We've all heard them over and over. "Cash for clunkers." "No child left behind." "Just say no." I think there is this feeling that if we say them enough as we might say a mantra or a prayer, the slogans will make a difference. Then there are the royalty descriptions as though from the Chinese empire of the Kennedy Dynasty, of Ted Kennedy as the Patriarch. What's wrong with "the Kennedy family" and "Uncle Ted."
Is this America, the hyperbole, the simplistic? Even our states have a slogan, "Georgia on my mind," "Missouri--the show me state," and "I love New York." I personally like "Everything's bigger in Texas" and "Virginia is for lovers." Would anyone sign up for the military without slogans? Join the Army, "Be all you can be." Join the Marines, "The Few. The Proud."
I was reading online about slogans, and one writer called it "sloganeering." I was disturbed as I read on about educational slogans, reminding me of how much of my teacher instruction classes were often simplified to slogans. All of life and learning is put in an acrostic poem or rap song with dancers in the background. We are the "Age of Advertising."
More will be continued on this subject at a later time.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Waist of Mine
I know it; everyone knows it. My waist is too large. I've spent thirty minutes online looking for the best exercises to reduce my waist size. I know from experience that serious stress and not feeling like eating will do it, but I'd rather not go through any more traumatic experiences in my life even if it meant having a 24 inch waist again.
I'm on the slow side of exercise. Though I know what crunches are, I don't know what planks are or oblique crossover crunches might be. I'm sure if I joined the military, I would find out very soon. However, I'm afraid that joining the military isn't an option at 66 years old.
So I've ruled out traumatic events and the military, so I will have to look at more workable means of reducing my waist size. Of course, it is a traumatic event to realize my waist size is more like what my hips used to be when my waist was 24inches.
I guess the only plausible thing to do at this point instead of trying every single ab exercise I manage to print out just now would be to talk to my waist. So here goes. I am going to write a letter to my waist and see what kind of response I get from it.
Dear Waistline,
You have for many years been one of my most admired parts of my body. My clothes fit better, I looked better and I felt better when you were at your best. Now it seems you have gotten lost somewhere between my chest and hips. You are no longer visible, as though you might be hiding from me. Truly, I am not ashamed of you so you need not hide any more. I would love to have you back in my life as nothing has been the same since you left me.
I know it is my fault you have left or taken on a new identity as though you might be wanted by the police. I have neglected you, overfed you, and even accepted your total absence in my body. I know you probably are hurt that I would prefer late night graham crackers or peanuts to your well-being. How could I possibly prefer to take a nap than take you on a long walk around the neighborhood.
I guess with the renewal of any relationship, I first need to ask for forgiveness, and then I need to listen to you. Any good friend is a good listener and I have not been listening to you even when you told me I could be a heart attack casualty. I know I must be so frustrating to you that I'd rather take blood pressure medicine, acid reflux medicine, and complain about my joints bothering me than to listen to you. I heard you when you told me my favorite jeans no longer fit and when you reminded me I needed a larger panty size and none of my belts fit. However, I just bought larger sizes and told myself how good I look, especially for 66 years old. "What can you expect anyway," I'd say. "I'm on Medicare; I receive social security."
Okay, I'll get honest. I've been lying for several years now. I don't like not having you as a part of my body or in camouflage as thought the FBI had given you an all new identity in the Witness Protection Program. I don't even recognize you myself so certainly no one else will either.
I will write to you again, but first I would like to begin to make amends to you by exercising 30 minutes right now. I'm not going to the gym or curves or anywhere. I'm going to do these exercises right now before I do another thing. It will take a long time to renew our acquaintance, but we will begin right now. Rozanne
I'm on the slow side of exercise. Though I know what crunches are, I don't know what planks are or oblique crossover crunches might be. I'm sure if I joined the military, I would find out very soon. However, I'm afraid that joining the military isn't an option at 66 years old.
So I've ruled out traumatic events and the military, so I will have to look at more workable means of reducing my waist size. Of course, it is a traumatic event to realize my waist size is more like what my hips used to be when my waist was 24inches.
