Can Cats Learn Human Speech?

cats, etc., humor, language, pets,

If the question is “Can cats learn to speak like humans?” the answer is “obviously not.” Cats have a very limited vocabulary, though they make the most of what they’ve got. Mostly, they say “meow” or some variation thereof, like “mew.” Most cats purr and occasionally hiss.

(I’ve had or known cats that had more extensive vocabularies. One of them could say “now.” Our present cat, Toby, often says “meep,” though it’s unclear what he means by it. Other cats make odd little bleating noises. Then there are cats that are capable of mouthing words, or at least one word. The silent meow happens when a cat moves its lips but doesn’t make an actual sound. But I digress.)

Cats expect their humans to interpret their vocalizations, and for the most part, we do. Generally, whatever they say means “Feed me,” or occasionally, “Pet me.” I say, for the most part. You can get some nasty scratches if you misinterpret a certain meow or purr as “pet me” when it really means “Stay away from me, human.” It’s difficult or impossible to tell the difference unless the cat also has the power of vocal inflection, which most don’t. (I did have one cat who was able to make her needs known by telepathy and another who was able to express the equivalent of “Don’t fight. It stresses me,” using both voice and actions. But I digress again.)

But if you mean, “Can cats understand what human speech means?” the answer is “not always.” Toby understands “Do you wanna eat?” or its variations and pays rapt attention when you say it.

He doesn’t understand “Get down,” or if he does, he simply ignores it. When Toby gets on my desk, which he is absolutely forbidden to do, no amount of “Get down” will work. Neither will “Get off the desk ” or “Get down from there, you horrible, naughty beast!” I can understand why he wouldn’t comprehend “bad kitty.” He deserves it so often that it has lost its meaning.

(Cats are supposedly able to learn a few simple commands like “Get down.” I’m supposed to give the command calmly but firmly, and then point to where I want him to go. If he doesn’t get the idea, I should put my hand on his backside and give a gentle push while saying “Get down.” Finally, if nothing else works, I should physically relocate him and then pretend that it was his idea all along, petting him and saying “good kitty,” which simply isn’t true. He’s been coerced, not cooperative. (I’ve heard of cat agility competitions where cats must navigate an obstacle course and have clearly learned to respond to commands in order to participate. But I digress even more.))

Cats can also learn and respond to their names. They just sometimes choose not to. Humans give their cats nicknames, and sometimes cats’ names are changed when they’re adopted, and the cats adapt accordingly. We once took in a stray and called her Dushenka. Only later did we learn that in her previous life, she had been known as Carmen. The change appeared to bother her not at all, and we kept calling her Dushenka after we found out. (I did know of a cat that would respond immediately to “Hey, you! You with the fur!” It was no doubt clear to the cat that he was the only one in the household who fit that description. But I digress still more.)

I hate to admit it, but understanding human speech is one area where dogs are actually superior to cats. Dogs can learn dozens of commands, even relatively complex ones. They can respond appropriately to voice commands, hand signals, whistles, and other forms of training and communication. Cats are simply no good at performing complex tasks such as being service animals or rescuing lost hikers. It’s all they can do to make it to the food bowl when obviously they’re perishing from hunger.

Dogs even have devices that allow them to press buttons corresponding to messages they want to give their humans. These include “Feed me,” “I need to go potty,” and “Play with me,” of course, but they can also combine two different buttons to indicate their wants or needs, such as the combination of “outside” and “potty” versus “outside” and “play.” (It’s been noted that dogs don’t use the button that corresponds to “I love you” as often as their humans say it to the dogs. Cats would, I suppose, need an “I tolerate you” button. But I digress even more.)

But I am, after all, one of those crazy cat ladies who holds entire one-sided conversations with Toby. I know he doesn’t understand, but I chalk it up as another way that being a pet parent gives me satisfaction. Not that I wouldn’t feel even more satisfaction if he would just stay off my desk!

How I Like to Spend Time and Money

Christmas, etc., family, film, food, humor, music, travel

It’s easy to say that time and money are different. You can’t know how much time you have, but you can know how much money you have, especially at the end of the month. (Unless you’re like me and the bills from the last week tend to sneak up on you. I freely confess this is sloppy online bookkeeping on my part. But I digress.)

It’s also possible to say, as it often is, that time is money. Most people trade their time for money in the world of work. The opposite—that money is time—is less true, however. How do you trade money for time, after all? They’re not quite interchangeable. (Or as I prefer, fungible, a great word that ought to mean able to be converted into a mushroom. Alas, it doesn’t. But I digress again.) You can’t actually buy time by trading money for it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time and money lately, and not just because it’s nearing the end of the month. Instead of thinking of spending money on time, I prefer to spend it on experiences. Oh, there are things that I like to spend money on, primarily books and jewelry, but most of the pleasure I get from spending money is from doing things.

