comment to my last post. I will reflect upon your advice.

Happy Mid-Year

Today is Mid-Way Day - the fulcrum of the year - the middle day of the middle month. It is a good day to ponder, perhaps to dust off those shelved New Year's Resolutions.

I find myself at this moment in the exact same position as I was on New Year's Eve: my "spot" on the couch. On this point I must dwell, because I have brought up something important here, and you may have missed it. On New Year's Eve, party night of the year, I was on my spot on the couch. Now, you might be thinking, "Oh, poor dear, she must have been ill." or "Was there a snow storm?" or even, "She must have been writing the last chapter on her new bestseller!" (If you framed that last thought, I must welcome you as a new reader, for regulars here know that I do not belong to any literary guilds.) No, it was not just an off year. I have a long tradition of very sad December 31sts.

So I'm on the same couch, but I am not the same. (This, too, is an important point, because I have nearly despaired at times that I am unable to change.) Six months can alter one's philosophies and ideals.

As I recall, one of my resolutions at the dawn of '07 was to reinvent myself as a relaxed person. To achieve this lofty goal, I decided to inflict multiple stressors on myself. The logic, if one deign call it such, was that I would have no choice but to be flexible in the midst of such chaos.

I now change my long held belief in "better to try and fail then never to have tried at all" to something far more moderate like " ". (OK, I haven't gotten that far yet, I simply know it must be modified.)

The question that will dominate the remainder of the year, and probably the next several, is this: What flaws in my character (not moral fiber, mind you, just personality glitches) do I seek to amend, and which do I simply accept as being uniquely "me"?

Gotta go - my travel agent is calling with late December cruise options...

Wow, it is pouring

It's a good thing that I'm not a writer. This many days without a new post would have put me in a slump if I was. I may even be diagnosed with writer's blogk. (Sorry, really sad, I know.)

The thing is, there is just not much to say. Well, I guess there is, but it's all kind of foreboding and dreary.

In keeping with all metaphoric meanings, the bear is back. It apparently strolled right through the front yard last night. Thankfully, I was not home to witness the event. I knew something was up as soon as I pulled into the driveway and my very alert husband came running out on the porch, waving me into the garage like a traffic cop with one hand while scanning the landscape with the other hand over his brow. My sanctuary has been compromised.

In another example of metaphoric realms mirroring real happenings, there is a tremendous storm brewing. All non-writers best get off electrical equipment...

If glasses can be found, so can I

Sometimes a day is so disappointing that you just don't have the heart to document it. Who wants a lousy day memorialized?

I learned some things about myself today while getting my knocks that may make it redeemable. If there is one thing I love, it's redemption.

First, I learned that I don't like life off the pedestal.
I also learned that ideals are not gained by force.
This afternoon I learned that a son's love heals a lot more than criticism harms.

This evening I learned that when the sky turns the color of a ripe strawberry, I can almost believe that life is still sweet.

Summer and Links - sounds like sausage

Ahh, nothing like a shot in the arm from running with letters to pump up the blogging motivation! Thanks RWL!

Actually, I've been too busy running with children to witticize. I had this crazy idea that perhaps once the kids were on vacation, I'd be able to save gas, and maybe even lower my blood pressure. HA! Now I'm harried trying to find acceptable places for the kids to go while I'm at work three days a week, which looks like it will involve driving great distances to drop off and retrieve them from hither and yon.

Education is definately the only career choice that makes any sense for moms.

Anyway - I think it is important to note that WAA is committed to the causes of nieces and nephews everywhere. I noticed today that I had failed to add a link to my dear nephew's new blog. I now remedy that oversight and invite you to delve into the twelve-year-old male mind, if you dare.

Tribute

Sixteen years ago today, I was frustrated. My niece - my own sister's child - had been born, and I was not allowed to see her. I was told that there were Grandparent visiting hours, and sibling visiting hours, but nothing for aunts.

So June 4, 1991 was also the birth date of my activist foundation: What About Aunts (WAA). Despite the effectiveness of the organization (I saw my niece whether the nurses liked it or not!), membership is still pretty sparse.

