Happy Anniversary -- RALPH

Today or tomorrow is the eleventh wedding anniversary of my girlfriend's stepson and his wife. I told her to send them my best wishes and remind them of this story.

Eleven years is not too shabby by today's standards, when people bolt after five months and eight months to name two examples of couples I know. 

But this one had legs long before they ever got married.

Not because they share similar interests and backgrounds as excellent beach volleyball players who graduated from Santa Monica High School, the two major requirements for marriage in SoCal. There are a million sun drenched couples like these two whose relationships don't last as long as the nacho chips.

No, the strength of this marriage was built on something that happened before he ever popped the question. 

I was with the two of them along with his dad and stepmom in a limosine coming back from a long night of partying. The evening was spent celebrating the Rodeo Drive gallery opening featuring his dad's latest paintings, always a celebrity filled occasion. Sure they were unusual celebrities like Willie Ninja the Vogue-meister who starred in the movie Paris Is Burning. And that funny-looking little guy who was in Bonnie and Clyde.  Guitar players from heavy metal bands. Second string actresses. All a little past their expiration dates, but still celebrities.

The kids were young then, barely into their twenties. And she had had a little too much to drink. In the limo on the way back, as she began to feel the effects, he was very solicitous of her, stroking her forehead, talking to her gently, trying to keep her from getting sick by the sheer force of his will.  When the inevitable occurred, he didn't push her away and let her be sick all over herself. Instead, while the rest of us made faces and got as far away as we could, he pulled her close and put her head in his lap so she could use his hands as a basin. 

It was a fruitless gesture on his part, considering how sick she was and the fact that he had no where to empty his hands.  But it was a gesture so indicative of how much he cared about her.  We all looked at each other, mesmerized by his concern.  He never once looked up or seemed to be bothered by the noxious fumes that overwhelmed the rest of us in that confined space.

I remember turning to his stepmom as she and I were practically out on the trunk of the limo trying to get away from the smell and the splash, "He really loves her, doesn't he?" 

And I think after eleven years and two cute little boys, there's some proof that things are still going strong.

If the first anniversary is a paper gift, and the 25th is something silver, is eleven the barf bag? 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't Get Old

http://journals.aol.com/chasferris/DribblebyChuckFerris/entries/489

If ever there was lesson in what it means to be one of the elderly in this country, with serviceable skills, even a quick mind, but a body that has begun to betray you, read the recent entry at the above link to Chuck Ferris' journal.  He's a 79 year old former teacher residing in an assisted living facility.  It sounds like the needs of the inmates, because the residents are inmates in a way, are met according to the guidelines of the local state authorities, but the violence to one's self esteem and devastating disregard for simple human needs is rampant.

Here's my fictionalized version of the story Chuck tells:

Jerdine had spent her whole life in that house. She had worked a fulltime job, too, until the stroke left her with limited speech and other problems. Her children were also concerned about her health and safety in that big place and kept urging her to sell it. 

If you had lived a useful, productive life, owned your own home, tended to your garden, and took care of yourself without any help, but your health deteriorated suddenly, what would you do? 

Soon Jerdine's house had become an insurmountable burden for her. She finally agreed to sell it along with many of her beloved possessions and move. It was hard the day she had to leave the lovely garden she had nourished for many years and live in comfortable, but reduced circumstances at an assisted living facility.  

Moving to a new place hasn't been easy on top of her disability. With her impaired speech, it is difficult to understand what she says unless you are very patient.

Like most adults, she has been used to making her own rules and now she was going to have to follow someone else's. She missed her house, all her neighbors and old friends. She missed working in her garden.  All she had now were small living quarters, so she began to fill her one room apartment with lots of plants.

There were days when the depression could be crushing. It didn't help that there wasn't very much to occupy the residents there. To fill her time she found herself taking walks around the grounds.

Gradually, she began to meet other residents and even make some friends, although speaking will always be a struggle. Luckily, patience is greater among people who have their own afflictions. One day, she happened to notice that there were roses growing around the property. The early summer blooms had come and gone and needed to be removed so the plants could flower again.  If anyone knew how to care for roses, it was Jerdine.  So she set about taking care of them the way she used to care for the ones in the garden she had to leave behind. 

One day a superviser saw her fussing over the plants and warned her not to pick the flowers, missing the point entirely. She tried to explain that she was just removing the old blooms so that there would be new ones, but her speech was garbled and the busy bureaucrat just pretended he knew what she said, rushing passed her and waving hastily in her direction.  

Soon there were buds and she was elated, telling one of the other residents that there should be new flowers by the coming weekend. Unfortunately, bureaucracy and callous disregard for someone's hard work and care have conspired to destroy her efforts. A hired crew came in one day before she got there and cut down all the rose plants almost to the ground.

The bursting buds, now crushed and gone, won't bloom again until next year.  And the gentle spirit that nurtured them has no doubt wilted too.

Patricks' Saturday Six -- Middle of Summer Edition

1. What was your favorite childhood movie?  When was the last time you saw it?

I didn't have a lot of favorite movies when I was a kid.  I was taken out of the Wizard of Oz screaming because the Wicked Witch of the West scared me so much.  But so did all the brooms in Fantasia.  I remember liking Song of the South, but when I saw it again as an adult, I couldn't believe how racist it was. There was a movie with Frank Sinatra I remember liking.  He sang a song called Abba Dadda Honeymoon.

Abba Dadda Dabba Dabba Abba Dabba Dabba Dabba Said the Monkey to the Chimp is how it started out.  I don't remember the rest.  Well, I remember the Abba Dabba parts, but not the other words.

The last time I saw that movie was when it was in the movie theaters in 1952.

2. Who is your worst enemy at the moment?  (First names only, please.)  Why is that person your enemy?

I have ALWAYS been my own worst enemy.  I can't blame anyone by myself for any predicament I have ever found myself in. I have contemplated my navel on the issue for many years. I'll let you know if I ever come up with any answers.

3. Which one of the following annoys you most when you encounter a new blog?

   a. Constant grammatical errors.
   b. Constant spelling errors.
   c. Contrived "street" language.
   d. Too many "nothing happening today" entries.

Lots of grammar and spelling errors annoy me a lot. Probably because they are my biggest problems too.

Elves and faeries are like nails on a blackboard. My main requirement for reading other journals is make me laugh or make me think. Otherwise I'm out.

4 Take this quiz:   Which alcoholic drink are you?

I am Kahlua and cream.  I wanted to say I was a "big cab," but that conjured up a large yellow taxi and I didn't want to go there. Oh, wait, this is one of those quizes you have to link to.  I'll be back.

According to the quiz I'm a shot of vodka.  Or do people need a shot of vodka to be with me?  That wasn't clear.

5. What is the last thing you said to a person face to face?  Who was that person?

"Hey, I'm going to the ladies room to put on some make up so I look nice for the drive home."  I said it to the last person left at the production house where I was working.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #59 from Debi:  When you shower, do you ever think of the Alfred Hitchcock movie, "Psycho?"

I never think about the shower scene in PSYCHO anymore because since that movie I always lock the bathroom door when I'm going to take a shower.

Truth or Dare

ScreaminRemo has just done an entry about truth. Could you honestly handle knowing the real reasons behind what people and governments do?  Do you ever come clean about why you do things?  Or what things you're doing?