I guess the only plausible thing to do at this point instead of trying every single ab exercise I manage to print out just now would be to talk to my waist. So here goes. I am going to write a letter to my waist and see what kind of response I get from it.
Dear Waistline,
You have for many years been one of my most admired parts of my body. My clothes fit better, I looked better and I felt better when you were at your best. Now it seems you have gotten lost somewhere between my chest and hips. You are no longer visible, as though you might be hiding from me. Truly, I am not ashamed of you so you need not hide any more. I would love to have you back in my life as nothing has been the same since you left me.
I know it is my fault you have left or taken on a new identity as though you might be wanted by the police. I have neglected you, overfed you, and even accepted your total absence in my body. I know you probably are hurt that I would prefer late night graham crackers or peanuts to your well-being. How could I possibly prefer to take a nap than take you on a long walk around the neighborhood.
I guess with the renewal of any relationship, I first need to ask for forgiveness, and then I need to listen to you. Any good friend is a good listener and I have not been listening to you even when you told me I could be a heart attack casualty. I know I must be so frustrating to you that I'd rather take blood pressure medicine, acid reflux medicine, and complain about my joints bothering me than to listen to you. I heard you when you told me my favorite jeans no longer fit and when you reminded me I needed a larger panty size and none of my belts fit. However, I just bought larger sizes and told myself how good I look, especially for 66 years old. "What can you expect anyway," I'd say. "I'm on Medicare; I receive social security."
Okay, I'll get honest. I've been lying for several years now. I don't like not having you as a part of my body or in camouflage as thought the FBI had given you an all new identity in the Witness Protection Program. I don't even recognize you myself so certainly no one else will either.
I will write to you again, but first I would like to begin to make amends to you by exercising 30 minutes right now. I'm not going to the gym or curves or anywhere. I'm going to do these exercises right now before I do another thing. It will take a long time to renew our acquaintance, but we will begin right now. Rozanne
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Paper Sales
Some things have gone by the wayside over the years, such as manual typewriters with the throw carriage, reel to reel tape recorders, and even paper sales. Some things are moving towards extinction such as televisions with rabbit ears, VCR players, and answering machines. You will only find a wind up alarm clock in an antique store or flea market. Why even a clock with hands and numbers is not as prevalent. There was a time when all clocks had hands. I actually met someone several months ago, a grown woman in her 20s, who said she had never learned to tell time with the hands on a clock. Often folks have never heard of a slide rule as well.
Maybe some of this is good. Certainly my laptop is far easier to type on than the manual Remington's I learned to type on in 1958. At least, the keyboard is still the same, and I can type with the touch system. I can't really say I miss the paper sales though I really wonder why we spend money to run recycling trucks through the city when the old paper sales brought in money for the schools. Why if every school had a recycling center for the neighborhood, can you imagine how much that would cut the city budget for sanitation. I never minded taking my recycling to the big bins at the grocery store or to the school paper sales.
The way the paper sales worked was this. You'd save up your papers, and every so often the school would have a paper sale on a Saturday where everyone brought their newspapers, sort of like what is done for Christmas trees at various stores. The school would get the profit for the newspaper recycling. I personally liked that better than schools selling expensive gift wrap paper as some do now.
I do, however, have a funny story about the paper sales. One particular year I had a hard time getting to the paper sales. Either I would forget or I had conflicts with getting there. Needless to say, the newspapers stacked up in the garage till it was just overwhelming. I kept meaning to get to the next paper sale for sure. This went on for well over a year, maybe even two years. Finally, I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't waiting for the next school paper sale that I might miss again. One of my workmen was here doing some repairs. He had a pickup truck so I asked him to take all the papers to one of the recycling bins that were at various locations around the city.
To my chagrin, the newspapers literally filled up his pick-up truck. I could not imagine how I had accumulated so many papers in my garage. At that time I did have the newspaper delivered seven days a week, and I even read some of it. My intentions were good in saving them for the school paper sales, but I had ended up with a garage full of papers.
