Keep your chin up....

I recently discovered, much to my dismay, that I am growing a beard. It is not a big beard, at least by most standards. It is, in fact, one single hair growing under my chin, which persistently keeps returning no matter how many times I eradicate it.

I don't where this hair came from, I only know it has never been there before. I don't understand why it has suddenly shown up on my chin, waving in the breeze like a solitary flag, curling delicately around itself on the vast underside of my otherwise unsullied orifice.

I feel that hair is mocking me, telling the world that I am, in a word, Maturing. One thing I have noticed over the years is that as women mature [don't you love that word, mature? Sounds so much classier than age, I think, sort of like something you do at a spa instead of just getting old, but maybe that's just me? Oh, wait, where was I?] they tend to grow hair in weird places that it doesn't belong. Places that, dare I point it out, men have hair that they, also, try to beat back with daily razor usage.

My lovely, and very young, daughter does not hesitate to point out this flaw, which is, for her, extremely embarrassing. She apparently would prefer that I maintain a dignity reserved for mothers who respect the inner needs of their teenaged daughters. It seems one of the foundations for upholding this dignity is that their mothers do not have chin hairs. I will even go out on a limb and state, for the record, that they would not be comfortable with their mothers looking like men in any other way, either, but that's another post.

The ironic part of all this is that the hair on my legs, which I have mercilessly attacked with chemical, mechanical, and soft wax techniques, is now getting thinner and lighter, to the point where it is almost unnoticeable. So while I must attend to my chin hair on a fairly regular basis, I no longer need to shave my legs to avoid looking like a chimpanzee. Why do you suppose that is? Do you think God has a sense of humor? Because it sure looks like it from where I'm sitting.

Speaking of sitting, that's an area of the body I won't mention at all, rest assured. But if I were to mention it, I would have to point out that it's very unfair of the exercise advocates to guilt you into getting up and off your backside just at the moment when it is finally perfectly adjusted for couch potato duty. But like I said, I don't talk about such things. This is a classy blog, informative, family friendly. Educational, even.

I am pretty sure that my daughter doesn't understand that someday she, too, will mature, and will probably have a daughter of her own to helpfully point out where she falls short of the ideal. I would not know this, except I myself may have been such an ignoramus at times in my unfettered, and obviously less informed, youth.

I seem to recall, when I was 15 or so, feeling that my mother was woefully uninterested in correcting her more obvious [at least to me] imperfections, thus compelling me to helpfully point them out, so she could stop letting herself go like that. I am fairly sure one by-product of all that assistance is that she is not as sympathetic to my plight, now that I am fighting the same battles, as she might otherwise have been. In fact, I think I might have heard a brief snicker the other day when I mentioned my own facial disfigurement, but I could be wrong.

I have also noticed, although I do not have the problem myself, that as women get older, many of them tend to develop that most masculine of facial features, the uni-brow. I have seen women glance at themselves in a bathroom mirror, and upon seeing a rogue offender, attack it with a ferocity that would shock even the most hardened of criminals. Instant execution seems to be their motto, and the sentence is carried out without further ado, as they whip out a tweezers they keep at the ready in their purse and yank that little sucker out of there. It's a harsh outcome for the brave little hair, but I'm with the woman. If you want to grow on my face, you had better get in the right line. I don't tolerate follicular dissension.

Another thing I have noticed about maturity is that you no longer see everything in sharp relief. It may be that your greater life experience allows you to put things into more appropriate perspective, but I think the most likely reason is because you simply cannot get anything into focus.

The other day I was at the grocery store and observed this woman, around my own age, who kept bobbing her head up and down and back and forth, looking for all the world like an unhappy jack-in-the-box. I was fascinated by this little dance, which went on for several long seconds, wondering if she was having a seizure or if she was just odd, when she glanced over at me, looking disgusted. I was prepared to apologize for staring when she uttered the words that brought us together as bosom buddies, "I am blind as a bat."

Ahhhhh. Clarity has been achieved. I sympathized, of course, since I also do the bobble-headed doll routine on a regular basis, and said, "It happens." We nodded at each other in solidarity as she finally found the exact position in which she could read the label, plucked the item she needed from the shelf with a heavy sigh and the expression, "THERE it is," and stalked away, still mad that life has brought her so low that she can no longer read letters that are an inch high and right in front of her nose. Maturity may be over-rated. Personally, I'd rather be able to see my needlework without a magnifying glass.

I, however, refuse to bow to the pressure of reading glasses, and prefer to continue my neck exercises. Have you noticed how men who wear reading glasses are considered distinguished? Dignified and learned, even. Right. Goes with the gray hair and the paunch, I guess. But women in reading glasses suddenly hear compliments such as, "You look great, for your age." I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to be the age where I look great in spite of it.

You really know you are getting older when your class reunion becomes lunch instead of dinner. My mother recently told me that her reunion was coming up, and they were meeting for lunch at a restaurant not too far from her small town. I laughed, of course, because it's kind of cute, but I know it's because people her age don't like to drive at night any more. Unfortunately, I understand that better all the time, since I have noticed recently that stop lights look like little red, yellow and green stars. In fact, the other night, I thought the stoplight at the top of the hill was someone's brake lights, and it took me far too long to realize I was the only one on the street. I think the term, seeing stars, was probably coined by someone over 45, don't you?

I have been five feet nine inches tall my entire adult life. I reached that lofty height around ninth grade, I think, and I have been there ever since. When I was a teen in high school, I hated being so tall, because all the cute girls are short little things who can barely reach the tops of their lockers, even in four inch heels.

As I got to be an adult, I realized that the cute little teenagers have become short housewives who cannot reach the shelf that they need at the grocery store. You know the shelf, the one with the shredded wheat and the grape nuts. Now they are dependant upon me to sustain their food supply, and I have felt pretty smug about it all.