I have friends who want me to write down some of my stories of meeting guys on the internet. They dare me to tell the truth about what it's like out there in IM land. 

Well, I have to live in this town you know.  But there are a few things I am willing to share. 

First Mrs. Linklater has certain ground rules for herself. She has no desire to meet anyone she chats with on the internet. Oh sure, if there were the possibility of a future life together, or the chance for some kind of meaningful ::cough cough gag gag:: relationship, she might consider it after a background check, but you must remember, she is 61 years old. Not a glamorous or workable age for much of anything. Plus she is not rich. So, what would be the purpose of her meeting someone? Exactly. She'll pass.

Not to mention that her children have forbidden her to even think about a meeting of any kind with anyone from the web, unless accompanied by an armed guard, which can put a damper on any occasion, although Mrs. L confesses that she is partial to men in uniform.

The point is, typing is one thing. Real life is another. Since her DNA-linked darlings can have her thrown into the old people's clink in a heartbeat, Mrs. L is not going to misbehave. Well, let's just say, she might walk up to the edge of the line with her toes, but she's not going to cross it.

Truth be told, none of her adventures would ever take place -- in fact, -- she wouldn't have ANY tales to tell, if she didn't have an AOL profile posted. And it's a rather benign one at that. It's the two flattering pictures -- headshots taken right after a trip to the Spa -- that seem to generate interest in sending her an introductory IM.

By the way, Mrs. L has checked out some of the other female profiles and she never ceases to be amazed at the number of women who think that see through baby doll nighties are appropriate attire for public photo albums.

So, you say, why not just dump the pics, however classy and tasteful they may be? You could save yourself a boatload of aggravation Mrs. Linklater. Fine. Your logic is annoying. Right now, the truth is, and this whole entry is about truth, a little aggravation in Mrs. L's life is better than no life at all. 

Hanging out on the internet, she has learned a few things over the last year. First, almost everyone on AOL is younger than she is. Second, people lie. Who knew?

For instance, any guy in his fifties who contacts Mrs. L after reading her profile is always married.  No matter what he says at the outset.  But Mrs. Linklater is so honest that usually they end up telling her the truth.  They may start out claiming they're divorced, separated, or widowed. But Mrs. Linklater seems to be so frank about herself, they always cave. Actually all Mrs. L has to do is tell them how old she is, and the walls come tumbling down. It may be that she isn't the oldest person on the internet, just the only one telling the truth about her age. Certainly, the only woman fessing up.

Third, if a guy doesn't have a picture of himself he's not goodlooking. Or he's married. The most amazing thing is the number of guys who DO have pictures of themselves and aren't goodlooking. Truly unattractive. What's that about? Oh, yeah, truth.

One guy saw Mrs. Linklater's picture and IM'd. He said he was 42.  Later in the conversation when Mrs L said she was 61, he forgot he had said he was 42 and went on to say he was 52.  Buh bye. Who needs someone with a memory problem.

Before Mrs. L had her rule about meeting people, one guy said he was separated, but getting a divorce. Calling his bluff, Mrs. L offered to take him out to dinner when he was finally free. The day came and after accepting her offer, he emailed the following, "Don't forget to wear your crotchless panties."  She was so put off that she waited twenty-four hours to see if she had overreacted before ending everything.  Nope. 24 hours passed and she was still steaming. Which brings her to the fourth thing she's learned:

Guys think they can get away with anything.  Still.

 

To be continued. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, Mrs. L has turned down some tantalizing offers. One of her favorites came from from a 21 year old college senior who can spell. 

 

 

A Chicago R and B Legend Dies

Eugene Record died last week. He was the lead singer for the Chi Lites, a Temptations wannabe group out of Chicago that had some hits in their day. "Oh Girl" and "Have You Seen Her?" are probably two of their best known tunes.

Back in the eighties I wrote a blues lyric for a Velveeta commercial and the music house I used hired Eugene to do the singing. I remember he was coming back from the Grammy Awards that day and was running a little late.  So we lay down the rhythm tracks and a kickass harmonica riff by a great Chicago blues guy whose name escapes me right now.

When Eugene, Mr. Record to me, showed up, he was all business. I have that effect on black people. Okay, what is the suburban white chick doing here?  He exchanged small talk with the music house producer while things were getting set up for him. Another singer did the sound check while the rest of us waited for everything to be ready for Gene, MISTER Record, to do his thing.

While they all chatted about the Grammy he just won, I was intrigued by his glasses. I couldn't stop staring at them. They were heartshaped and so out of character for this very suave man with the sleek, shiny hair. It was like he borrowed them from Carrot Top. The look did not compute. But nobody was going to tease him.  Least of all me.

The time came for him to go into the studio and sing. The levels had been set for the other singer, not Eugene. So when he opened his mouth the sound almost blew us out of the room. The man had a set of pipes that could be heard across town. He and Patti LaBelle should have had children.  

I was in awe of his amazing voice. It was just huge. I can still remember how my ears rang when he started out and we were blasted to the far wall. But getting to hear him was a short-lived experience because he was done in two takes.

The Velveeta commercial didn't make it to air. We were pushing the envelope having a very sensual R and B voice singing the praises of melted cheese, while a macro lens panned hot dogs, pasta, and vegetables as they were drenched in slow motion pours.  A little too sexy for middle America.

But I got a chance to work with a great legend up close and personal. Even though he pretty much treated me like lint. Regardless, it sure was nice to see what all the fuss was about.

He was 64.  There was a time when I considered sixty-four the same way Paul McCartney did. Old as dirt. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four? Now, it seems too young to die.

The Mystery of Kinko's Muzak

I'm at the Kink looking at hours of video on a mini dvd player. So boring. If I were at home, I'd come up with millions of other things to do instead. Nap. Clip my toenails. Count my collection of rubber gloves. Temptations are everywhere. It's better to be out of the house. 

There is Muzak playing here constantly, something I don't happen to mind when I'm doing mindless work.  In fact most of the tunes are from the sixties and seventies when I could not only sing them, I could dance to them too. This whole afternoon has been like listening to an infomercial for every Time Life collection you ever wanted. Well, at least I ever wanted.

I happened to mention I was enjoying the music playing on the Muzak to one of the Kinko's co-workers [no one has employees anymore]. "Am I the demographic they're trying to appeal to these days, because it's working."  He laughed and said nobody in the store had anything to do with what was being played. His best guess is that it's piped in from headquarters, wherever headquarters is. Somebody is dialing the knobs for this Kinko's in a Chicago suburb from a room in another city in another state.

I have heard from time to time that they control the heat and air conditioning that way, too.

"We have no control over the music at all," the co-worker said. "It just comes out of the speakers whenever they want it to. We can't adjust the level or change the channel or complain or anything," he said, laughing.  "I just wish we knew where it was coming from."

What good would that do? 

"It would just be nice to know, that's all."  

Gotta go. They're playing Elton John.

No Skin Off My Nose -- Well, Maybe A Little

If I want to capture the scent of summer all I have to do is buy a jar of Noxzema and the memories of damp bathing suits, wet towels, and peeling skin take a seat in a beachchair down by the water.  