I guess the same thing can happen these days when the city recycling misses a few pickups, especially with them only picking up every other week. I'm all for recycling, but I fail to see how gasoline for the 1000s of recycling trucks is saving money or the natural resources. I prefer the old fashioned recycling, I mean even before paper sales, before returning soda and milk bottles, back in the day of my grandmother.
Nothing was wasted on the farm. My grandmother bought flour, meal, and sugar all in cloth bags. She used the cloth to make dresses, dish towels, table cloths,or quilts. All the food scraps either went to the dogs and cats or the pigs. Any bread bags were used to store leftovers. Leftovers were always eaten at the next meal; some times a whole meal might even be left on the counter. To this day, I don't know how no one ever got food poisoning. It was a totally different era, and I'm grateful for my experience in rural America with my grandparents back in the late 40s, 50s and 60s. As long as grandmother could stand on her feet, she always hung the laundry on the clothesline on sunny days even after she had a drier. She still made her own clothes, quilts, and bread. As long as the farm had cows, she made her own butter, cottage cheese, and buttermilk. She grew all her own vegetables in a huge garden, and we picked blackberries and grapes off the fence and gathered pecans and plums from the trees.
They say change is good. Let's think about that for a minute. Have we thrown out the baby with the bathwater? There does seem to be an increase in interest in people having their own gardens, eating more at home, walking more, and bringing their own grocery bag to the store. So why not bring back the paper sales for education and use the money we use for recycling trucks to hire more teachers. Three cheers for paper sales.
Maybe some of this is good. Certainly my laptop is far easier to type on than the manual Remington's I learned to type on in 1958. At least, the keyboard is still the same, and I can type with the touch system. I can't really say I miss the paper sales though I really wonder why we spend money to run recycling trucks through the city when the old paper sales brought in money for the schools. Why if every school had a recycling center for the neighborhood, can you imagine how much that would cut the city budget for sanitation. I never minded taking my recycling to the big bins at the grocery store or to the school paper sales.
The way the paper sales worked was this. You'd save up your papers, and every so often the school would have a paper sale on a Saturday where everyone brought their newspapers, sort of like what is done for Christmas trees at various stores. The school would get the profit for the newspaper recycling. I personally liked that better than schools selling expensive gift wrap paper as some do now.
I do, however, have a funny story about the paper sales. One particular year I had a hard time getting to the paper sales. Either I would forget or I had conflicts with getting there. Needless to say, the newspapers stacked up in the garage till it was just overwhelming. I kept meaning to get to the next paper sale for sure. This went on for well over a year, maybe even two years. Finally, I couldn't take it any more. I wasn't waiting for the next school paper sale that I might miss again. One of my workmen was here doing some repairs. He had a pickup truck so I asked him to take all the papers to one of the recycling bins that were at various locations around the city.
To my chagrin, the newspapers literally filled up his pick-up truck. I could not imagine how I had accumulated so many papers in my garage. At that time I did have the newspaper delivered seven days a week, and I even read some of it. My intentions were good in saving them for the school paper sales, but I had ended up with a garage full of papers.
I guess the same thing can happen these days when the city recycling misses a few pickups, especially with them only picking up every other week. I'm all for recycling, but I fail to see how gasoline for the 1000s of recycling trucks is saving money or the natural resources. I prefer the old fashioned recycling, I mean even before paper sales, before returning soda and milk bottles, back in the day of my grandmother.
Nothing was wasted on the farm. My grandmother bought flour, meal, and sugar all in cloth bags. She used the cloth to make dresses, dish towels, table cloths,or quilts. All the food scraps either went to the dogs and cats or the pigs. Any bread bags were used to store leftovers. Leftovers were always eaten at the next meal; some times a whole meal might even be left on the counter. To this day, I don't know how no one ever got food poisoning. It was a totally different era, and I'm grateful for my experience in rural America with my grandparents back in the late 40s, 50s and 60s. As long as grandmother could stand on her feet, she always hung the laundry on the clothesline on sunny days even after she had a drier. She still made her own clothes, quilts, and bread. As long as the farm had cows, she made her own butter, cottage cheese, and buttermilk. She grew all her own vegetables in a huge garden, and we picked blackberries and grapes off the fence and gathered pecans and plums from the trees.