Experiences are what I prefer to spend my money on. It could be the simple pleasures of eating out. But even then I like novelty, experiencing something new, something unfamiliar, something special.

The first time I tried sushi, it was definitely something special, handmade by my martial arts instructor’s wife and so impossible to refuse. I ate spotted dick in London, mostly so I could say, “I want a spotted dick” when I ordered it. I ate curried goat in Jamaica, which tasted like curry (duh!) and had the texture of a pot roast. (I also visited a leper colony there. No one there was still contagious. Nonetheless, I did not eat the food there. That would be too much experience for me. But I digress yet again.)

I no longer go to first-run movies, but I can’t resist classic films restored to their original form and shown on the big screen. We saw Cabaret, Blazing Saddles, and Labyrinth that way, and I just know Dan will insist on seeing It’s a Wonderful Life when December rolls around. He may start crying in the theater, though.

We used to travel quite a bit, both alone and with our mothers. Again, I preferred experiences. Dan likes buying souvenirs from each place we went. Instead, I took lots of photos to preserve the experiences for future reminiscing. I didn’t always get the shots I really wanted. For example, there was a festival in Croatia promoting the use of condoms. There were people dressed in sperm costumes dancing around the plaza, but I never managed to snap a pic. (I guess we were lucky that there were no souvenirs for Dan to buy. They would have looked strange on our mantelpiece. But I digress even more.) I also hope that when my memory gets spotty, I can conjure up the experiences with photographic evidence that they happened.

One of my favorite experiences was in London, when we went on the Jack the Ripper Walking Tour one drizzly, atmospheric evening. (We didn’t make Mom Reily accompany us on that. I did get a souvenir from it: the definitive book on Jack the Ripper, autographed by the scholar who wrote it and who led the tour. Yet another digression.)

Other experiences I’ve had include riding a mule, going on a zipline, milking a goat, churning butter, drinking grappa and cachaça (not at the same time, you understand), refraining from kissing the Blarney Stone (it was just after Covid, plus I wasn’t sure my back would hold up), studying ninjutsu, buying amethysts in Rio, touring caves, including one where you had to crawl on your belly, studying beekeeping, and some dodgy pursuits I won’t go into here.

I’d have to say it’s been a life full of experiences—and I haven’t checked out yet. There’s still so much to see and do and experience!

Perfectly Awful

etc., humor, language, , ,

Every morning before Dan goes to work, we have the same conversation. “Honey, how do I look?” I check him over to make sure he hasn’t forgotten his name badge, his hair and beard aren’t doing something weird(er than usual), and the tag isn’t out on his shirt collar.

“You look wrecked,” I say, even though he actually looks fine, with everything in place. I can’t say “fine,” though. Then he thinks I think he looks awful.

This is a holdover from Dan’s childhood. Back then, there were only two categories of being—perfect and awful, which he called “wrecked.” (Therapists call this “all-or-nothing” or “black-and-white” thinking, and it’s something they try to stamp out. It also shows up in rhetoric and logical fallacies, where it appears as an unwillingness to see that there’s a middle ground possible between two extremes. You see it all the time in political debates and advertisements. But I digress.)

So it goes. “Okay” and “good” don’t exist, or “needs pressing,” “here, let me fix that,” or “try again.” “Fantastic” might pass muster, or “terrific,” or “awesome,” but there are really only the two alternatives: perfect and wrecked.

It gets tiresome trying to think of acceptable adjectives. (No one ever looks truly perfect on the way out of the house, not even supermodels. Their shoes are one shade off the perfect tone of red, their earrings are too long, or their hair has a strand or two of frizz. Or, as Coco Chanel advised, they should take off one accessory. But I digress again.)

There’s a saying: Perfect is the enemy of good. But let’s consider good and good enough. Good sounds like it ought to be better than good enough, but it isn’t always. One problem is that you can’t always tell when something you’ve done is truly good. Good enough is sometimes better than good, and really preferable to perfect.

Improvement is a good thing. Revision is often necessary, and there are certain processes in which improvement is almost certainly required. Writing is among them (as are many other arts). Someone who sends a “completed” manuscript to a magazine or book publisher—or even an agent—is just asking for a rejection slip. Any piece of writing can use improvement. Every first draft can use improvement. (There are certain times, like when you’re designing a space suit, that only perfect will do. (Though if you consider Apollo 13, even a lack of perfection isn’t always a death sentence.) But I digress yet again.)