Or at least I did until a recent trip to the doctor's office for an annual physical, another thing that gets a lot more interesting after 40, but we won't go into that now. It seems I have shrunk. I am now 5'8 1/2" tall. And apparently that is a very important half inch, because the compressed mass went straight to my stomach and my hips. I no longer have the concave stomach of the young and the beautiful, I am now fighting the five months pregnant look. I recently observed my profile in the bathroom mirror, and I was depressed to see that the term "paunch" could be applied to my stomach. I have noticed my face is less oval and more round lately, too.

Apparently, another sign of maturity is the rounding up of all your features, and I do mean rounding up. My weight is up. My clothing size is up. Even my shoe size has gotten bigger. But in a twist of fate that seems rather cruel, while my body parts are getting bigger, they seem to be migrating lower, losing the battle for altitude on a daily basis. [If you want to know why that is cruel, you would have to understand that until recently, I could have gone topless on any nude beach and been indistinguishable from your average guy. In fact, I have seen plenty of men who had more to work with, and who probably needed my supportive underclothing far more than I did.]

All you ladies know what I am talking about. When a woman of A Certain Age refers to everything heading south, I am here to tell you she is not referring to illegal aliens heading home. Perky no longer applies to any part of your body, and you have revamped your wardrobe to emphasize your face. Or your feet. Or really anywhere but your mid-section.

Have you ever noticed how mature women tend to wear large earrings but no necklace? Now I understand the strategy. If you distract them with your fabulous ear wear they will not look below the neck. Hat trick takes on a whole new meaning when you are my age.

Of course, this newly directed facial attention makes correcting the small defects that may be present that much more crucial, which brings me back to my chin hair. I am pleased to report that once again, my chin is undefiled, pristine and unblemished by anything out of place. I can once again face life with the assurance that, for today at least, I can keep my chin up, and there will be nothing to spoil the impression of the perfection that is me.

Well, okay, that's probably going a little too far. But at least my daughter won't have to be ashamed to be seen with me, and for the mother of a 16 year old girl, that's the highest praise you can get in a day. So I'm good.

Oh. By the way, keep your chin up! You're good, too.

Off to the races....

It is Nascar weekend in KCK, and there seems to be a lot of excitement about it. They already set up lanes on the freeway yesterday to route all the expected traffic into the stadium and still allow other people to flow through those areas. The stadium is prepped and ready to go, some of the teams have already arrived and set up shop, the vendors have brought their wares to show and sell. It is quite the phenomenon, one I must admit, I do not understand.

It is baffling to me that people would be interested in spending time and gas driving to a stadium, and then paying to see people race around in a circle. If they consider that big entertainment, I wonder why they don't just go sit on a freeway overpass and watch the cars traveling underneath them? If you really enjoy watching people speed, you can go on any local highway and see breathtaking chances taken at high speed on a minute by minute basis.

The cars are covered with signs and logos and brilliant colors you would not see parked in a neighborhood garage. I would like to throw it out there that I, for one, would be happy to put a company logo on the side of my car if someone wants to throw money at me. You would think some company would be pleased to be associated with an attractive, youthful woman driving a Dodge Dakota, but so far, there are no takers.

I have never been one to have a love affair with a car. For me, it represents a way to get from here to there, an expensive drain on my bank account that never seems to end. I am currently supporting three cars, and their meals are more expensive than my kids, their checkups more frequent, and their insurance just as costly. I would love to cut back, but with three drivers, and our suburban world, it's not likely to happen any time soon.

I remember the day I first got behind the wheel of a car. It was with a terrifying combination of power and fright that I sat in the driver's seat, facing down the highway. My mother was in the passenger seat reading her Bible when I took my first foray into the adult of world of driving. [No, seriously, she really was. She had to go to her Bible study the next morning, and she wasn't prepared, so she had me drive while she did her study.]

I practiced going down the on-ramp, and then immediately went back up the next off-ramp, much to my mother's surprise and consternation. I was exhausted and already experiencing the kind of muscle strain usually felt only by people climbing Mount Everest. I tried to pry my fingers away from the wheel, and found them cramped into the curled 10 and 2 position, arms stiff, shoulders sore, and head starting to ache.

My mom encouraged me to keep going, even though I was ready to turn the responsibility back over to her right then. I think her motive might have been more expeditious opportunism than an actual desire to sit in the passenger seat, especially with someone so obviously unprepared, but I have to give her credit - other than reading the Bible, and probably doing a fair amount of praying, she ignored the worst of it, and praised the best of it, and I have positive memories of the first time behind the wheel. I also have positive feelings about the nap I required at the end, when I was safely home again in the bosom of my familiar sofa, dreaming about the thrill of the open road.

Back then, we had a little red Pinto station wagon, and it was a handy little car. You could fit an amazing amount of stuff into that car, especially when you put the back seat down. It wasn't a cool car by the standards of my kids, but where I grew up, if you had a car at all and got to drive to school in it, you were the very definition of cool. I did not have my own car, so on the very rare occasions when I got to drive to school, I felt very privileged indeed. It's all in the perspective, really.

I finally got my very own car when I was in college. Since the Pinto had worked out so well for my mom, we got another one for me, a cute little hatchback, brown in color, with low miles and a stick shift. Rest assured, it was retro-fitted with the gas tank protector so that it wouldn't blow up if I got rear-ended, but I wasn't worried about that at the time. Being a dependent teenager, I was more concerned with the price tag, which was in the right range for my mother to say yes.

I felt an unbelievable power, owning my own car. It gave me the option of going anywhere I wanted any time I wanted, and it was exhilarating for someone who was accustomed to being restricted, to have that kind of freedom. Gas was under a dollar a gallon, and you could fill up your tank for a little over ten dollars at the time. So getting in the car and taking a drive, just for the fun of it, was still a reasonable form of entertainment.

I used that car to go home a lot as a college freshman, because I was homesick for the home and the mom I was so eager to leave just a few months before that. My mother never looked so good as when I was watching her car threading its way down the freeway away from me at the end of a weekend. Isn't it interesting how the same woman who had nothing of interest to say, at least as far as you were concerned, the day you graduated from high school was suddenly the one person whose opinion you needed on a constant basis? I laugh at my son, who calls me all the time to chat, but I suspect if I had owned a cell phone I might well have done the same thing.