Sixteen years later, I'm still a frustrated aunt. I have a beautiful, intelligent and talented niece whom I know so well, and don't know at all. It's hard for WAA to lobby against miles.

Happy Birthday, Allison. I love you.

Belly-Up to the Bear

My sister-in-law --the one who says I'm "predictably unpredictable"--left a message on the machine the other day: "Hey, just thought I'd let you know that a bear is in the neighborhood."

She probably predicted my reaction to that tidbit of information.

The dog has been woefully under-exercised ever since.

Rationally, I understand that a black bear poses little threat to me and my family. I know it probably doesn't want to make my acquaintance, either. But it's presence introduces a variable into my world that I can't control, and I don't like it.

My niece and nephew, children of aforementioned sister-in-law, have a similar issue with my aforementioned dog. Now Lilly is just a big, fun-loving teddy bear. She goes belly-up in submissive acceptance of just about anything. The children have absolutely nothing to fear. Their mother thinks, though, that it is the unexpected - the unpredictable - about animals that they find frightful.

Problem for all of us is that life is full of animals we weren't expecting. The "bears" of bad tidings can come at any time, unpredictably. The wisest among us greet the unforeseen beasts which come our way as potential friends, and go belly-up.

Limbo anyone?

From a mower's perspective, lawns would be much safer without trees. They present so many issues, so many dangers, to the landscape specialist. A bare branch is a hazardous protuberance (I referred to said branch as a projectile this morning, and the linguist in my home kindly informed me that it would have to be fired from the tree and in motion in order to be a projectile...) which requires expert evasive maneuvers to avoid eye injury. I have also determined that the word "limbo" actually comes from the contortions necessary when approaching hanging limbs in third gear.

The largest challenge, especially for those with a healthy dose of OCD, is getting the blades of grass which grow closest to the tree trunk. Now if you think something like, "couldn't you just trim around the trees with a weed wacker?" then you don't have OCD. Guaranteed.

So I have developed a system for mowing around trees. Concentric circles. I simply turn that wheel as hard as possible, lay off the brake and spin round the tree, widening a little each time. Within three passes, it's all cut.

Others who have witnessed this system find it inefficient, as I end up mowing some of the area around the tree multiple times.

I probably developed this style from the way I mow through life in general. A casual observer may think I'm blindly navigating over the same territory, repeating the same mistakes again and again. I wonder about that myself at times. But I think I'm really just a slow learner. It takes me a few passes before I cut through all of the obstacles to my progress. The OCD kicks in here as well, because I'm just not satisfied with getting through a crisis, I want to conquer it, handling it perfectly. I've even been known to set myself up for disaster to see if I've learned anything from the last attempt.

It's a risky way to live; racing ahead bent double and waiting for the next protuberance (or projectile) of circumstance to fly in my face. But lawns, and life, would be pretty bland with only straight lines.

Accents and Elimination

This cyber-shrink stuff is already effective! I have identified a trend in my thinking after only five posts. I seem to only describe myself by what I am NOT! I am not an electrician. I am not smart. I am not a writer, and I'm definitely not a clown.

Now, for analysis: 1) I may not know who I am. Perhaps I am whittling down all of the possibilities until I exhaust what I'm not and see what is left. 2) Most of what I have listed in the "not" category are things I fear. Electricity can cause fires, which I have feared since a family friend's house burned down in the late 70's. I fear smart because it's laden with responsibilities and commitments. I fear clowns because, well, doesn't everybody? If this theory holds true, then I can also say with confidence that I am not a bear, I am not in a small closet, and I am not Barack Obama.

For my therapy I self-prescribe some good, old-fashioned positive thinking. I hereby commit - well, let's not go that far - will try to describe myself in the affirmative.

I am exhausted.

My husband is alert and responsive

Yesterday's blog got some bad reviews on the home front. Seems some don't like to be portrayed as heavy in the eye-lid region. The good news is, we "communicated" about it.

I'm not smart after all

I was really tired last night. Which may explain why I suddenly got the urge to take a free on-line IQ test.

I should have realized no good would come of it when the first thing I read - in bold print- was that this was a timed test. I'm not good at timed. I don't like to be pressured into decision making. I like to reflect, analyze...stall if need be.