Not recognizing good enough is a problem, though. You can easily get stuck revising again and again, chasing the idea of perfection. Perfection keeps receding in the distance, especially since revisions can at times introduce new flaws or muddy the work. At some point, you simply have to throw up your hands and say, “Good enough,” or at least put what you’re doing away for a while and let it mellow.

This may lead you to believe that deadlines are the enemy of good enough. When you have a hard deadline, you have to finish something whether or not you think it’s good enough. Most times it will be, and if not, there’s an editor, boss, coach, or client who will gladly point out what else your work needs.

It must be said, though, that awful is a waypoint on the path to good enough. You start with something awful and you better and betterer it until it’s good enough (but never perfect). This is true of everything. (Dan looks awful first thing in the morning. It takes time and effort to get him up to “wrecked.” But I digress some more.) Your first draft of a piece of writing. Your first time trying to recreate a dish your grandma used to make (without a recipe). Your first time trying to pole vault. Even your first attempt at designing a space suit.

So, if you’re trying an endeavor, whether an artistic pursuit or simply getting ready in the morning, remember not to strive for perfect. My advice: Strive for better and settle for good enough. You’ll be happier without the added pressure of an impossible goal!

An Itchy and Scratchy Childhood

etc.

When I was a child, I had every kind of rash known to God and man, and probably a few known only to God.

Of course, in my pre-Girl Scout days, there was poison ivy. Before that, even, it turned out that I was allergic to Mr. Bubble and couldn’t indulge in that sensory delight without adverse reactions in awkward and inconvenient places. And once, I accidentally sat down in a spot in the yard that was already claimed by a hill of ants. Both of us found that encounter irritating.

But mostly I remember the many times I had itchy diseases. (Okay, this was before vaccines were available. I’m old. These conditions were part of every Boomer’s youth. But I digress.)

For starters, I had chickenpox. Back then, it wasn’t trendy to have “chickenpox parties” to pass around a supposedly mild case of the disease to all the children in the neighborhood on purpose instead of through normal transmission. I can’t believe it has to be said that it’s a bad idea. For one thing, there’s no guarantee that a case caught at such a party will indeed be mild.

Then there were the various varieties of measles. I had the German kind, the all-American ones, and even a measles-like illness called “fifth disease.” (I had to look it up to make sure I wasn’t misremembering this. It’s a real thing, an infection caused by a parvovirus, highly contagious and spread through coughing or sneezing. It’s also called “slapped cheek disease,” which is more descriptive than “fifth disease.” The name comes from being the fifth of six viral skin rashes of childhood, the others being measles, scarlet fever, rubella (German measles), something called “Duke’s disease” that I may not have had and refuse to research further at this time, and roseola. But I digress again.)

People who didn’t live through them (that is to say, non-Boomers) generally consider these illnesses to be mild inconveniences. They weren’t. When I had one type of measles (I don’t remember which kind), my fever was so high that I began to hallucinate. We were traveling when it happened, and from the back seat of the car, I thought I saw seagulls circling Cincinnati. By the time we got to our destination, I was seeing birds on a clothesline where there wasn’t even a clothesline.

High fevers weren’t the only hazards of childhood illness, however. Mumps—which of course I also got—could cause sterility in adult men. Rubella was known to cause birth defects such as hearing and vision loss and heart defects if a pregnant woman happened to catch the disease. Then there was whooping cough. I never got it, but whenever I did have a cough, my father would listen anxiously in case I developed the telltale sounds that give the life-threatening disease its name.

Fortunately, I didn’t have close brushes with any of the more dire diseases that parents feared. Most of my childhood came after the polio vaccine had become available, so that was a biggie taken off the table. And of course, I still have the faint scar from my smallpox vaccination, something that isn’t even a thing anymore. I do remember the entire junior high being tested for TB, lining up to be injected by a big rivet-gun-looking thing, but as far as I know, no one had it.

(A woman I worked with once revealed that when she was a child, her school required all students to get a tattoo stating their blood type. I can just imagine how well that would go over nowadays. But I digress some more.)

Anyway, the point I’m meandering toward is that childhood diseases are no joke and vaccines are a godsend. Most of us Boomers can attest to that. So pay attention. If you do, you can even stay on my lawn.

Is There Facebook in Heaven?

Christianity, etc., family, holidays, humor, ,

I’m surprised at the number of people who try to reach God using Facebook. They post prayers to God, recommend God to their friends, and offer to pray regarding specific problems their friends are having. They even wish deceased relatives “Happy Heavenly Birthday.”