My little brown Pinto took me to college for four years, then to graduate school, and into a marriage. It even shared one of the happiest moments of my life, as we drove our newborn son away from the hospital, feeling like bandits getting away with a crime. I still find it a little hard to believe they actually let us walk out the door with that defenseless baby, because two less prepared people you will never find. I will never forget the giddy joy I experienced as we drove down the street and he really belonged to us.

Eventually, of course, the car gave up the ghost, and we were forced to trade it in on a new car. That should have been my first clue that the person to whom I had chosen to plight my troth may not have been quite as substantial as I thought. While I worried over gas mileage, repair costs, engine size, servicing availability - you know, the practical stuff [never a word that should be applied to the ex, Mr. Down to Earth] - he was enthralled with the fact that the seats could rock. I am not entirely sure why he thought it would be a positive thing to drive down the road like Granny in the back of the truck heading off to Beverly Hills, but that was the thing that sold him on that car.

That worked out about as well as you would expect, of course. By the time we got rid of it, we had spent more on maintenance than the original purchase price. We replaced that car piece by piece, starting with the front end just a few days after we brought it home from the dealership.

The ex always considered himself to be a very funny guy, and to prove it, he came home every day and told me he had gotten into an accident with the new car. I am not really sure why he thought it was big fun to induce a stroke into his still hormonal wife every afternoon, but that was his game, and he stuck with it. So when he came home and woke me up to inform me that he had smashed up the car in a black ice accident, I thought he was kidding, and told him to go away and fool someone else.

Unfortunately, this time he wasn't joking, and the entire front end had collapsed like the tin foil accordion it was. Renault went wrong for a reason, and I'm thinking this might have had something to do with it. Of course, I'm sure they didn't count on someone driving the car off the lot and into the trunk of another car, but if not, they had reckoned without considering my ex.

Always the huckster looking for a deal, my Monty Hall in running shoes found a shop that was willing to do the work for less money than the insurance company was willing to give us. This seemed like a great thing until about six minutes later, when the hood of the car turned a dull chalky white - the rest of the car was a deep charcoal gray. Naturally, the shop refused to stand by its lack of work ethic, and we lived with that condition reminding us daily that he is a bad driver, and if it sounds too good to be true, there is going to be a catastrophe associated with it.

Although I have owned quite a variety of cars, my favorite car is the one I am currently driving. Not that one specifically, just whichever one I'm driving at the time. I don't care about cars, don't care what they look like, don't care about torque or revs or horsepower. I care that they get me from here to there, and that they are safe and reliable and not going to strand me on the freeway in the middle of nowhere. Because being stranded eight hours from home is not a happy moment, especially when you are broke, unemployed, and trying to impress a potential boss with your ability to get things done.

After the Renault, we bought a Ford Tempo. Really, as I think about it, the list of car mistakes that we made were a good metaphor for the marriage itself. It started out like a cute little Pinto hatchback, went to a new car that was shiny and pretty on the outside, and had all the fancy features, but never worked right, and then went downhill from there with one problem after another. Since the divorce, I haven't needed to replace a car, and they all work like a charm. Hm. That is something to ponder, I believe.

Anyway, one second of July, the ex had left his job a few weeks previously in high dudgeon over a perceived slight. [I know, I know, you don't know what dudgeon is, but you can see the red flags flying everywhere. It was too late, that's my only excuse. I was already sunk and drowning by that time.] We traveled from Minnesota to Kansas City because he had a couple of job interviews, and it was crucial that one of them turn into a job. We had no money, but traveled down and stayed in the cheapest dive we could find, so that he would be fresh and ready the following day for the interviews.

Things went well, he felt really good about one of the opportunities, and he was pretty sure he would get the position, so we were in the mood to celebrate. We headed for Minnesota, late in the afternoon, maybe starting around 5 p.m. or so, and got about 45 minutes down the road when the trouble started.

The car died. Just died. Couldn't start it. We rolled off the road, and into a nearby, fortuitously located gas station which was happily at the bottom of the off ramp, and we put up the hood and looked inside. Yep. It was an engine. We stood there, baffled, unsure what to do, and after a few minutes, we decided the right thing was to try and start it again, because you just never know. Maybe we turned the key wrong or something. And lo and behold, it fired right off, and away we went, that sinking feeling in our stomachs replaced with one of elation. For about half an hour. When we repeated the process on the side of the freeway.

Well. This was not a good thing, and it was long before cell phones. My mother had kindly agreed to watch Adam, and was awaiting our return anxiously, I'm sure. I don't know that she was excited about babysitting, but I'm pretty sure she was ready to do anything to get us out of the house again. After about 20 minutes on the side of the freeway with the hood up, the car fired off again, and we drove to the nearest exit and pulled off and into another gas station. Where we obviously put the hood up while we cogitated on what to do.

We called my mother, collect no doubt, and explained our situation. There were no repair shops open, and we didn't have money, anyway. We were seven hours from home, it was a holiday, and it was already early evening at this point. We decided that as long as we could drive a ways before the meltdown occurred, we would head for home, and make stops along the way to let the engine cool down.

So we returned to Minnesota, half an hour at a time, stopping at every rest stop and gas station along the way to let the car rest. It was the longest drive of my life, but I have seen the entire route up close and personal now, and I am here to tell you, it's not any better up close than it is whizzing by your car windows at 70 mph. And in Iowa, you don't want to speed, let me just share with you, because they will pick you up. Although they are very nice about it when they do. Not that I would know, or anything.... :(

When we returned, twelve hours later, but all in one piece, it was to the news that the employer had already called, and so we really did have something to celebrate that holiday. But the biggest celebration I had was hugging my little boy, knowing that whatever it took, I had come home to him again, and his happy face made it all worthwhile.

So when I see people flocking to Nascar races, I have to wonder what they see in it. Because cars are just functional machines. They will never smile and give you a hug just because you came home to them.

The nose knows....

Fall is a season of unexpectedness. You fall in love, fall in a pile of leaves, fall into your routine after the summer off. You pull out the fresh crayons and notebook paper, and the scent of a new textbook tickles your nose.

