Category Archives: Just bitchin’

Just bitchin'

The Abuse of Imagination

popcorn&wine2

So…a lesson for those of us who subsist on popcorn and wine, and happen to enjoy crunching down on the un-popped kernels, defying common sense and dental advice in one fell swoop.

The dud kernel is an implacable adversary. It will show no mercy. In the end, it will win, cracking through tooth enamel like a diamond-bladed buzz saw.

You will seek succor from a dentist…not a profession normally associated with succor.

You may be told you need a root canal to soothe the screaming nerve endings that popcorn has coaxed into chronic rebellion. All the myths and cautionary tales you’ve ever heard about root canals will surface. Visions will loom of sadistic tormentors in white coats, of dental chairs in dungeons alongside racks and other instruments of torture.

Fear will paralyze you.

You will keep your root canal appointment only because you don’t see a way out that will resolve the pain issue. You will assume the position in The Chair. You will give off emanations of terror that affect the professional slated to work on your tooth, damping his upper lip with perspiration.

Forty-five minutes later, you’ll realize there’s been no pain; only noise and slight pressure. You’ll sit up and be flooded with relief that the tooth is no longer the focal point of your awareness.

You’ll realize the absurdity of fear. You’ll recall a friend saying ‘Worry is the misuse of imagination.’

And you’ll know that, if worry is misuse, then fear is abuse.

You’ll go home wiser, more philosophic. And ready to get back on the popcorn horse.

popcorn&cat

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Just bitchin'

The Defrag Dance

mondrian

There’s a housekeeping function in the maintenance section of my computer. It’s called ‘defrag.’

I push a few keys, make a few selections, and…presto! I can watch some industrious, little genie sort through all the bits and bytes that have somehow been secreted in odd nooks of my hard drive, assembling them, reuniting them.

A graphic representation is provided that I assume symbolizes the actual defrag process. If it’s taken literally, then my hard drive looks like a Mondrian painting, composed of squares of color in varying sizes.

The little defrag elf sorts through this colorful landscape, moving all the squares of one color that have inexplicably scattered from their brethren back to where they belong.

I find this fascinating. Like the I-take-it-back command of ctrl + z, defragging would be a marvelous thing if it could be applied to one’s life.

It’s akin to a lost lamb finding its flock…

A prodigal being returned to his family…

A lonely soul reuniting with his tribe.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to press a few buttons and find out where you’re really supposed to be?

Yes, it would. But it’s just a techno-dream. The defrag elf collects the lost strays and corrals them together, but once the mesmerizing dance is done, my laptop is only a small mote of controlled chaos waiting to break free.

Soon the defragging will loosen its hold. There will be fragging.

Because I’m sure that chaos is the norm.

And life is a maze.

It might be lonelier, but it’s more interesting that way.

maze

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Just bitchin'

The Lost Reality of Etiquette

tvs

“Reality ain’t nuthin’ but rude.”

She was large, obese, with a babe in arms and a bevy of other little ones storming her for attention. She was standing in front of one of those stores whose idea of window dressing begins and ends with rank upon rank of television monitors.

She was referring to a reality show featuring a few drunk twenty-somethings stumbling into walls, spitting curses and throwing whatever came to hand, their images multiplied a dozen times over. She turned a sad eye my way.

“Don’t matter what I say; when my kids see this kinda stuff, they figure ‘s okay to b’have like animals.”

The world of social media is geared toward acquiring followers, likes, hits, attention. And it’s far more interesting to observe the antics of misbehavior than polite manners.

This woman is raising her children at a time when rudeness is applauded, encouraged, rewarded with reality TV star status. Act out, incur conflict, and you’ve got an audience. More than that; you’ve got a following! Doesn’t matter if you’re liked. What matters is you’re seen.

The woman herding her progeny before her, and away from the spectacle of over-the-top confrontation, told me it’s a losing battle. She can exercise all the parental control available in her home, but at some point whether it’s TV or online or from playmates inundated with the same ‘reality’ message, rudeness will filter down through the cracks like ashes in Pompeii.

“Kids’ gonna be rude and won’t know how to spell, neither.”

My guess is she’s blaming the space limits imposed by Twitter and texting for that last. But I could be wrong. There might be a reality show out there about spelling bee losers that I haven’t encountered yet. I’m not worried.

I’m sure it’ll filter down and coat me with its fine ash.

‘Cause you can’t escape reality. And like the lady said, ‘Reality ain’t nuthin’ but rude.”

cattongue

 

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cooking, Just bitchin'

The Lesson Learned

ratmuffin2

Every once in a while it’s a good idea to try something new. Kick your brain out of the lumpy, rutted, familiar ground it navigates without really taking notice.

It’s good to take a break from the keyboard. And the plot line. And the characters.

I’m not much of a cook. Okay…fine…I’m NO kind of a cook. Dinner is usually microwave popcorn and, if budget and circumstances allow, a glass of wine.

So, yesterday I decided to see if I could blaze a new trail through my limited nutritional repertoire, and maybe…I dunno…BAKE something. I’d been cleaning out kitchen drawers and cupboards (a foray into Creative Distraction…see previous post…while waiting for a kink to work itself out of a story I’d been laboring over).

I found muffin tins. I discovered various containers of spices that hadn’t yet caked in the moisture-laden air of the Northwest. I unearthed an old stack of recipe cards from someone who once thought I should be the owner of an old stack of recipe cards.

I plunged into my new adventure, trusting it would, if not open new vistas of  culinary aptitude, at least give that story-kink time to unknot as it lay in its own creative juices.

Here’s what I learned:

1. When the labels fall off of spice containers and you’re suffering from seasonal allergies, curry powder looks a lot like cinnamon.

2. If you’re going to make muffins, non-stick spray or those little, paper cup-thingies are kind of necessary. Unless you don’t mind digging them out with your fingers like a savage, eating them straight from the pan, leaning over the sink for crumb-control.

Side note: A male friend who should know saw me do this and commented, “You look like a bachelor.” No offense to bachelors…most of them fare better than I do.

3. Curry-by-mistake muffins are okay; they complement popcorn and red wine nicely, especially if seasonal allergies prevent you from savoring anything other than texture.

4. I belong behind the keyboard.

messyeatercat

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Just bitchin'

Imperiled Yogurt

pencilstabber

Apropos of absolutely nothing to do with writing, I just have to mention what I saw today at the supermarket: a child of perhaps seven or eight…old enough to know better…using a pencil to rupture those papery lids that cover individual yogurt containers.

Trailing behind Mama, he did a rapid-fire, stabbing as he trotted along.

Behavioral issues aside, with all the attention that’s paid to safety and the prevention of product tampering, why did they abandon the plastic lids for yogurt? I may be in the minority, but I don’t always want an entire 6 or 8 ounces of the stuff. Often I use it as a garnish on top of oatmeal, or a spoonful of the plain unflavored type as a substitute for sour cream.

I liked the plastic lids. I recycled the plastic lids. I reused plastic lids under tiny, little plant starts. (Never mind what’s under my grow light…that’s not the issue here.)

At the store, I called the boy’s mother’s attention to what he’d done.

She picked him up and ran.

And I reached as far back on the shelf as I could to select my yogurt from an area well out of reach of a tiny Jack The Ripper of the dairy section.

puncturedyogurt

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