Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

A pocketful. . .

. . .of miracles

Nothing to do with Apple Annie or Bette Davis or Frank Capra or Damon Runyon or anything else pertaining to the film of that name.  (Except, if you want a good old-fashioned feel-good movie, by all means catch it the next time it’s on the air.)

It’s just that I have several miracles to report this Monday.  They are small pocket-sized miracles, not big, giant stupendous miracles like when you get a publishing contract or a production or your preferred candidate wins an election.  Just small change-my-world-but-probably-not-yours miracles.

The first is that I’ve rearranged my office.  Those of you who have any amount of computer equipment will recognize that this is the single most awful task a person could undertake in the room rearranging department.  (Yeah, okay, totally rearranging your kitchen would probably be more awful–except the disconnecting and reconnecting, in that case, would most likely be done by electricians and plumbers, so it probably averages out.)

I have been feeling cramped and disorganized for a while, but I wasn’t sure what the best new arrangement might be, and I certainly did not want to proceed too much by trial and error.  I can trial and error my way through moving a living room sofa and some floor lamps, but trial and error cabling and uncabling of printers, phones, and what-have-you did not seem like my idea of a good time.

So, the first miracle is I found a way to do a virtual rearrangement.  (I’m going to tell you about that on Friday.  It will be a Friday Find!)

The second miracle is that I overcame my reluctance to generate chaos and plunged ahead.

The third miracle is (are?) sliders which allowed me to move a desk, a table, and the heaviest file cabinet known to man, single-handedly.  (All right, I got a little bit of help from the MotH,* but that was just at the end, for the parts where the sliders had to be picked up so that things could fit up against the walls.)

The fourth miracle is that the new arrangement did not require total re-cabling–yay!–and all the equipment still works.

The fifth is that the room is, like, twelve times bigger–with all the same furniture in it!

And the sixth and, perhaps, most important, miracle is that all that space inspired me to clean off my desk and clean out my project box.  (I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t look like Levenger’s sells these any more.  I love mine.)

But I have scanned everything that needed scanning, filed everything that needed filing, paid everything that needed paying, and tossed everything that needed tossing.

Maybe it’s a sackful of miracles, not a pocketful!

 

* Man of the House

 

They’re out to get me

. . .and just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not.

I may have mentioned before that I have Wizard of Oz trees.

You remember that scene, right?  In the apple orchard?  Somebody–the scarecrow, I think–says something insulting to the trees, and the next thing you know, our heroes are being pelted with apples. The bombardment drives them out of the orchard and further on down the Yellow Brick Road.

What happens at my house is somewhat more sinister–because I don’t recall any insulting words being passed prior to the attacks.

My arboreal acquaintances began their campaign innocently enough.  Sweetgum balls and acorns dropped onto the driveway and the lawn.  This is somewhat hazardous to lawn mower blades but in the natural order of things, right?  To be expected.

In short order, however, we began to notice that the balls, beads and seeds tended to fall in surprisingly close proximity to our heads whenever we were outside.  Almost as if the trees were taking aim.

So, okay, that’s a bit paranoid.  Just a matter of happenstance, surely.

Why, then, on a dry and totally windless day, would a sweetgum limb crash down on the driveway mere minutes after I had walked beneath it?  The timing was such that it brought a group of teenage boys racing across the road, certain they were going to have a chance to rescue me (or, perhaps, steal my ruby slippers).

And why, on a subsequent dry and totally windless day, would another sweetgum limb crash down on the driveway mere seconds before the MotH* backed the car through that exact spot?

So, that summer (last one) went on like that with branches falling here and there with no provocation.

This summer has been less prone to arboreal accidents.  I’d almost forgotten that the trees are out to get me.

But yesterday, I parked in my cousin’s driveway under a hickory tree.  There’s now a fifty-cent-piece size dent in the hood of my car.  It’s from a hickory nut.  I’d say a “fallen hickory nut,” except it is clear to me that it was thrown with great force.

I’m just issuing a fair warning to all the timber in my vicinity.  There’s a chain saw in the garage–and such a thing as self-defense.

Watch yourselves.

* Man of the House

Some people say

but all of us should think.

“Some people say” is not a legitimate news source.  If you’re hearing that phrase on whatever “news” program you are watching, take a moment and think about it.