Back before there was sunscreen there was Noxzema to help take the pain out of our sunburns. It didn't protect us or prevent our future deaths from skin cancer, but it was fun to spread it on and it sure did feel cool on all the hot spots. Noxzema said summer like fly swatters and Good Humor trucks.

Getting that first sunburn was a rite of passage as a teenager. You had to go through the pain and redness every year to start building up to a tan. In my case the redness was pretty much as dark as I got, since I had the freckly skin of my redheaded mother to reckon with.  

The freckles would eventually become so numerous that they ran together enough to pass for a tan. The effort took many hours, days, and weeks to achieve. To aid in the tanning process my girlfriends and I slathered baby oil all over ourselves -- the better to cook our skin and fry it to a nice golden crisp.  Or in my case, a fiery flaming hot Cheetos red.  

Perhaps the worst sunburn I ever endured was in 1966 on the beaches of Hawaii.  It was my first time in the death rays of a tropical sun. I was in Oahu to be the maid of honor for my college roomie's wedding.  The day before the nuptials I went to the beach to get some color so I would look nice for the ceremony.  Thinking that more was more, I lay out for four hours during the hottest part of the day.

That night I was so sunburned that I couldn't bear anything touching my skin. My roommate filled a bathtub with ice cold water just so I could get away from the heat. While I was standing with her in the bathroom, leaning against the sink, waiting for the tub to fill, she suddenly asked if I was okay. I said I felt a little faint. She said my sunburn was gone. I was getting shocky and my flaming red skin had turned totally white. Once I got into the tub of ice cold water, the color came back and the heat returned with it. I'm not sure whether that was good news or bad news.

After my freezing bath, my roommate went out into the yard and cut off a leaf from an aloe plant. Aloe has been used for centuries on the islands to salve burns. It hadn't become the omnipresent ingredient in everything from shampoo to shaving cream yet. She cut the huge leaf in half lengthwise, scooped out the clear, viscous jelly and covered every inch of my burned skin with it. Since I had been wearing a bikini, that was a lot of skin.

The aloe worked wonders. The pain went away. My stupidity didn't ruin the wedding, although my face looks a little swollen in the pictures. Somehow, I never peeled. Except for my face. For some reason, we never put any aloe on it.

On the flight back from Hawaii I noticed that the Navy guy sitting next to me kept staring. I must be really good looking I thought. Until I went into the lavatory and got a real gander. The skin on my face was cracking and splitting. It looked broken. EEEEWWWWW. I went to the flight attendant who gave me some lotion. I used the lotion to glue my skin back together and it peeled off in one sheet, leaving me with fresh pink skin around my eyes nose cheeks and mouth, with about an inch of dark tan around the outside. Weird. When my boyfriend picked me up at the airport he squinted his eyes and I could have sworn he flinched.  

That historic burn was later followed by memorable burns in San Diego, San Antonio, and Acapulco, along with too many to count here in Chicago. Until finally, I took the hint and got out of the sun.

Which brings me to this week and my latest trip to the dermatologist. About twenty years ago I noticed a small patch of skin that stayed red and raw on my face.  

Can you say keratosis? I had joined the ranks of those who show up every six months to stand and wait for the doctor to scan their bodies for signs of melanoma.

Since that first little patch was removed I have endured other skin procedures, with more to come I'm sure. There was the cream that I had to apply to my face for two weeks. I felt like I'd been invaded by an alien as I watched the pre-cancerous areas become oozing scabs over the next couple of weeks. Somewhere there are pictures of me looking like I had a terminal case of herpes on my forehead and under my eyes. Did people stare. Oh, yes.  

There was the time that a teeny little patch of bad skin on my nose had to be removed by burning it off.  The doctor was worred that I couldn't take the pain. He said over and over that it was very important for me to hold still.  Then he began the procedure, clearly concerned that I might flinch and he would burn a hole in my cheek or worse. I never moved. Sure it felt like hot needles poking my nose. But for the whole fifteen minutes I was as still as a statue.

Afterward he asked me one question, "Have you ever had children.?"  Ha. Who knew that all those hours of epidural free labor and delivery would come in handy some day.

This week the dermatologist had a name for all the little skin things I pointed out as we toured my body. That's a framitz schnitzel. Over there? A varigated do-dah. None of them qualified as a melanoma. Not even a keratosis or two. But a bunch of things I call sunspots were bugging me. "I don't like how they look," I whined.  "So don't look at them," he suggested.

Dr. Comedy. Never one to miss a chance to make some extra money, he zapped me all over with his nitrogen gun, which has become a regular event. The liquid nitrogen burns the area with freezing cold.  It hurts for a few seconds as it freezes the area. When the frozen skin thaws out it hurts even more. Afterward the area blisters or turns black and appears supremely unattractive. So I'm wearing long sleeves for awhile until I heal. If I want to scare small children I show them my arms.

I stopped sunbathing in my thirties. I still like to go to the beach, but only in the early hours of the day or after three in the afternoon. Usually with a t-shirt and a sarong over my suit. And I wear SPF fifty. Yes, fifty.

Of course, when I feel the need to bring back the memories of those sunny days of summer, I can always get a whiff of Noxzema. Can't you just smell that weird odor now?
 

Mrs. Linklater's Guide to Raising Adults

Mrs. Linklater thinks it's time to stop raising children. And start raising adults.
`
So to help remove any six foot, one hundred and ninety pound children from their comfy seats at the parental trough, she makes the following suggestion:

This summer, drive that large body of evidence that you once had sex to the middle of a state somewhere. Make sure you're least one hundred miles from a city. You can even allow them to choose which state they'll be left in. Make it a magnanimous gesture.

Give them a roof over their heads at a local motel for one week. Allow them to have 100 dollars. And tell them not to come home for a year.

Yes they can call you, but not collect. When they ask the inevitable questions, the answer you always give them is NO.

Call it getting back to our roots, building character, learning what it means to be an American. Call it mean. Call it crazy. Mrs. Linklater likes to remind lazy ass young people, who want her to use her influence to get them a job, that this country was built on the courage of hundreds of thousands of people who arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They probably walked ten miles to school in the snow barefoot, too. You ought to see the eyes of those kids glaze over when they hear that.

She feels that the milk of mom and dad's misguided kindness is making us a nation of freeloaders -- little kids in big people's bodies who aren't accountable and never take responsibility for their actions.

That's why she thinks there's nothing like having absolutely nothing -- no money, no car, no place to live -- to make you dig down and find out what it is you have that makes you a valuable person. Nothing gets to the point better than getting stuck in the middle of nowhere without a dime.  Okay a hundred bucks.  But how far does that go these days?

For purposes of clarification, Mrs. Linklater would invoke this get up, get out, and grow up rule for adult children still living at home jobless after six months, which is a blink of an eye these days.

She also realizes there are exceptions to this rule. And they should not include succumbing to whining and begging.

So, do your kids a favor. Let them find out what they're worth.  Let them put their high school and college degrees to the test.

While they're gone, make sure you turn their old rooms into something they won't recognize, an office, a studio, a mini gym or a family room. Nothing that they can come home to.

The bad news is that your kids will always want to come home again.

The good news is they won't feel the need to stay.After that year out in the wilderness, they will finally know how to be useful and productive grown ups.  Okay, they will still bring their laundry home on weekends to save on quarters. And raid the fridge while they're waiting for their stuff to dry. But now it's just temporary.  Not chronic. 