When I was little, computers and printers were still a distant dream. Teachers used typewriters or handwrote everything, and if it needed to be copied, they didn't use xerox machines, either. Instead, the teachers made a stencil copy of whatever they wanted printed. They then attached this stencil to a large machine called a mimeograph machine, with a big, round drum that turned with a handle that you cranked by hand. I used to love the smell of a handout that still had the scent of the ink embedded into the paper. The ink was always a faded blue, and the paper, if they had just been made, would still feel a little damp. I hated the work that the freshly mimeoed sheets meant was shortly to descend upon me, but I loved the smell, anyway.

The smell of a new textbook always reminds me of my fall birthday. Each year, I would go back to school shortly before my birthday arrived, and by the time the bloom was off the books, it would be time to celebrate. Having a fall birthday when you are young is sort of like having a consolation prize for having to start school for another long year of learning. You don't like it, you aren't happy about it, but at least you get presents.

Although most people love the scent of freshly baked bread or a fresh pan of cookies, I love the scent of a new doll. Sometimes, when I walk by the toy aisle even now I will step in and take a whiff of the plastic ambrosia, and be transported back to childhood in my own personal time machine in my head.

Fall has a scent all to itself, as does spring. Spring is the smell of rain and fresh flowers and trees in bloom. Fall is the crisp smell of apples ripe for the picking and drying leaves falling on the ground. The grass has lost its lustre, and the flowers are somewhat wilting and tired looking. They are ready for their long winter's nap, and you are ready for the smell of a fall thunderstorm to clean the air and clear out the pollen, bringing the crispness that signals the holidays are not far away.

Schools have a peculiar smell, and it's not just the kids, although they don't help. I have never walked into an elementary school that didn't have the same strange odor. I don't know if it's the cleaners, or the wax, or just that kids are sweating it out over learning, but you could blindfold me and drop me into a fourth grade classroom and I could tell you every time right where I am.

Christmas trees have the scent of winter and promise and holiday joy. If you think joy doesn't have a scent, smell a pine tree, and you will see what I mean. They have tried to bottle it, they put it into candles, they put it into floor cleaner and wood polish. But the unfortunate truth is that you can't bottle the smell of anticipation, and that is the promise of that irresistible scent.

New puppies have a fresh baby smell to their breath, and it's intoxicating to dog lovers. And human babies have their own scent, too, although it's usually not as sweet. I have read that a human baby will turn toward it's own mother just hours after birth, something that surprises no one, I'm sure. But what may be surprising is that research has shown that mothers also recognize the scent of their own babies just after birth, as well. Although it could be dismissed as a simple evolutionary mechanism to ensure the survival of the smallest members of society, it's also a lovely sign that mother and baby have begun bonding within minutes of laying eyes on each other.

When we are ill, our noses are often the harbingers of trouble, and it's always disheartening to find that we cannot breathe or smell through them. My nose, through the simple scents it breathes in, can instantly bring childhood back, or a happy moment with a new puppy. I have retained in my memory scents and smells that can take me to another world, or another time, or another place.

We have learned to harness the amazing sense of smell in dogs, and we use their sensitive nostrils to do everything from find disaster victims to explosive devices, drugs to avalanche survivors. Their sense of smell is far heightened from our own, and they are constantly distracted, noses to the ground, by their obsession with the smell of absolutely everything.

So one is then forced to wonder, as I did today, why is it that they look for the most pungent smells, the stronger the better? This is one of life's little mysteries that I would like an answer to. If only because of a certain dog that ended my long day with his need for a bath, precipitated by a little roll in the grass that ended badly.

In my opinion....

Americans are a shockingly opinionated people. Everyone seems to have an opinion on everything, and we are all eager to share what we think. That probably explains the explosion of blogs, of which I am a participant, it is true. I don't know that I have so many opinions as I have thoughts banging around in my head, and I have to dump them somewhere to make room for the really important stuff I'm supposed to be remembering every day.

Like where I parked the car when I'm at Walmart. It is very embarrassing to wander around the lot like a participant in a game of blind man's bluff goes bad, looking desperately for your own set of wheels while trying to maintain your dignity. I don't know about you, but I am never fooled by someone striding purposefully around a parking lot, as though they are on a mission. We all know that mission is to find their car and get out of there as quickly as possible, before they see someone they know, and have to explain why they are stalking cars instead of heading home.

I have recently taken to reading the local newspaper online, rather than in paper form. I'm not sure why I started doing it, the real deal is at the end of my driveway, and it's a long walk when you're 48, I guess. When I started, I realized that at the end of almost every article, there is a space for making comments upon that information which you have just perused, free and open to anyone. It doesn't matter whether you have something to say that is genuinely worth hearing, you can comment regardless, which is freedom of the press at it's best and it's worst.

And when I say worst, I am not kidding around. Reading public comments has not elevated my opinion of the general populace. On the contrary, I am depressed at the level of ignorance that seems to abound in our society. It is shocking, disheartening, depressing, distressing. If we want to know whether our school systems are successful, we need look no further than the comment section of the local paper, and it will give you all the information you need to know.

While many of the national magazines and news outlets have gone to the so-called moderated comments, where everything has to go through a person before being posted on the site, our local paper has not yet done so. When you post a remark, it goes right up there, live, unfiltered, just as you wrote it. If it is especially offensive, there is a way to complain to the newspaper staff, who will then review it and remove the offending item, if it's deemed too inappropriate. So there is a modicum of control, but it's tenuous, at best, and depends on the sensibilities of others to be enforced. There is a lot of power to that immediate feedback, and it's enticing, because you feel you can influence others who are reading your remarks.

I think that's what draws the commenters, some of whom appear to be from other parts of the country, but who regularly post on our local news forum. Since Kansas City is hardly the hub of the universe, it's clear that there is some other draw, and I think it's the power that they draw from the freedom to say anything they want, without immediate restriction.