It takes work. . .hard work. . .for a reporter to get someone to go on the record.  Once a person has been quoted, he or she can be refuted.  Anyone who wants to do so can check the facts.  We can evaluate the credibility of the source.  We can verify that yes, in fact, someone did say this. We can find evidence to support or contradict the statement.

“Some people say” is either lazy reporting or an attempt to get you to swallow a lie.  There’s a good chance, when you hear that phrase, that the “some people” are the editor or the reporter himself or the person with the biggest axe.  For grinding, that is.

Journalism is about reporting facts accompanied by proper attribution.

Propaganda is “some people say.”

 

 

 

Boogie down!

The 27-Fling Boogie

The 27-Fling Boogie is an invention of Marla Cilley over at FlyLady.net.  The FlyLady is full of tips and tricks to get your house in order and keep it that way.  Lots of good information, and much of it has been helpful to me.

One of the most fun and effective things is the 27-Fling Boogie.

As I recall it, once you’ve decided which “zone” of your house is going to get your attention, you–very quickly–identify 27 things to throw away and 27 things to give away.  Put them in bags or boxes or whatever, and get them out of the house.

Right into the garbage can.  Right into the trunk of the car.

The purpose of moving them immediately is to prevent the inevitable second guessing that occurs if you keep the box or bag long enough that you take another look.  If you’re anything like me, you will re-think your decision.  Hey!  I might need that sometime.  If the bag is already in the garbage can and the box is already in the car, ready to go to Goodwill or wherever, they are probably going to stay there.

It seems simple, doesn’t it?  Hardly worth a whole bog post.

The thing is, there is something about the number 27.  Maybe it’s the rhythm of it.  Maybe it’s the magical quality of being a perfect cube (3 cubed).  Maybe it’s that it’s a high enough number that you have to really stretch to find enough items to meet the goal–so you steel yourself to get rid of that sequined purse that you have never used. “27” keeps you at it when you think it’s time to stop for cake.

The “boogie” plays into this, too.  It has a connotation of fast and fun.  As does “fling,” really.  The idea is to get moving.  Don’t stop to think.  Fling!

After a while, in subsequent iterations, you’re not going to find 27 things in a particular zone.  That’s when you expand the boogie to the whole house, I guess.  (Actually, the way it’s described on the FlyLady website now does apply to the whole house.  It may be my faulty memory that makes me think it was originally applied to zones.  I did do quite well culling my bookshelves, though, when I 27-fling boogied through my office.  Whatever works, right?)

And on my next boogie, I’m going to cube it a little further.  27 things to throw away, 27 things to give away, and 27 things for a garage sale.

Boogie down!

 

 

 

It could be worse

…by a lot

I’m talking about the love bugs here.

Plecia nearctica. 

Don’t worry; that won’t be on the final.

It’s love bug season again in Florida.  Happens two times a year, more or less.

What’s a love bug?

It’s a small flying insect also known as the honeymoon fly or the double-headed bug.  This is because during the mating season, also known as a “flight,” these bugs are more than usually enthusiastic.  They can and do remain coupled for several days.  So, generally, you don’t see one love bug without another.

They’re out and about in force just now, whirling all around my head when I’m mowing, smacking into the windshield when I’m driving.

Perhaps I may have mentioned that I am not fond of bugs.  I am especially not fond of bugs in swarms–and this could safely be called a swarm.  Things flying at me and crawling on me. . .just, no.  I don’t like that.

But it could be worse.

Because love bugs don’t bite.  They don’t sting.

They are basically harmless except for a tendency for the acidity of their body chemistry to damage automobile paint–not so much of a problem with newer cars–and for their unfortunate corpses to clog radiator air passages and, thus, interfere with the radiator’s ability to cool the engine.

It’s just the sheer number of them that is. . .unsettling.

On the other hand, it’s not a swarm of locusts.  Or grasshoppers.  Which–heaven forfend!  (And, ick.)  It’s just a bunch of little black and red bugs.  And since any biting bug makes a beeline for me, I am more than thankful that these are too busy to be biting (even if they could–which they can’t).  Plus, they don’t actually live that long.  It will all be over in a few days.