PIECES OF ME YOU'VE NEVER SEEN

This essay was written by robbush6 for Judithheartsong's artsy essay contest WHY I KEEP A JOURNAL.  Except it was finished too late to be entered.  Besides Robin has a private journal and no one would be able to see it.  I thought it was so good I wanted you to read it, too.  So I invoked the Guest Editor Rule, pushed a button, and voila, here it is at Mrs. Linklater's.  Enjoy this thoughtful piece.

For 30 days, the cursor, set against the backdrop of a blank page, blinked at me. It was September 24, 2003 when I aswered AOL's open invitation to write a journal. Without much thought, my URL became "MyFitnessJournal." It blinked. I typed in some silly garbage about walking and losing weight. My goal was to lose the last 20 pounds of "baby weight" now that my youngest child was four. I deleted it. Again, I was back to that incessant blinking. The cursor mocked me. "Who on earth is going to want to read that crap? Nobody gives a shit about your daily exercise plan and your careful monitoring of the USDA food pyramid. You suck."

All the world just stopped now
Let me take a deep breath babe . . .

Aside from my annual Christmas letter and weekly grocery list, I didn't write anything. I never kept a diary. I didn't write letters. I hadn't written a business memo in five years since I left my old job to stay home with kids full-time. I had a creative writing class in college back in 1985, but nothing since. I quit writing bad poetry in highschool, thank God.

You can run from your past. You can dodge angry neighbors. You can avoid the PTA President. You can lie to your mother. You can avoid the IRS.  You can pretend you're not home when salesmen come to call. You can ignore phone solicitors, Amway salesmen and the Jehovahs. The one person you can't hide from is yourself. Finally, that blinking stopped. The curse had been lifted. I decided I'd write amusing anecdotes about my busy life as mother of four. My first entry October22 in MyFitnessJournal began, "On a recent trip to the local Pumpkin Patch, it dawned on me that I've become everything I hate: a middle-aged housewife in a quilted black and orange vest decorated with pumpkins and candy corn." And so it began.

I think it's that girl

I wrote my amusing stories: slogging through mud to pick out the perfect pumpkin for Katie a mile from the wagon, falling off the porch swing and out of my parked minivan, my penchant for not remembering to keep my mouth shut at times it would have been prudent to do so, you know, stuff like that. It was fun. It was light. It was drivel. People began to comment and laugh along with me. Suddenly, I had a "readership." It felt strange knowing that people were watching. But performing wasn't my style. When my best efforts at entertaining an invisible audience fell flat, I'd tell myself, "What do they know? It's my journal and that's good enough for me."

And I think there're pieces of me you've never seen
Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen well

Over time, my journal became a surrogate for what was missing in my life: someone to talk to. I'd save up all the useless tidbits and stray thoughts that would creep into my headduring the day and store them up until I could dump them out on the page. It was a wonderful way to stop the slow and steady slide into madness of raising young kids. Lots of them.

All the world is all I am
The black of the blackest ocean
And the tear in your hand

I started to think of my journal as an old friend. The stories became less silly and more personal. I could write a travelogue or paint a picture with words, but so can anyone. Making it real took it to a deeper place. It began to resonate with others. People didn't always comment in the journal, but would share their own stories privately by e-mail. The instant kinship with total strangers was amazing. An Idaho convenience store clerk; an alcoholic in Tampa; an Arizona cop; a Boston Cowboy; a Michigan dog lover; a Georgia peach, miles from home; a commodities trader in the Tundra; a Southern Belle, emigrated to D.C., a stunner in Chicago who's been everywhere and done everything; a starving artist in California so engrossed in her work she'd forget to eat, until her husband would bring her bits of cheese. We all shared one thing: having fun with words.

All the world is danglin'...
Dangling'...Danglin' for me darlin'

I began to feel as if I knew these people I'd never met better than most of the people I saw in person every day. Nothing seemed to get in the way. Not social status, not physical appearance, not political views. The playing field was level. Anything was fair game. Frank discussions and hearty laughter. Poignant tales of illness and suffering. Outrageous and bittersweet by turns, each one a surprise. Deborah, in her best OuttaBody way, once said to me, "I love you more than anyone I've never met before." Struggling with my first Thanksgiving without the kids, Paul cheered me with, "I wrote this for you," and offered up a very personal window to his own painful holidays past.

You don't know the power that you have
With that tear in your hand

Then something else happened. Something I didn't expect. That woman I thought I'd become wasn't me after all. The woman inside me all along began to speak. She suddenly had a voice. A voice I gave her. First, baby steps. We walk before we run. We trip and fall and get back up. Like a teenage boy becoming a man, the voice was unpredictible and squeaky atfirst. With practice, it grew stronger. The best thing was, it was mine.

Maybe I ain't used to maybes
Smashing in a cold room
Cutting my hands up every time I touch you

The stray thoughts weren't always trivial. The journal became a conduit of self-discovery and introspection. I was restless and unhappy. Saying it out loud was the hardest thing I've ever done. But it would prove to be the best. "I am unhappy. I am restless and bored." Maybe I didn't say it in so many words, but the essence of the message was always the same.

Maybe maybe it's time to wave goodbye now
Time to wave goodbye now

In the spring, I asked my husband of 15 years to leave. Whatever we had wasn't working anymore. I'd had enough.

Caught a ride with the moon
I know I know you well
Better than I
Used to haze all clouded up
My mind in the daze of why it could've never been So you say and I say
You know you're full of wish
And your "baby baby baby babies"

Writing this journal gave me the strength to say, "I deserve better than this." It gave me the courage to reach out and grab that elusive "something better." It gave me the awareness to know what I was doing was the only thing to do.

I tell you there're pieces of meyou've never seen
Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen

People who thought they knew me didn't understand. Why would they? They didn't know me. I wasn't really sure who I was myself. I just always thought I was someone else. I was the right person living the wrong life.

All the world is all I am
The black of the blackest ocean
And the tear in your hand

Not anymore. Not once did I look back and think, "Uh oh. This was a bad idea." Not once have I regretted speaking the truth. No one else speaks for me anymore. I have found my own voice.And it is good enough.

All the world is dangin'...
Dangling'...Danglin' for me darlin'
You don't know the power that you have
With that tear in your hand

You don't know the power that you have until you choose to use it.

Things I Learned This Weekend About Ice Cream and Other Stuff

I'm writing this while I'm on the phone and it reads that way.

The gay beach in Rehobeth, Delaware starts at Queen Street.

My girlfriend in Montana spent a day with an 81-year-old female rancher, who is not only a medical doc and a vet, but a carries a shotgun in the back of her recently purchased 1970 station wagon for spooking grizzlies. She also gave $600,000 to the Gallatin County fairgrounds for a new arena. This woman still rides on the yearly 55 mile cattle drive from one of her family's ranches up north to another one down south. It takes three days. Apparently, she uses a stun gun on snake bites.  Zap the area just above the bite -- or, more accurately, between the bite and the heart -- three or four times.  This changes the chemistry of the poison and renders it harmless.

Ranchers keep them handy to use on their horses and cattle.

The reason that some salt walter taffy has a stripe is because that's the only way they can tell what flavor it is when they're making it.  Different colors stand for different flavors.  