From reading all these comments, it would be easy and tempting to draw conclusions about our society. They are frequently very polarized, either rabidly for, or diametrically opposed, to whatever the topic might have been under discussion. They are rarely polite, and actual discourse is virtually impossible, as each side is fully and completely entrenched in their own point of view to the exclusion of all else. They are not there to listen to each other and learn, they don't even seem particularly interested in changing minds. They simply want to show, in a public way, how much they despise the other position, and state their own case and why it's obvious that they are the fount of all wisdom, to the exclusion of everyone else.

I have been entertained by the lingo of the blogs and commentaries. There are trolls, who go from site to site, leaving scorching remarks simply to inflame passions. There are avatars, which are the so-called screen names people use to leave their remarks. Many trolls, in particular, have many avatars, and will sign in to the same site repeatedly using different avatars to make more than one remark, occasionally even having arguments with themselves in an effort to get a discussion, or more likely, a fight, going. If you leave an opinion that is likely to be disagreed with, [for example, you say something reasonable,] you will be flamed, meaning everyone will disagree vociferously and probably rudely as well.

At first, I was extremely disconcerted by these commentators and their comments. It is almost frightening to think of these people running around out there, looking exactly like everyone else, appearing normal on the outside, but filled with such hate and confusion on the inside. It makes you wonder if your neighbor, your friend, possibly your ex-spouse, might be posting on these sites, and if so, have they gone completely round the bend?

However, after you read these comments for awhile, even in passing for a few minutes a day, you start to see a sameness to them, a similarity in style and content and even expression, that allows the realization to slowly dawn that its primarily the same five people posting comments on every site, throwing their opinions out there. More importantly, no one else cares enough to listen or even pay attention, so they are probably relatively harmless after all.

I was amused recently, when reading a brief item I was researching from another journal, that someone with the same quirky avatar I have seen on the KC Star site had posted there as well. I realized that I had encountered a troll, and I was rather entertained at the idea that someone would take so much time and effort to ooze around the internet laying grenades to set other people off. I don't see the fun in it, but I guess that's what they do to get their power high.

I rarely bother to post a comment on these sites, because no one reads them other than the few who are mainly arguing with each other, and the occasional bystander who stumbles in. I have, on one or two occasions, when I simply could not help myself, posted an impassioned response to something particularly foolish, only to be ignored while they strayed back to their off topic, or ridiculous, opinionated rants.

Most regular readers know that my son is a columnist for his state university daily paper, which gives him a rather large pulpit from which to bully his readers with his opinion on whatever his topic is that day. I recently learned that his musings are not only published in the paper and online, but they are also distributed to college newspapers nationwide, where people read his opinions, and occasionally direct comments his way. This is a rather amazing accomplishment, I think, because it gives him the opportunity to influence people far beyond his sphere of usual acquaintanceship. But it also leads to some interesting conclusions that I have drawn from the remarks he has received in return.

It seems that people who partake in the blogging way of life are living in a different reality, one where cyberspace is genuine, and they feel they know the people they regularly encounter. I have seen different avatar personalities wishing each other happy birthday, happy anniversary, and exchanging condolences as if they know each other in real space, as if they are, in fact, friends. It makes me wonder if these people trolling the internet by day and night live outside the walls of their own homes, or if they are, in fact, imprisoned, either in their own minds, or someone else's jail cell. It makes me wonder what their lives really look like, and if the freedom of the internet is the only freedom they have.

It seems that when you write a blog or a column, people feel that you are old friends, and they know you, who you are, what you are about. They make assumptions about what is important to you, and they think that they have something to give back to you in exchange. I worry for those people. I wonder what happens when their favorite blogger goes away? Who do have they to share their grief, or their pain, or their joy? Is there a real life for them, or is cyberlife their only life, the only life that is genuine to them?

Adam gets a lot of comments on his columns, because as an opinion writer, he is, by definition, creating controversy. It is his goal to make people think and talk and respond, and they do. He has shared some of the more entertaining comments he has received, but the one that I have enjoyed most was short and to the point. It was an e-mail that said, quite succinctly, "Will you marry me?" Although I know it was a joke, it spoke to the nature of the anonymity of the medium, that someone would consider sending an anonymous proposal, simply because they could.

I enjoy writing my blog far more than anyone possibly can benefit from reading it, and I have another life outside the far flung reaches of cyberspace. In my normal, everyday life, I interact with real people who have real lives as well, and it keeps me grounded and humbled. Being queen of my own universe is fun as long as it isn't any more important than a few scribblings tossed to the wind, but I hope that I never lose sight of what is real, and what is merely Memorex.

Of course, that's just my opinion....

Vicious vices

My name is Sarah, and I am an addict. I know it is probably shocking to hear the bold truth, stated so harshly in the bright light of day. Most of us keep our baser selves hidden from public examination, but I am made of sterner stuff. I am willing to expose myself to public ridicule in the effort to make the world a kinder place for other addicts similarly situated.

Addiction is not something that happens in a weekend. It is insidious, sneaking up on you when you are half asleep, and wrapping its aromatic tentacles around your taste buds like a cozy sweater in the winter chill. It sidles up beside you and makes you think it is your friend; even if you're feeling low, you always feel better when you have had your fix.

Addiction starts slowly, unintentionally. No one sets out intending to become dysfunctional without a stimulant. It begins, perhaps, by going with a friend to their supplier. You walk in, and your senses are assaulted with the the scent and the aroma of the demon addictant. It draws you in, your nose filling with the perfume, taste buds already salivating from the delectable adventure just ahead.

After that, you find yourself making excuses for going on your own. You meet friends there, because it's... easier. You stop and pick up a little something for your spouse, your best friend, anyone you can think of to draw them in as well, and while you are there, you get a little something for yourself. Next thing you know, you are sneaking in without bothering to make the excuse, throwing furtive glances at the other customers, hoping that no one you know will spot you in the den of iniquity.

Gradually you lose your shame, and you boldly stride in, done with the apologies. You are ready to embrace your intoxicating lover, the one that never lets you down. On the contrary, it makes your whole day work, and without it, you can no longer cope. You are not addicted, of course, you are simply treating yourself to something you enjoy. You can stop any time. There is nothing wrong with it. It's not like you are hurting anyone. There are health benefits, you know you read that somewhere. So really, you're just taking care of yourself.