They say change is good. Let's think about that for a minute. Have we thrown out the baby with the bathwater? There does seem to be an increase in interest in people having their own gardens, eating more at home, walking more, and bringing their own grocery bag to the store. So why not bring back the paper sales for education and use the money we use for recycling trucks to hire more teachers. Three cheers for paper sales.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Blank Slate
How shal I write something when my mind is blank? I'm finishing the end of my second cup of coffee. The news is on tv in the other room now that I'm back to one working tv. I have digested my breakfast of a quesadilla with cheese, sliced tomatoes and fresh basil from my garden. I am still in my nightgown and it is almost 1:00. I must be dressed before the news ends so that will give me a reason to take a break if I can't think of anything to write about today.
When I'm not writing I have all these things to write and if I don't make a list of them as I think of them, then when I sit down to write, I can't think of a thing. They just announced that Oprah will be discussing teen sex on her show today. I think that I'll skip that one as will as the Tyra Show, Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray.
My main activity the last few days has been to read some books I picked up at the bookstore (the one that moved from Virginia Highlands to across from Manual's). So now I am reading four books at the same time. For now though, all my energy is focused on "The Death and Letters of Alice James." I decided to read this after reading a while in "The Writings of William James." There were a number of references to his youngest sibling Alice. I'm also reading Stanislavski's "An Actor Prepares." I do believe it is a good book for any artist to read--actor, painter, writer and so on.
Alice is an interesting character. Her entire life purpose is dying. She becomes and invalid, more or less. So far it has just casually mentioned she has breast cancer. Back then I guess they knew very little about it. Against my better judgement I read the entire introduction of 50 pages by the editor that included some excerpt from her letters. I have now begun the letters. She is quite articulate about the era in which she lived where women either were wives or spinsters. So she's opted to be an invalid which indeed is a powerful metaphor for women of her day.
It sounds like it would be a depressing novel, but she is so witty. For instance, her aunt dies and leaves all her things to her, but with the stipulation that when she dies certain things go to certain people. Since she doesn't like the control of being told what to do with her things even though she might choose to do the same, she turns down the inheritance. Instead she asked William to accept the inheritance and give it to her so she can then give it to who she wants which will probably be him. She is especially wants the shawl as he won't need it anyway.
What a crazy family, even if it is the family of William and Henry James. The Death of Alice would make a very metaphysical play as she explores what it means to die for her whole life. I guess I shouldn't say much more since I am only on page 59. So far I have learned that she calls her brother "Will",and that when she told her father at a younger age she wanted to commit suicide, he gave her permission, but to be sure it wasn't accidental as from drugs or alcohol. That if that's what she chose to do with her life, he wouldn't stand in her way. After that, she abandoned that plan,and instead planned for her natural death. This sounds like a made up story, sort of theatre of the absurd, but it is all documented in her letters.
Now back to page 59, getting dressed or Tyra Banks. That's right, it's getting dressed, read a few minutes and go to the gym.
When I'm not writing I have all these things to write and if I don't make a list of them as I think of them, then when I sit down to write, I can't think of a thing. They just announced that Oprah will be discussing teen sex on her show today. I think that I'll skip that one as will as the Tyra Show, Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray.
My main activity the last few days has been to read some books I picked up at the bookstore (the one that moved from Virginia Highlands to across from Manual's). So now I am reading four books at the same time. For now though, all my energy is focused on "The Death and Letters of Alice James." I decided to read this after reading a while in "The Writings of William James." There were a number of references to his youngest sibling Alice. I'm also reading Stanislavski's "An Actor Prepares." I do believe it is a good book for any artist to read--actor, painter, writer and so on.