Horsehoe crabs have blue blood instead of red, because it contains copper instead of iron.

The oldest sailboat in continuous use on Lake Michigan is FAME, a wooden sloop formerly owned by a guy named Dunlop who was the Michael Jordan of Chicago sailing. It's been in the water for 85 years. Dunlop bought it from the builder who took all the knowledge he gained building speedy 80 to 100 foot fishing sloops out east and created a 40 foot sprinter for his personal use.

Apparently the fishing boats that made it back into the harbor first got the best prices for their fish.  So there was always a race home at the end of the day.

I had a long, leisurely breakfast with my older daughter this morning. She's driving back home from a vacation with her fiance's family in Michigan. We got to talking about the fact that my injuries have left me unable to play sports and limited my workouts. She said I should do Pilates because it was originally developed to help people with issues like mine.  So it's not just for Minnie Driver and Daisy Fuentes, huh?

By the way, it's sherBET, nor sherBERT.

Penn State has a course in making ice cream.  

The reason DVD's are coming out so soon after the movie has been in theaters, in many cases, is because the studios are trying to make their marketing dollars go farther.  If they wait a year, they have to ratchet up the cost of advertising again.

There is a traffic school in California that holds class at a gourmet ice cream store and serves ice cream and chocolates.

I'm going to post a link [posted] to Homer's Ice Cream. They can deliver fresh, homemade ice cream overnight almost anywhere in the country.

Their fresh peach is out of this world and they have real red peppermint too. With big chunks.

Haagen-Daz is a made up name.  It just sounds foreign.  

The Lava Lamp, the Oscar, and Roger Ebert are all Chicagoans.

Chicago hot dogs are all about the toppings. New York dogs are all about the kraut. Chicago is celery salt and no catsup. New York is all about the kraut.  

Hot Doug's here in Chicago serves fries made in duck fat on the weekends. 

Patrick's Saturday Six

1. Who was your first best friend?  How old were you when you two met?  Are you still in regular contact with each other?

Patsy Hartman was my best friend until sixth grade. We became aware of each other in kindergarten.  She lived in the apartment building across the street. On August 1, 1954 she moved to Hempstead New York. On August 2, I moved to the suburbs of Chicago.

The last time we had contact was at a neighborhood reunion in 1965. I felt like a neon sign next to her. She looked exactly the same as she did in 1954 only taller. Same hairdo. No makeup.  I was wearing a fake leopard coat, three inch heels, beehive hairdo, and false eyelashes.

2. Other than the "Saturday Six," what weekly or daily memes do you play most often?  (Please give a link to that journal.)

After I finish with the Saturday Six, I'm too exhausted to do any other memes.  What is the origin that word meme anyway? Is it French? Is it stupid or what?

3. Which of the following likely has the bigger mess underneath it:  your stove, your refrigerator, your couch or your bed?

Well, I'm in between stoves, so there's nothing under there. I just moved my fridge recently for a new floor so that's clean. Couch?  What couch?  Oh you mean the beach chair by the TV? The biggest mess is under my bed. I thought I heard a cat under there yesterday. Wait a minute, I don't have any pets.

4. Take this quiz:  How long does MSN think you'll live?  Then take this one:  How long does Blogthings think you'll live?

Mrs. Linklater predicts that she'll live to her late seventies.  She's afraid she's going to live to her eighties and nineties like so many of her relatives.  She does not want to do that. Do you know how long it takes to get ready for a date when you have to use a walker?

MSN -- I'll live to 90. I hope this isn't right. 

Blogwhatever -- 79.  See, I knew it, my late seventies.

And for you deathclock.com fans -- a little over 17 years, so almost 79.  Hmmm.  That's two votes for 79. 

5. Do either or both of these motivate you to make any changes in your lifestyle?

Already, I don't drink or smoke. I eschew caffeine, except for the occasional iced tea. I watch my calories. I limit my red meat. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?

6. Name five things you would like to do by December 31, 2005.

1.Be a bridesmaid in a wedding -- is there an age limit?  

2.Go to Mary Lou's in Southern Illinois for a piece of pie -- with Robin of robbush6

3.Watch the White Sox play in the World Series

4.Empty the trash -- I tend to proscrastinate

5.Come up with a fifth thing to do -- how about have a decent New Year's Eve date? That would be a first.

The Cat's Meow

This afternoon I heard a cat meow. It sounded like it was under my bed.  WTF?  Since I no longer have cats, this was not something I wanted to hear.

Oh, shit, what are you doing in here, I said, jumping up from my bed, where I was resting, clothing free, in between meals on this warm day.  

MEOW.  There it was again.

How the hell did that feline get in here?  I checked all the windows to see if I'd inadvertently opened one.  All closed.

MEOW. Okay, that's it.  

It occured to me that I should probably put on some clothes in case the cat decided I was an obstacle in its escape path and tried to climb over me claws first.

So I got dressed and started to call out to the little creature.  Well, "little" in comparison to say, a jaguar, but for all I knew it was one of those thirty pound Persians.

I whistled and, as sweetly as I could, called out Here Kitty Kitty.  Nothing.  

Then I began to get worried.  There's no kitty litter anywhere in the house.  What was it using to relieve itself?  And how long had it been in the house?  

Had it been trapped in here for a long time?  And only just now crying out because it was starving and too weak to move?

MEOW.  It still sounded like it was under the bed.  I tried to look under there,but it was so dark over in the corner where the bed was up against the wall, who could tell?

Okay, I was too chicken to press the issue.  Sticking my face down there to get a good look at a strange, frightened animal didn't seem like the smartest thing to do.

Then the MEOWing stopped. I thought, well, live and let live.  If it wants out it can get out.  If it decided to leave any presents I'd deal with them later.

Four hours have passed since all the MEOWING started.  

All of a sudden ten minutes ago, I heard MEOW one more time.

This time it was coming from my computer. How did the cat get up on the desk and behind my flat screen monitor? Then it MEOWed again. 

When someone signed on. Oh.

It's not a real kitty.  It's an AOL MEOW kitty that makes a sound when someone logs on. Like Gaboatman whose screenname blows a loud fog horn when he signs on. And scares the poop out of me.

I am so blond sometimes.

But at least I won't have to clean up any furballs.

Judithheartsong's Artsy Essay Contest for July

CLICK HERE TO VISIT CONTEST CENTRAL

Why Do I Keep A Journal? No Shit. What Was I Thinking?

The reason I started this journal is not the reason I continue this journal.

On the face of it, there wasn't a reason for me to have one. I have no life. I'm not a working mommy anymore. I'm just working. My children are grown. They seem disinclined to provide me with the grandchildren I deserve. And they live to-hell-and-back far away. I don't have an illness that consumes my life. I don't have a career that provides fascinating anecdotes on a daily basis. I don't have a husband to write about. Or a boyfriend to whine about. My animals are dead and buried. Except one whose ashes are in a little brass container on a shelf in the hallway. And I'm in a demographic that has all the sex appeal of an unsightly growth.  

The only thing I have in abundance is attitude. So with good typing skills and a load of 'tude, I leapt into the deep end of the pool and began to swim.      

In the beginning my journal was like a new toy. The blurb on the main screen made it sound like it was going to be something that was fun to do. My inner smartass needed a place to play and AOL had built a a Disneyland for blogs.