Then, one day, it happens. You don't make that stop, and you are struck down with a pounding, pulsing, brain crushing pressure that threatens to remove your eyes from their sockets. You try to deny the truth to yourself, even as you rush to the nearest source. No longer consumed with quality, you will stop at the first distributor you see, anything to assuage the beast that has taken control of your life. You are experiencing the dread outcome of all addictions, the feeling of withdrawal, and you will do anything to avoid feeling like that any longer.

It seems that all the celebrities are going to expensive and exclusive spas for addiction treatments these days. It's almost a fad; everyone has a problem. The wealth and the fame aren't intoxicating enough, they still have to self-medicate, because their voracious appetite for attention doesn't fill the empty space inside their soul where they have to face the world alone.

But the addiction I suffer from doesn't gain sympathy from anyone. It doesn't require in-patient treatment. There is no 12 step program, and there is no national organization dedicated to helping people repair the ravages of their lives that are a result of this legal addiction. What is the despot that holds me fast in its clutches? I am addicted to coffee, that olfactory riot of aroma that jump starts my day, and stays with me long into the wee hours if I am so foolish as to indulge past noon.

Coffee is a jealous lover. It seduces you at first then rules you with an iron fist, which is liable to come crashing down upon your head if you try to escape. When you start your day with its sensual scent, it makes you feel happy and fulfilled, and when you fail to respect your desperate need, it makes you wish you were dead, or at least unconscious. Which is what you will be, without your caffeine kick to get you moving.

There are a lot of vices waiting to ensnare you in life. People self-medicate to solve their problems, and they indulge in a drugged reality because it takes away their pain, or makes them feel better about themselves. They gamble themselves into penury, they drink themselves into liver failure, they smoke themselves into the casket from lung cancer or emphysema or heart disease. The plethora of hard core illegal drugs, from heroin to crystal meth, to a teenager huffing hair spray, can all present life threatening consequences.

When you take that perspective, coffee is a pretty healthy passion. I refuse to abandon anything that makes me feel so much better about my life with so little negative impact. It's a tiny addiction, as they go. No need to mention how it has, on occasion, forced me to the grocery store at 3 a.m. to get a refill of the roasted berry that I love, because I can't face the day without having some of its liquid essence.

So if you see me wandering aimlessly, dazed look in my eyes, and blank expression on my face, please take pity on me, don't despise me. I am a victim. The best thing you can do for me is to buy me a cup of coffee, and join me for a little conversation to talk me through the crisis. At least coffee is cheap.

On Neighbors.....

Your neighbors know more about you than you realize. This was brought home to me rather strikingly when my husband ran away from home, leaving me with two kids, a house, some pets, and a really big yard I don't have time or energy for. It seems to me you can tell a lot about your neighbors by looking at their yard.

Some people are yard people, considering their lawn to be a reflection of themselves. Some people are not, and couldn’t care less as long as there is something covering the dirt. Some people love bushes, other people love flowers, and then there are those who pour their heart and financial net worth into a full landscaping of their entire lawn. Some neighbors spend more time on their yard than they do on their full time jobs, and then there are neighbors who seem to feel, like I do, that as long as it's green and alive, that's close enough. I realize that I have plenty of neighbors who disagree with me, perhaps especially the ones living on either side, but from a distance, it all looks green to me, and that is close enough for now.

I have one neighbor who has a carpet of grass, mostly uninterrupted by foliage of any kind. He is out there day and night in his non-working hours, primping, feeding, clipping, watering; all so he can do it again next weekend. I am baffled by his devotion, but fervently support his right to have a hobby. I also appreciate the lowering of my own watering bill to almost nothing, since he is uphill from me, and I get the residual benefits of his obsession.

Years ago I had a neighbor who went the other direction. She thought having a grass free yard was an achievable goal, and acted on that belief with stern efficiency. She Round-ed Up her lawn bit by bit, a stealthy vegetation serial killer, replacing the grass with rocks, trees, bushes, and finally, a really big deck. She still had to fight the battle, because grass is a persistent weed, and it was constantly encroaching on her non-green space. But she kept her Round Up handy and she got rid of her lawn mower, which is a lot better for the environment. Not to mention her back.

Neighbors generally know more about your day-to-day life than most of your own relatives, and yet, they may hardly know you at all. That leads to some odd situations, especially when you run into them at the grocery store or the movies or somewhere else out and about. The neighbor behind me has seen me in my sleep attire more than my regular clothing, since we usually set eyes on each other only when doing yard work or letting the dogs out in the morning. She probably wouldn't know me if I wasn't dirty and my hair wasn't a mess. I ran into another neighbor at a local event awhile back, and she didn't recognize me at first with hair combed and makeup applied. I would have been embarrassed, but I didn't recognize her, either.

I have neighbors that I know only from watching them through the window as they drive by, and others that I can wave to, but don’t even know their names. I have watched children learn to drive without realizing they were old enough to ride their bikes unsupervised, others left for college when I didn’t even know they were through high school. I have been blessed with truly wonderful neighbors over the years, and really don't have a bad neighbor story to share. I know how fortunate I am, because living with bad neighbors is like having a wound that will not heal. You can't forget about it, you can't cure it, and you can't get rid of it. It's just there, all the time, constantly irritating you, until one of you moves. Or has a nervous breakdown.

I have friends that were plagued by bad neighbors for many years. They would try to go into their backyard, only to hear arrows plugging the fence behind them. They would spot the kids spying on them from the trees, and they would see a woman’s face peering out the upstairs window watching them every time they went out to use their pool. They were barely able to enjoy their back yard, because every time they were out there, somehow, they would be disturbed by their neighbors.

When their bad neighbors finally moved a few years ago, it was like their back yard was a different place. They were finally free to go out and use their own space without the fear of what might happen next door.