So, as bugs go. . .not so bad.  Like I said. . .it could be worse.

 

If I could save time in a bottle,

the first thing that I’d like to do…*

…is shake some of it out.

I need more time.  Doesn’t everybody?  But the most extraordinary thing about being “retired”–for me–is that I can’t figure out how I ever had time to have a job.

Granted, I have a much bigger house now–and a yard.  So that housework takes more time than it used to take–and yard work is a totally new addition to the schedule.  On top of it all, I’ve added blogger to the mix–and, sadly, have gotten way too interested in Facebook.  But still…

Where does the time go, I wonder.

I think part of what I’m dealing with here is Parkinson’s Law in which work expands to fit the time available for its completion.  When all your deadlines are self-imposed, renegotiation is easy.  I can always do that tomorrow, you think.  And then you’re sunk.

Another part of it, of course, is that now that I have permission to do what I want to do, it is clear that I want to do a lot.  I have websites to build, plays to write, novels to read (and write), Chinese to learn, cakes to bake, and on and on and on.

So, in addition to wondering where the time goes, I’m wondering how best to recapture it.  I think my progress bars have helped a lot.  A visual representation of what I’ve achieved lately goes a long way toward incentivizing (sorry, I hate that word–but it does fit) further achievement.

I’m also wondering how best to prioritize all my projects.  No real progress there.  (I wish somebody would invent an app that would take all project input and do a cost-benefit analysis on the intangibles of career enhancement, happiness production, contribution to humanity, etc.  Pretty sure I’m going to keep on wishing for that one.)

One thing of which I’m fairly certain is that my usual preferred method of diving into something and getting it done and knocking it off the list is just not practical in this new space-time continuum of “retirement.”  (I have this impulse, every time I write the word ‘retirement,” to follow it with “LOL!”)  My life is now much more like the juggling act it used to be at work when I had dozens of projects to manage.  Back then, it was work that required jumping from one thing to another and making incremental progress.  Free time was scarce, so it tended to be automatically devoted, in depth and in detail, to whatever I thought was most important.

Now that all time is “free” and everything is important, I’m trying to figure out how best to handle it.

Any ideas?  All tips welcome.

 

* Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle

Make them less skippable

Digging into descriptions.

Last Friday, I wrote about finding Ruth Rendell–an excellent writer–and how much I admired her facility with description (description often being the “parts that people skip”).  I also mentioned that I was not so good at descriptive writing.  (“Suck” is the word I think I used.)

That got me thinking about description, and I remembered a couple of writing exercises that seem very useful to me.  It seems appropriate to include one in this here Tuesday Tip.

Unfortunately, I can’t immediately remember where I found them, but I will be looking through some of my really-helpful books and including those titles in future Friday Finds and Tuesday Tips.  So, when I locate the source of these ideas, I will come back and update this post.  Meanwhile, the best I can do is to acknowledge that it did not originate with me.

Anyway. . .

The exercise can be called “I look up and I see. . . .”

What you do is this.

Sit down with a notebook and maybe a timer.  I think a notebook–the actual old-fashioned kind with pages that requires you to hold a writing utensil in your hand is better–but you could use a new-fangled computer-type notebook if you must.  It’ll mean you may be somewhat more restricted as to location, but it will save you that pesky transcription step if anything you write looks worth saving.

Now, this is an exercise, so it’s quite possible that what you write won’t seem worth saving–and that’s okay.  We’re priming the pump, greasing the wheels, and implementing assorted other industrial clichés.

Set the timer for ten minutes.  (If you’ve only got five minutes, fine.  If you’ve only got two, use the two you’ve got!)

Your starting point is the following phrase:  I look up and I see. . .

So, write that down, and finish the sentence based on what you can look up and see.  Describe what you see literally and figuratively, and keep going until you run out of things to say.  At that point, shift your focus, jot down another I look up and I see. . . , and keep writing.

Every time I’ve done this, I’ve been really astonished at how well I can describe things when I really look at them and focus on it.  In fact, some of these practice writings are distinctly non-sucky.

Got your notebook?

Got your timer?

Ready, set, go!

 

A college of cardinals

No, we’re not electing a Pope.