So I signed up. Journals were easy to create. You could pick different color combinations for different templates. There was a choice of type sizes and fonts. And the best part was you didn't have to know any code.

For someone who had only kept a locked diary for six months during eighth grade, filled with more bowling scores than actual events, the appeal of an online journal might seem hard to fathom. But I was now almost fifty years older and writing stuff had become my profession.

With a journal I could write whatever I wanted without restrictions. Except TOS. No marketing plans to follow. No creative strategies to adher to. For someone who is used to writing to a client's specs, the journal was freedom -- nobody dictating anything.

Writing in an AOL journal also appealed to the show off in me. Other people might come read it, besides my loyal family and friends. The thought of people I didn't know stopping by and leaving comments was exhilarating, like being on stage. I always loved performing.

But along the way, my interest in journaling became an interest in other journals and the people who write them.

This place would be nothing without our bloggermeister, John Scalzi. More than anything else, he is the difference between a bunch of disparate blogs and a real community. He is the glue that helps us stick together.

When Scalzi began his Weekend Assignments shortly after I started my journal, I could leave a link in his comments section for others to follow. And vice versa.

Ironically, one of the first people who left a comment in one of my entries was Nikki from The Single Woman's Guide to the Universe. The Single Woman and Mrs. Linklater were both self-appointed tour leaders on a tram ride around the cosmos. Surely, with such similarly named journals, we must be kindred spirits. Thus the friendships began, slowly, with links from journal to journal.

Soon every day in J-Land began to seem like Thursday night at the only bar in town. New people were showing up all the time. Like familiar faces walking in the door, I began to see familiar names commenting in my journal. And they got to be familiar with who I was, too. 

Albert of Albert's World of Artsy Fun showed up and soon became a magnet for other newbies like me, all hugs and kisses whenever he saw us. He was outrageous and hilarious, sometimes shocking, and we gravitated to him like he was the ringmaster of a virtual circus. He was covered in sequins, the Big Top's most over the top master of ceremonies.  He loved his audience and always sent a personal email after a comment that he found entertaining.  

While Albert embraced you with his effusive warmth, Patrick's Place became a comfortable hangout on the weekends doing the Saturday Six. Then there was Remo, whose power on the page terrified me.

I am sure it must have been one of The Screamer's ribald or sarcastic comments in Albert's Journal that caught my eye. So I followed the trail of breadcrumbs to his place and read everything he'd written back to the dark ages, along with the verbal devastation that rained down on anyone who dared to question him. Or so it seemed.

Weeks passed before I emailed him to say I liked his journal but I was afraid to say anything. He told me the coast was clear so I began to make a timid comment or two from time to time. And last week I got to pimp his writing as a Guest Editor. We've come full circle.

There are dozens of stories like Albert, Patrick, and Remo. Even as we speak, I'm writing this for Juditheartsong's Artsy Essay contest. Did I mention Yak of Do I Amuse You?  Andi who never sleeps? Armand, Sam, Mo, PK, Robin, Paul, etc., etc.

See? I could be here forever.

It was clear from the start that J-Land embraced diversity. This was an equal opportunity place. There was one common denominator that united us. We all had journals. The rest -- race, religion, sexual orientation,age, political affiliation, career choice, whatever -- became interesting sidebars.

The first anniversary celebration last July solidified the community. Spearheaded by Viviansullinwank, whose enthusiasm went through this place like a mountain wildfire, the celebration was a one woman parade. The rest of us were just happy to ride on the floats. That remarkable event was something that could only happen in J-Land. The rest of the internet is way too cynical.

Vivian had everybody signed up to do something. I volunteered to make a poster. We didn't get every journaler's picture, but we got a lot. And I was introduced to hundreds of other writers in J-Land just because I offered to help out.

The sense of community continues to this day. There's a new guy in town and everybody stops by to check them out. Unlike blogs in the larger sphere, when someone's journal goes on hiatus at AOL, everyone in the neighborhood knows it. Come back, Jeff, we miss you.

So, I no longer write a journal for my original reason -- to have an outlet for the opinionated, slightly insane ideas of a mature woman.

I'm still insane, but now I write my opinions to have a way to entertain a wider audience of people I consider wonderful acquaintances and very special friends.

Which reminds me, when are we going to get this convention off the ground anyway?

The Book Thing

La Vida Mommy made me do this.  A link to her journal is over there in Other Journals.  Hey, I'm on a MAC. Do you know what a pain creating links can be?

Number of books I own:  1000 and I've given away hundreds.

All my bookshelves have not one but two layers.  One row of books in front of the other.  

There are floor to ceiling built-in shelves that take up one end of the living room, a seven foot tall shelf at the other end.  And another seven foot shelf in my bedroom.

Last Book I read:

A Walk In The Woods by Bill Bryson -- at least two months ago. Recommended by a friend. It's a wonderful, amusing tale of a great travel writer's walk along a portion of the Appalachian Trial.  

I have a pile of books that need reading, but I've been working so much the past few weeks, my reading is confined to the internet, newspapers and magazines.

Five books that mean a lot to me:

Neuroses -- I love reading case histories of troubled folks the way some people like eating cheddar cheese popcorn.  This is a textbook with 700 pages of synopses of patient stories, including therapy and results. Mmmm, good.

Out of Africa -- Isak Dinesen's lilting memoir lost some of its cache after the movie came out.  But nothing can compare to her words on the page.  She writes in her second language, English, with a Danish accent, sometimes Danish syntax, too. A wonderful storyteller, I can imagine her sitting by a fire after dinner reading out loud.    

Roger Tory Peterson's Birds of North America -- I use this book all the time when I hear an unfamiliar warble or evening song. Time to track the bird down. When I see a flash of color flying about I can get out his guide and find a nice big picture of whatever new bird I've just discovered.  A rose-crested grosbeak.  An indigo bunting. All kinds of warblers.  Woodpeckers.    

Joy of Cooking -- an old edition.  This one has the best scratch hollandaise I've found.  The new editions are different.  I refer to it for everything I'm not sure how to cook.  And yes, I will sit and read it like a it was a novel, too.  Nothing like reading recipes to whet your appetie.

Physicians Desk Reference -- I took mircobiology in college.  That course and typing are the two most useful courses I took in school.  Micro lets me understand all the gobbledegook written on the medical inserts that come with your medicine.  It also levels the playing field with me and the docs, when I know as much about a drug as they do.  Or as I've discovered at times, when I know more than they do.    

Anybody who wants to play the book thing is welcome to. 

Fifty Things

I did this once before, but everyone seems to be doing it again.  So, Mrs. Linklater does this mean you'd jump off a bridge if everyone was jumping off bridges?

1. I am not a natural blond.  No you can't see.

2. I have more nicknames than the average person. Olive Oyl and Big Bird are just two.

3. I love dill pickles sliced in quarters.  I hated them when I was pregnant.

4. I once told a doctor to "Get the F**K out" of the labor room.

5. My children think I'm zany. That's not necessarily a good thing

6. I've been in ads and commercials, sung at the Ravinia Festival, been a member of the Second City Touring Company in 1969 with Harold Ramis and Brian Doyle Murray, been on a horse roundup for my honeymoon, and driven around the track at Road America.