I have had some pretty funny neighbors over the years. One couple, somewhat older than me, turned out to be a surprising delight. When we first moved in, we realized that we were across the street from a middle aged couple with no kids at home. She worked, but he was at home, and appeared to be a guy who spent his life worshipping his yard. I thought it was going to be a tough row to hoe (see how I work in topical humor) living across the street from them, but they turned out to be two great people with some funny quirks.

While he loved pets, she didn’t want anything to do with them. It worked out okay, because he would come and take care of our pets, especially our cat, when we were out of town. That way he got his cat “fix” without having his wife try to fix him. Overall, that was a great system, at least until the Incident of the Unfortunate Gerbil.

We were out of town on vacation, and he came over to feed and water the cat, the bird, and the gerbils. Sadly, the cage did not get fully closed somehow, and the cat had a better meal than usual. Which was surprising in and of itself, since that cat was so fat we didn’t think she could move fast enough to do any damage.

We were wrong. Poor Joe. He was distraught, as he tried to figure out how to handle the missing gerbil, eventually coming to the conclusion, after being fully excoriated by his disgusted wife, that he was going to just have to come clean and own up. Not only that, but he purchased for the distraught young owner an additional pair of replacement gerbils, since you can’t buy a new one and just throw it in with the old ones. Gerbils do not play well with others that weren’t born into the same litter, and we weren’t wanting any more accidents.

This would have been an ideal outcome, if only we had not had that cat. She was the creative one. She jumped up and banged that gerbil cage until a piece of it fell on the floor. Thus, leading to yet another Unfortunate Incident. I am surprised they even allowed us back in the pet store after that, frankly. Obviously, automatic hinges went on the doors at that point, so there were no more unfortunate incidents, and the remaining rodents lived far longer than any rodent has a right to. Although Joe never wanted to take care of the gerbils again.

Another funny story... well, no. I probably better let that go. I would like to remain friends with them

The delightful pair have moved since, and we still miss them in the neighborhood. They were unique and irreplaceable. Come back!

Sometimes neighbors become your "in town" family, people who take the place of the family that live somewhere else far away. We are blessed to have a family across the street as our in town family. Even when we are so busy we rarely see each other, we are always there, and we know that we can count on each other in any situation. Their children have grown up in our house, and my children have grown up in theirs. Even as adults, my children know they can turn to them for anything if they need to, because they are family, even as they are friends.

I will never forget the first day I met the daughter of the household. She was across the street, beautiful and blonde and little, wearing a sweet little dress, and looking so frilly and feminine. About the first fact I ever knew about her was that she loved the Little Mermaid, and the second was that she had new panties with Ariel’s picture on them. She even showed me, because she was so excited about it. Once you have exchanged underwear information, there isn’t much left to hide.

Neighbors see your life through an unfiltered lens. They see the blemishes and the flaws more clearly than the polished façade you present to the rest of the world. You may be surprised to learn that your neighbors know about your marital problems, your teenager’s misbehavior, your struggles with your elementary school bus rider, or your infertility. They know when you are out of work or when you buy a new car. They see when you are installing new carpeting, and they know when your pet dies. Everything that you think is hidden and personal and private is out in the open to the people who live next door to you, or across the street, with a full view of your comings and goings.

I always knew in the back of my mind that my neighbors probably saw more than I wanted, but it wasn’t until Mr. AWOL disappeared that I really understood the depth of that reality. I don’t think a single person in my neighborhood was surprised to learn that he had left except me, and one and all opined that I was better off without him here. I was shocked to learn how much they knew about my life, despite never having shared it with anyone. But they were able to support me in ways that other people couldn’t, because they understood my reality better.

Although everyone has their own family issues, and not all neighbors are best friends, many of us have things in common. I don’t know if similar families find themselves in a neighborhood, or if there is something inherent in the neighborhood that draws a specific kind of person to it. But it seems that neighborhoods have their character and make-up, and it’s interesting how many other people that live around you have rather significant life situations that are similar to your own.

For example, in our neighborhood, we are all dog owners. I don’t know what dogs say about their owners, but we have some real personalities around our house. Before we had a dog, my daughter would fume because everyone else had a dog, and we were left out of the club. Once we had a dog, it gave us an opening for conversations with total strangers at the drop of a leash.

One odd thing about dog owners is the size divide amongst them. You have your big dog owners and you have your small dog owners. In our neighborhood, most of us are small dog owners. We have a Yorkie next door who weighs all of three pounds, although she can still be ruthless, as a few dumb bunnies have learned to their loss. We have Westie Poo and Shi Tzu on the other side, a retriever across the way, and a mini pin behind us.

The dogs all have their own personalities, and their own ways of expressing themselves, and their owners all have different ways of dealing with them. Some of them are barkers, and some of them never utter a sound. Some of them are very playful, and some of them patrol their yards like they are the secret service protecting the president. Some of them barely get on the grass, while others can’t wait to barrel out their back door. Don’t even get me started on their owners.

Walking your dog is a great way to meet your fellow dog owning neighbors. I think, as a general rule, that people who own dogs are more likely to stop and talk, perhaps because you have that obvious connection in common. You compare notes on feeding and walking and barking style, and it gives you a reason to find out about their families as well. There is no question that I am more likely to know my dog owning neighbors, because I have seen them out and about with their dogs while I am out walking mine.

Neighbors are the people you turn to in the middle of the night when you are in labor, when you need an ingredient that you have run out of, when you are in your yard and just want to chat. It’s a unique and special relationship, one that brings something special into the equation. And if you are feeling neighborly, you could always call a neighbor and have coffee. Think about it.

You don't say...

People say the darnedest things. I am frequently amazed at what I hear while walking through WalMart, or at the grocery store, or waiting in a line. I sometimes wonder if people have forgotten they are not surrounded by the walls of a phone booth, but instead, are out in public, where everyone can hear them.

Over the years, I have learned about the suspected affairs of people I don't know. I have heard about people's operations and gotten medical histories that their own doctors would envy. I have been subjected to the parental disciplining of a teenager, and pillow talk that would make me blush in my own bedroom. All without a second thought from the person on my end of the phone, who never considered for a single moment that I was being forced to eavesdrop on a conversation in which I had no interest, and took no part.