“College” is one of the collective nouns for a flock of cardinals–as in birds.  Others are “conclave,” “radiance,” “deck,” and “Vatican.”  Alliteration explains “college” and “conclave,” and I get why “radiance” would come into play.  “Vatican,” too, makes some sense.  But, “deck?”  Is it a reference to “deck of cards?”  I guess it must be, but–note to whoever makes these things up–I think you’re reaching.

Anyway, the cardinals are a Monday Miracle.

They’re back.

One of the minor miracles about cardinals is that I can recognize them.  My skills as a naturalist are about average.  I can identify most four-legged creatures and tell the difference between a bird, a snake and a fish.  After that, it gets somewhat hazy.

I mean, distinguishing one bird from another?  Well, I’ve gotten to where I recognize the ospreys and the Great Blue Herons and the bald eagles.  Woodpeckers are clear.  And owls.  Most of the other little feathered things that flit around. . .many of them look alike.

But cardinals!

Bright red.

Crests.

And a song that I’m beginning to know.  (Unless I’m confusing it with the Carolina Wren, which is entirely possible.)

Now, when I say ‘they’re back,’ I can’t swear to the fact that they’ve ever gone away.  But I have been noticing quite a few of them hanging around in the last few days.

They provide a nice note of complementary color in the yard.  It goes well with the pine cone ginger–and my roof.  And they chirp up a storm.  Last year, they demonstrated a love for sprinklers which they have not gotten to indulge lately, but I’m thinking that may be a reason to install a birdbath.  Maybe one with a spray fountain?   Solar-powered, if I can find it.  (Another of those “someday,” things.  Probably, I should focus on furniture first.)

All of this is to say, I am happy that a college of cardinals is convening conveniently close at hand.

 

Well, that’s not gonna happen

Another one bites the dust.*

Another brilliant idea, that is.

See, the Winn-Dixie had a sale last week on cashews.  Two cans for $5.  Pretty good price, huh?  So, we bought two cans.  And we ate two cans.

And I thought, “I wonder if you could grow your own cashews.”

Google!

You can!  You can grow your own cashews.

It’s not even that hard, supposedly.

First and most importantly, they are a tropical tree.  It probably gets a little too cold for them here.  They like temperatures above 50°, but there are ways around that.

Secondly, they like sandy soil.  Got that covered.

Third, unlike some trees, they seem to be easy to grow from seeds.

Fourth, not only do they provide cashew nuts, they also grow something called a cashew apple–which is also edible and sounds interesting.

But then. . .

You read a little further.  And you find out why cashew nuts are usually so expensive in the stores.

That tasty little seed has a double shell full of a caustic liquid.  As in dangerous.  As in potentially life-threatening.

It’s related to urushiol, the toxin found in poison ivy.

Processing cashew nuts is arduous and dangerous.  Roasting them properly destroys the toxin, but that requires gloves, long sleeves, safety goggles–and I don’t know what all.  The smoke contains droplets of the stuff and is extremely irritating to the lungs.

Yikes!

I’m thinking–best to just keep an eye out for those sales at Winn-Dixie.  $5 for two cans–definitely a good price!

 

 

* Song by Queen band member John Deacon

PSA

Just do it.

Today’s post is a Public Service Announcement and something about which I feel really strongly.

Mammograms.

Yes, breast cancer is a scary idea.  It’s even scarier if you don’t find out about it until it’s too late.

Yes, mammograms can be uncomfortable.  Have you ever known anyone in the advanced stages of breast cancer?  Comfort is long gone.

Yes, it’s a nuisance to have to take time out for a mammography appointment.  Chemo and radiation appointments take a chunk out of your schedule, too.  The more advanced your cancer is, the more appointments you’ll need.

Yes, it costs money to get screened.  Thanks, however, to the Affordable Care Act, your out-of-pocket cost will be. . .nothing!  You can’t beat that.

Yes, there is some disagreement about how often women should have mammograms.  There isn’t any serious disagreement about whether they should.  A new Swedish study conducted over 30 years–the longest study to date–shows that seven years of mammograms made for 30% fewer breast cancer deaths down the road.

Never had a mammogram?  Want to know more about it?  Check out the Fact Sheet at the National Cancer Institute.

Been putting off your appointment?  Pick up the phone.

Early detection is the real race for the cure.

 


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