7. I owned a 1965 Mustang.  In 1965.

9. I can't believe I'm 61. With a couple of exceptions, it's as bad as I thought it would be.

10.  I thought I would be competing in national age group championships and the Senior Olympics in volleyball, platform tennis, and cycling. Maybe even bowling and badminton. But I won't be.

11.  I love anchovies on pizza. Little pieces, not big strips.  It doesn't take much, but you knew that.

12.  I invented and named Bananaramas.  It's a cookie. With Chiquita bananas in it.  They're shaped like a banana with chocolate on one side.

13.  I was in the room when two guys I worked with came up with the names Snausages and Pupperonis. Most people would just take credit for the name because they were there.

14.  My ex is considered one of the top litigators in the country.  But I have seen him naked.

15.  I know people who know people.

16.  Over the years I have been a commando magnet. This is not necessarily a good thing.  

17.  If you had told me a year and a half ago that I would make friends with people on the internet, I would have laughed in your face.

18.  I like long drives.

19.  I drive under the speed limit in the right lane. Except when I've got a fast car and especially if it's stick shift.  Then I drive at least ten miles over the speed limit. And over 100 mph on an open road with no other vehicles around.

20.  I love to fly.  I should have been a pilot.  

21.  I have flown in a glider over Aspen, Colorado.  And ridden a horse down Ruthie's Run, a black diamond ski trail.

22.  My sister was a stripper.  One of my brothers is bi polar, but he seems to be stuck on manic.

23.  I have adult nieces and nephews I have never met. Maybe just as well.

24.  I played the piano and the cello.  I sucked at the cello.  Loved the piano.  These days in order to play, I have to tape my fingers like I'm playing sports in order to keep my knuckles from locking.
 
25.  I cry at the opera.  I have cried at the symphony when Solti was conducting in Chicago.

26.  I love black gospel music. I would go to church if there were a black congregation with a good choir nearby.

27.  I sang in all the singing groups and performed in the school shows in high school and college.

28.  I wrote and performed in two winning homcoming skits at Duke, then transferred and won two May Sing competitions at Northwestern.

29.  At 16, I dived out of a boat into shallow water.  I came this close to breaking my neck and changing my life entirely.

30.  I was Miss Goosepimple of 1967 for Zonolite insulation.  I actually saw my picture on some of the insulation walking through a house under construction.

32.  My older daughter was in a communications class in college when the professor held up an ad of a perky housewife in a kitchen holding up a pie. He was using it as an example of some type of advertising.  My daughter announced to the class, "That's my mom."

33.  An old boyfriend has became one of the legendary writers for the Simpsons. He was funny when I knew him. But so am I.

34.  In case you have been on a spaceship, I prefer younger men.

35.  I was the Chicago Women's MVP at the 1984 Advertising World Series in San Diego.

36.  I have diagnosed acromegaly, Graves' disease, and conversion hysteria in people I know. I missed congestive heart failure in two others, both elite athletes with amyloidosis.

37.  I thought about going back to school to become a counselor or therapist of some sort.  Until I took a practice GRE for psychology and laughed and the irrelevant material required.

38.  I get you pretty fast.

39.  I am a White Sox fan in a Cubs town.

40.  After having two daughters I realized that men know exactly when a woman is PMS - ing.  And keep their mouths shut.

41.  I was a single working mom. I returned to work and raised my children alone from the time they were 7 and 4 1/2,

42.  I asked for the divorce. But people would come up to me to say I was much better looking than my ex's new girlfriend and I shouldn't feel bad.

43.  I am the only one of my girlfriends who isn't independently wealthy.

44.  I would rather be reading a book.  Something non fiction.

45.  I've had an abortion.  I was date raped at 34.  You figure it out.

46.  I wrote the NARAL slogan "It's pro choice.  Or no choice."

47.  I think the big reason equality for women has improved is because dads have gone to bat for their daughters.

48.  I'd really like to be a grandma, but some people I know are sure taking their time.

49.  Kids know I get them.  

50.  If I want to, I can make things happen. Free lattes for everyone!!!  

White Guy In Suit With Bald Spot Nominated for Supreme Court

A new minority has emerged in the search for a nominee to replace retiring justice Sandra Day O'Connor.

John G. Roberts was introduced to America last night by the president in a shameless attempt to appeal to an emerging minority, the white guy with a circular bald spot on the back of his head.

Roberts' white guy credentials go way back to his childhood in Indiana, where he lived with his white family in a white neighborhood in a whitebread town in the predominantly white state, where, in the interest of full disclosure, white guys in hoods got their start.

A graduate of the whitest of the white schools in America, Harvard College, Roberts continued his white ways by graduating from Harvard Law School too.  His minority status was only recently confirmed when a camera got a good shot of the back of his head during last night's introduction ceremonies.

"It's about the size of an English muffin," said one observer, who asked to remain anonymous for reasons of personal security.  "It's not like he's trying to hide it, you know," said his former high school health teacher who remembers Roberts as a "good kid, even though he came from a white neighborhood."

Much has been made about Roberts marrying a white woman, but that should not have any effect on his confirmation hearings. On the other hand, his noticeable bald spot will no doubt galvanize both sides of the aisle.

Meanwhile, in a move that can only be described as completely wacked, the defense attorneys for the hot 24 year old teacher who is on trial for having sex with one of her teenaged students argued that she is "too sexy" to go to prison. The trial judge, in an unexpected move, said "Awwww, shit happens, doesn't it?" before adjourning for the day.

STAFFING or MANNING?

Mrs. Linklater doesn't quite know how to bring this up, but she feels that some comment is necessary.  

Call it what you may, being over sensitive, a rabid feminist, a victim of post-pms stress disorder, whatever, but her sensibilities are offended by the use of the term "MANNED" to describe what happens when people are part of a group working together to make something happen.

Dictionary.com defines MANNED as:

1. To supply with men, as for defense or service: man a ship.
2. To take stations at, as to defend or operate: manned the guns.
3. To fortify or brace: manned himself for the battle ahead.

The term seems especially archaic given the number of women serving in the military these days.

So while Mrs. Linklater was thrilled to have the opportunity to be the Guest Editor this week and rectify some unwarranted oversights in the journaling community, she feels the need to correct Journals Editor Joe, ever so gently. It should be pointed out that he's not alone. But he is convenient.

"Manning the ship of the [now defunct] AOL Journals' state this week is Guest Editor, Mrs. Linklater, who I describe on the main page as 'iconoclastic.'"

Mrs. L was flattered to be described as "iconoclastic." The word fits her like a pair of tight leather pants. But she feels that "MANNING" would have been more appropriate for someone of the male persuasion, who was in fact a member of our armed forces. 

It is perhaps because women are now integrated into so many formerly male dominated jobs that attempts to use gender neutral language is practiced more rigorously. Most of the time.

Thus the term "STAFFED" or "STAFFING" has been employed to replace the clearly gender specific, but often inaccurate term, "MANNED" or "MANNING."

Mrs. Linklater, being female, would have happier if Joe had written, "Leading the ship of the AOL Journals' state" or better yet, "Staffing the Guest Editor's desk this week is Mrs. Linklater, etc."