I occasionally muse, as I am being auditorily assaulted by yet another conversation in which I am unwillingly forced to participate, what would happen if I weighed in with my own opinion, volunteering solutions or suggesting alternatives to whatever situation is under discussion. Would that person be offended, or would they welcome the additional input, especially if I happened to agree with them? I have never had the nerve to find out, but one of these days, I am going to do it. If you can't beat them, join them, right?

I am a big fan of silence. Not the Simon and Garfunkel kind, which is silence to keep us isolated, but the real deal, the genuine sound of silence, that allows us to fully partake in the world. When I am home alone, I often sit with no radio, no television, no sound to disturb me, and enjoy the silence. I think better without the clutter of unnecessary sound reverberating in my brain. The cacophony of noise disrupts my thought process and distracts me from hearing what's inside my head. The old cliche, I can't hear myself think, is literally true most of the time when I am in public these days.

Pay attention the next time you are out of the house. Even in places usually acknowledged to be quiet, there is constant noise.

At the library, you hear not only shuffling of feet, but children talking, someone giving a presentation, bathrooms flushing, computer keys clicking, books dropping - the list goes on and on. Each sound, by itself, isn't much, but added together, it's a compendium of noisiness.

At church, you expect, at a minimum, quiet from the congregation during the sermon, but it seems every Sunday it gets noisier and noisier. Is it just me, or do parents of young children today have no concept whatsoever of keeping their children quiet in public places? I recently attended a Sunday morning service in which the three children behind us talked the entire time. Not only they did talk non-stop, and without any attempts at control by their parents, they did it in a normal voice, like they were at home or at the park or at some event where their talking was acceptable. When their parents were confronted with their rudeness, they got angry for having it pointed out.

While the circumstances under which it occurred were not ideal, the more I have thought about that incident the more irritated I feel. They blamed someone for noticing and pointing out that they were failing to control the disruptive behavior of their children, rather than blaming themselves for the situation arising in the first place.

That's typical of our victim society, I think. We never want to be held accountable for anything, no matter who we are, no matter what we have done. Everyone from the president to the homeless refuse to acknowledge that sometimes, we are the cause of our own downfall We are forever a victim, it's never our fault, and shame on you for noticing.

I really wonder what those children are going to be like when they grow up? They were not all tiny toddlers, the eldest had to be six or seven, so it's an entrenched behavior, one that will not go away without a lot of effort. Will those kids believe they have a God given right to talk over their teachers, since they believe they have a right to talk over their pastor? Will they keep talking, even when their boss is telling them what to do? Do the rights of other people have no place any more in our calculations of what is appropriate and what is unacceptable behavior, especially in the public realm?

I find it interesting that when airlines began the discussion of people using cell phones in flight, the public seems to have drawn a line. Apparently, even the most salacious cell users realized that their right to talk about any thing, any time, any where, will be infringed upon by the right of the person sharing their arm rest to do the same. I get a headache just thinking about it.

Physicians are concerned that our younger generation will grow up to have much earlier hearing loss because of their constant use of headphones, but I have to be honest, better theirs than mine. I remember a time in the not so distant past when people carried boom boxes everywhere, and we were subjected to other people's tastes in music wherever we went. You could not escape from the tremor of bass shaking the floor, or even the ground. The music would blast, and on an especially unlucky day, you might have dueling banjos, or at least, dueling booms. Give me headphones. Please. At least they are only hurting themselves, and there are no unwilling victims along for the ride.

I am concerned about the ability of our younger generation to be in silence, without the crutch of sound to keep them entertained. They have been inundated with sounds since they were born, and most of us failed to allow for them to absorb the silence into their psyche. Now they want constant action, constant activity, constant stimulation, or they are bored, incapable of spending ten minutes alone with themselves.

I have seen the reaction when a phone is confiscated for some infraction. They are paralyzed, incapable of functioning without the constant connectivity. They think its a right to yak on the phone for hours on end, and will resentfully fight off anyone who disagrees.

When I was a kid, I slept all summer long with the windows open, letting out the heat of the day and allowing the fresh air to come in. I fell asleep to the noisy chatter of crickets, the scurry of occasional feet outside, the hiss of cats yowling at each other in warning, and rarely the sound of a car driving by, gravel crunching under their tires. Although I loved the summer and it's fresh air, I was also relieved when fall arrived and I could close the windows and shut out all the racket from nature's habitat just outside.

Now I live in the city, and have learned to shut out more noise in five minutes than I did the entire night back then. I have a train that I barely notice any more, off in the distance blowing its whistle every hour . I have cars and trucks driving by at all times of the day and night, and the creatures that are scurrying by are now humans, usually talking. Dogs bark, cats whine, other animals make their cries. I am sentient of an irrepressible stew of commotion out there, a whole other world that comes into being when the sun goes down, all with its own clatter and din.

I am not advocating for the legislation of noise. Life is a commotion, a confusing assault of sights and sounds and activities, and it would be much more difficult to live in total silence. For those who are forced to do so, life is more complicated, because not only do they not hear the good sounds like their child's voice or beautiful music, they don't hear the sounds that we take for granted like the car screaming toward us or the fire alarm that warns us.

But I do think the monks and the nuns and other religious figures who live a contemplative life are on to something. I am an advocate for spending 15 minutes each day in the silence of one's own mind, reflecting, meditating, musing, thinking.

Next time you take a walk with your dog, don't just take time to smell the roses, take time to listen to the hum of the world around you. Next time you drive somewhere, leave the radio off and let your mind wander under its own direction. When you get in bed, leave the television off and read a book, or write a poem, or start that prayer journal, or just lie peacefully and think about what is good in your life. Tomorrow morning when you have your first cup of coffee, take five minutes extra to sit down and relax and enjoy the aroma and the taste and the feel of the warm cup in your hand. Allow your own senses to determine your mood and your attitude for the day, instead of the announcer on television giving you the latest murder statistics or the weather report that is likely to be wrong, anyway.

I agree with Simon and Garfunkel about something. Darkness can be your friend, and the seeds of your thoughts are best nurtured with a little silence.