Ignoring the warnings, I clicked start and...stalled. Ok, so I didn't know the first question immediately. Surely they got easier!

I started rolling along when my husband, who had been dozing next to me, rolled as well. "What are you doing?" Now, call me insecure, but quite frankly I didn't want to reveal my current employ. He may go on about Spam, or internet security or some such. Heck, an on-line IQ test could give him enough material for an hour or more, and this was a timed test.

I did the only thing I could think of at the time. Minimize. "Oh, not much." I answered very casually. I started sweating a bit, realizing that the seconds were hastily ticking by. We engaged in small talk for a minute or two, until his eyelids grew heavy again. Usually, this is not a desired reaction during marital "communicating", but believe me, I was fine with it at the time.

Maximizing again, I tried to finish strong. But remember that I was very tired. If two typists can type two pages in five minutes, then how many typists does it take to type twenty pages in ten minutes? Now, in the light of day, the answer is alarmingly simple. Last night, it seemed like Environmental Chemistry. (Yes, I did take that class, and it ruined my 4.0 GPA. Environmental Chemistry is akin to electricians in my book.)

I wasn't pleased with the results. Apparently I'm not as smart as I always thought I was. One of my finer qualities; however, is my Weeble-like response to crisis. Pulling myself up by my rounded bottom, I saw the silver lining: a new excuse.

"I'm sorry, I really don't see how I can take on another fund-raising event for the school, I'm not really all that smart." "Start my Honors Thesis? Isn't that just for smart people?" "Find a witty conclusion to my blog? That's a job for 10 other typists."

The Deplorable Word

If you are a Narnia fan (which everyone should be), then you are familiar with the concept of the Deplorable Word from the Magician's Nephew. Now that word would destroy like the entire planet. With nothing that melodramatic in mind, the deplorable word that keeps me up at night, that echoes in the recesses of my brain after I've had another one of my really great ideas, that threatens me every time I pick up a pen (or keyboard) to write is: "TRITE!".

I first encountered the word in Mrs. Harter's tenth grade English class. The larger the word was scrawled across the top of your paper, the lower your grade. I made it my personal mission to "write to avoid the trite".

Like the Instant Grow Sponge pills of the 80's, this fear of trite swelled to absorb other areas of my life. What if my career choice, or lack of one, was trite? What if the color scheme for my house was trite? What if my children's names were trite? What if my interests were trite? What if my whole life is trite?

An imposing grey tombstone comes to mind with Mrs. Harter's decisive script engraved across the smooth surface: TRITE!

In lucid moments I can see that my fear of amounting to nothing more than trite paralyzes me into almost guaranteed tritedom. So I'm blogging to communicate my fears to the swarming vacancy of the Internet in an attempt to overcome them. How trite.

What about Bob?

When you are 63, you are supposed to be near the pinnacle of life. You should be planning the big career exit strategy. You should be polishing up your legacy and buying accessories to match the gold watch.

Not so for my dear friend Robert. He, at the unemployable age of 63, was given the boot this week.

I find myself in awe of the lack of scruples it would take to decide to lay off someone two years from retirement. How would that board room conversation go? "Well, Steve, we could save 1% if we cut old Bob." "Excellent, Joe. That's a great solution to our expenses glut. I'm giving you a 5% raise!"

I am not an electrician

Perhaps you thought from the name of this blog that I would be able to impart some information about circuits and wiring. Alas, you are sadly mistaken. Actually, I am not overly fond of electricians. Bad past experiences.

I am not an electrician. I am not a writer. I do, however, need an outlet. As my husband aptly said, all women do. My life revolves around Church, home and work. Each of these venues is fulfilling and meaningful, but also frustrating and mundane at times. So, this blog will act as my cyber-shrink - a bit of couch for the byte of life. (Told you I wasn't a writer.)

I don't expect many guests, I'm not even good with large parties. But if you happen by from time to time you'll find a woman who loves Truth and seeks it passionately, struggles with over-analysis and thus decision making, and is determined to overcome weaknesses - without any need for wire strippers.