For reference, the Dictionary.com definition for STAFFED is:

1. To provide with a staff of workers or assistants.
2. To serve on the staff of.

As politically correct language goes, STAFFED is not as awkward as chairperson for chairman. But it is just as relevant as using firefighter for fireman and mail carrier for mailman. Or police officer for policeman.

Mrs. Linklater doesn't want to whine too much about this, but using the word "MAN" to describe something a woman is doing is like a coach calling a boys' team "GIRLS" when he wants to insult them. Same diff to Mrs. L.

One final comment about gender neutral descriptors. For a long time people didn't know how to be more politically correct with waiters and waitresses.  Until they came up with SERVER.

But Mrs. L's favorite option was WATRON.  She's not alone.  Three years ago in Park City, Utah, she saw a huge sign on a soon-to-open restaurant that said, "WATRONS WANTED. APPLY INSIDE." Sadly, she did not have her camera with her to capture the moment forever.

Some things take awhile to catch on.  She thinks STAFFING instead of MANNING may not be an overnight success.  But  it could happen.

Remember that the next time a watron takes your order.

Mrs. Linklater Goes To Paris

You must have a friend from high school who is living a wonderful life somewhere. For instance, Mrs. Linklater is living a wonderful life in a tiny house in a whitebread suburb outside Chicago.  She is sure her friends from high school must envy her good fortune.

Take her friend Karen here with Mrs. L's younger daughter. She, poor thing, is stuck in Paris on the left bank in an apartment with fourteen foot ceilings. She bought it after a boring career as a model for some of the top couture houses, like Givenchy and Nina Ricci, to name the only two Mrs. Linklater can remember. How dreadful to suffer so long in such a deadend job.

Mrs. L is sure Karen is absolutely green with envy that she didn't have a chance to clean up poopie diapers and wipe Blueberry Buckle off her best blouse. Or have children that she could threaten with bodily harm.

And taking a long leisurely bath in her pink marble tub can't compare to the luxurious life of a working mom. Just between us, if Karen has told Mrs. Linklater once, she's told her twice, it must be so much nicer to clean up the cat's furballs yourself, what with help being so hard to get these days. Not to mention the thrill of taking out one's own garbage. A luxury the French can only dream about.

Plus, while Mrs. L is singing along to her Toni Braxton CD's in the car, Karen has to make do with her second career as a chanteuse, performing in front of sophisticated audiences at very posh clubs. It has to be killing her.  

To help get her over this sad midlife crisis, Mrs. L paid Karen a mercy visit a few months ago. Her daughter had business in Paris so she just tagged along.  It seemed like a great time to have a reunion with her old pal, so they made arrangements to get together one evening for dinner.  With a stop at her apartment beforehand. 

Usually when Mrs. L gets together with old friends they take a lot of pictures together, but this time she made an exception. As you can see from the first photo, Mrs. Linklater had her daughter stand next to Karen. What a thoughtful gesture. She didn't want her friend to be intimidated by Mrs. Linklater's glamour and style.  Why embarrass Karen. So her daughter was a good sport and agreed to pose with her instead. Just so unflattering comparisons couldn't possibly be made. For her good friend of course.  Mrs. Linklater has a considerate side, too.  

The second picture was taken in the living room of Karen's bare apartment.  What a shame she couldn't afford real marble and had to paint the fake stuff in a sad attempt to fool people. Tragic. Wouldn't some artificial flowers be perfect on the corner next to that green vase like thing.  Perhaps with some Lladro figurines.  Always a classy addition to any mantlepiece. But Mrs. L's friend probably can't afford these extra touches yet. Doesn't matter, she'll have the place looking spiffy in no time.

There's a lesson for all of us here. Remember, while you're gnoshing high on the hog, let your friends know that you never forgot your roots. Like Mrs. Linklater.

WANNA HAVE YOUR FACE ANALYZED?

It's hot outside and I don't want to melt.  So I'm hanging around AOL and trying not to get into trouble.

http://www.faceanalyzer.com/

Go to this web site and upload a picture of your face and they will tell you everything about yourself.

I am a promiscuous boss.  What can I say? 
Oh and my race breakdown is 79% middle eastern and 21% anglo-saxon.  Since I'm English and Welsh, that feels like it might be WRONG.

Let them read your face and report back to headquarters.  

UPDATE:  Just for fun Mrs. L submitted a different picture [see pics].  This time, along with a different archetype and a high and erroneous middle eastern ethnicity, the analysis said she was MALE. 

Patrick's Saturday Six -- Guest Editor's Edition

Mrs. Linklater is addicted to The Six, so she offers no apologies to those visiting her journal for the first time. Well, okay, she's sorry about not being able to kick the habit .

But that's as far as she's going to take any mea culpas.  

1. What is the last thing you either camped out or got up unusually early to be able to buy?

Mrs. Linklater is 61 years old.  She don't do no stinking camping out anymore. Although she will ask room service to grill a hotdog from time to time. 

As for buying something early -- like a Harry Potter book at midnight, which is late as well as early -- if you can't buy it at noon, she'll pass, thank you.

2. If you had to give up one of the following for a full year, which would be the easiest to do without?  Which would be the most difficult to give up?

   a) Your personal vehicle
   b) Your Telephone (both cellular and land line)
   c) The Internet
   d) Meat (all of it:  Beef, Poultry, Pork and Seafood)
   e) Television

The hardest thing for Mrs. Linklater to give up would be a car.  Otherwise how would she put on her makeup in the morning?  Attach a rearview mirror and a visor to the bathroom door?

The easiest thing to give up would be meat.  She already lives on grapefruit wedges, ice tea, peanut M and M's and macaroni and cheese now.  So it wouldn't be hard.

3. How many items (include all bottles, boxes and containers) are in your medicine cabinet?  Which is the last one you used?

There is so much stuff in Mrs. Linklater's medicine cabinet that there is no room for medicine. After twenty-six bottles of nail polish, she stopped counting.

The last thing she used was her new toothbrush. With all the bristles standing straight up.  Not all squished around.

4. What is the first source you go to for news of any kind when you wake up?  How much do you trust that particular source?

The AOL main page usually has the first headlines of the day. But Mrs. L usually turns on the TV before that to catch the 5:00 AM news on one of the local stations. Then she reads a paper. Online and hard copy, she can't start the day without black ink on her fingers.  She trusts all of her sources.  In fact, she considers news anchors to be her close personal friends.  Doesn't everyone? 

5. Take the Quiz:   What do the letters of your name stand for?

She'll get back to you on this one. She's back!!
She used her screen name, because it has more letters.
J -- Judicial
E -- Excellent
V -- Valiant
A -- Accurate
N -- Naughty
S -- Sweet
L -- Lovable
I -- Important
N -- Nutty
K -- Kinky 

Mrs. L can't complain.  It could have been JERK, ECO-TERRORIST, VULGAR, ASSWIPE, NOXIOUS, STUPID, LAZY, ICKY, NERDLIKE, KLUTZY


6. What is your favorite color and why?  If you have a journal or journals, is this color the primary one on those journals?  If not, why not?

Mrs. L's favorite color is fuscia. Fushia. Whatever. It matches her eyes.  Her journal is purple and green because she is intrigued by combinations you don't often see in nature. Except in this case, on peacocks, which makes her wonder if that whole prance around with all those decorative feathers thing means they're gay.