Alice is an interesting character. Her entire life purpose is dying. She becomes and invalid, more or less. So far it has just casually mentioned she has breast cancer. Back then I guess they knew very little about it. Against my better judgement I read the entire introduction of 50 pages by the editor that included some excerpt from her letters. I have now begun the letters. She is quite articulate about the era in which she lived where women either were wives or spinsters. So she's opted to be an invalid which indeed is a powerful metaphor for women of her day.
It sounds like it would be a depressing novel, but she is so witty. For instance, her aunt dies and leaves all her things to her, but with the stipulation that when she dies certain things go to certain people. Since she doesn't like the control of being told what to do with her things even though she might choose to do the same, she turns down the inheritance. Instead she asked William to accept the inheritance and give it to her so she can then give it to who she wants which will probably be him. She is especially wants the shawl as he won't need it anyway.
What a crazy family, even if it is the family of William and Henry James. The Death of Alice would make a very metaphysical play as she explores what it means to die for her whole life. I guess I shouldn't say much more since I am only on page 59. So far I have learned that she calls her brother "Will",and that when she told her father at a younger age she wanted to commit suicide, he gave her permission, but to be sure it wasn't accidental as from drugs or alcohol. That if that's what she chose to do with her life, he wouldn't stand in her way. After that, she abandoned that plan,and instead planned for her natural death. This sounds like a made up story, sort of theatre of the absurd, but it is all documented in her letters.
Now back to page 59, getting dressed or Tyra Banks. That's right, it's getting dressed, read a few minutes and go to the gym.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Children
A mother is a mother because she has children. I am a mother because I have children. I have two sons which makes me a mother of sons. They are both grown now, and yet the anticipation of my older son coming home reminds me of various incidents from his entire life. Not that it's any kind of obsessive reflection; it's more a flash, almost like a subliminal flash in seconds. It reminds me of something I saw on PBS today of these computers you carry around in your glasses or backpack. This is a research project of folks at MIT. You meet a person, and his photo and name flash on a tiny screen inside your glasses. Then when you meet him again, his name will flash on the screen, barely noticeable to the eye. It's probably much less than a second, yet it's enough for the brain to remember the name of the person with this fleeting reminder.
It was a fascinating program this morning, "Allen Alda in Scientifi American Frontiers" on PBS, August 1. All I discovered watching this program is my mind is like a computer. I say "David's coming home," and it triggers memories of details I rarely think about. For example, how often do I think about him riding his big wheel all around the big wraparound porch of the old antebellum home we rented on Napier Avenues in Macon, Georgia. For him, it was his own private freeway, and he loved it. I might remember this occasion with a photo or conversation. I rarely think of it; but all I have to do is open up my mind, and I am bombarded with multiple images like this. It's as though I have an entire novel of David riding his big wheel to view on a state-of-the-arts Kindle, but it's compressed like a computer chip or a zip drive.
So much for my son coming home! I'll see him on Monday, and that will be a good reminder he is grown up now. When he and his brother were young, it seemed as though they'd be young forever. I couldn't even conceive of them as adults someday. Now it's hard for me to think of them as anything other than adults except in those brief flashbacks when every memory is present like I'm wearing a computer in my glasses.
It was a fascinating program this morning, "Allen Alda in Scientifi American Frontiers" on PBS, August 1. All I discovered watching this program is my mind is like a computer. I say "David's coming home," and it triggers memories of details I rarely think about. For example, how often do I think about him riding his big wheel all around the big wraparound porch of the old antebellum home we rented on Napier Avenues in Macon, Georgia. For him, it was his own private freeway, and he loved it. I might remember this occasion with a photo or conversation. I rarely think of it; but all I have to do is open up my mind, and I am bombarded with multiple images like this. It's as though I have an entire novel of David riding his big wheel to view on a state-of-the-arts Kindle, but it's compressed like a computer chip or a zip drive.
So much for my son coming home! I'll see him on Monday, and that will be a good reminder he is grown up now. When he and his brother were young, it seemed as though they'd be young forever. I couldn't even conceive of them as adults someday. Now it's hard for me to think of them as anything other than adults except in those brief flashbacks when every memory is present like I'm wearing a computer in my glasses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)