It’s that last one that brings me up short. I’ve never thought about there being birthdays in heaven. I guess I always thought people in heaven didn’t care about birthdays anymore. I can’t picture celestial calendars marked for personal special occasions. The Parting of the Red Sea, maybe. My grandmother’s birthday, not so much. (Of course, if there is a heavenly birthday feature like the one on Facebook that reminds you on the day so you can send a greeting, the list of people having birthdays on any given day would be in the billions, if you count every born-and-died person. Is it St. Peter’s task as the heavenly Facebook moderator to keep track of them all? Maybe there’s a red X by some names on the list for “not here; went the other way.” But I digress.)

Still, there are those people who appear to believe in birthdays in heaven. There are a lot of assumptions behind the sentiment. First, there’s the notion that every relative of yours went to heaven. Okay, maybe people simply don’t wish Happy Birthday for relatives who were so sinful they expect them to have taken up residence in a lake of fire.

Then, too, people always specifically invoke a happy birthday. Would there be any other kind in heaven? You’d already have all the presents you’d ever want, what with the streets of gold and the sitting at the right hand of Jesus. (Which brings up the question: How many right hands does Jesus have? Never mind, my mother has that particular seat. But I digress again.)

I suppose I can envision cake in heaven, though not the dopey little hats that wouldn’t fit over halos anyway. And it’s ludicrous to imagine them poking up through the middle of the halos. That would just be silly. But streamers and banners? You’ve got fluffy clouds and rays of sunshine to cover that angle. Or angel. (Sorry, not sorry.)

I know what people mean by “Happy Heavenly Birthday.” It’s shorthand for “I love this departed relative dearly and wish they were still around so I could wish them happy birthday in person. And I want other people who knew this person to remember their existence and their goodness, too.” And “Happy Heavenly Birthday” is certainly shorter, so it shouldn’t take up more of an angel’s time. (Question: Do angels keep track of how many Happy Heavenly Birthdays they receive and compare them to other angels’ totals? Nah, couldn’t be. No jealousy in heaven, at least since Lucifer left. But think of all the angels who lived before Al Gore invented the internet. Or the billions (I assume there are billions) who don’t have Facebook. How do they get their heavenly birthday messages? But I digress some more.)

I don’t know. Facebook isn’t my idea of heaven. Mine doesn’t involve fluffy clouds either (not that Facebook has them, except in AI art). Perhaps not having Facebook is the real heaven, and perpetual, everlasting doomscrolling is hell.

I Love People. No, Really.

etc., family, humor, religion, , ,

“Now, wait a minute” (I hear you cry). “You don’t even like people. I’ve heard you complain when you have to go somewhere, and it’s ‘too people-y’ out there. I know you avoid being in large groups. You are perfectly happy alone in your study. Maybe you like people, but you love cats.”

Yeah, well. All that is true. I couldn’t deny it if I tried with both hands. But while I dislike large groups of strangers, I love individual people. I even love groups of people when they are doing something interesting, like playing music and singing. Even then, I prefer my groups of people small. Sometimes I’ll brave larger groups of people to be somewhere with people playing music and singing. (I did it for Emmylou Harris, for example, and am going to do it again for The Stray Cats.)

The truth is, I love certain kinds of people. They’re not limited by age, race, religion, ethnicity, handicap status, gender orientation, or the usual dividing lines. I love different people in all those categories, from people I interact with in my daily life to people I know only online or admire from afar.

The people I love have several things in common. I love people who…

Improve

People who improve are those who put in the work, practice, and get better at what they do. I met a man years ago who played the guitar. He was having trouble with barre chords, a specific technique he needed to play his music. When I saw him, he was struggling. He could have given up and used a capo to get a similar effect. Instead, he kept at it. Years later, he’s known in certain circles as an excellent songwriter who skillfully accompanies himself on his guitar. Sometimes I remind him of what he was able to do when we met and how far he’s come since then.

Try new things

These people take a leap of faith in matters large and small, not knowing in advance what the results will be. They try sushi for the first time. They start writing a short story or a poem or a novel, just because they want to. As a friend of mine says, they leap and trust that the net will appear. I know a woman, an artist who has experimented with many different media and techniques over the years. She has worked in fabric arts, stained glass, and jewelry. She has settled into her career of painting in oils, but she still tries different styles and schools like cubism. Now she is exploring the possibilities of colored pencils.

Have a checkered past

I love people who have had many interests and experiences over the years, even if not all were successful or even positive. I knew a man who had gone to seminary, become a police officer, and worked in parks and recreation. He got past a difficult period in midlife, including problems with alcohol, and eventually turned to helping others. His multitude of experiences made him a fascinating conversationalist and a compassionate listener.

Keep an open mind

My mother is my example here. She was a very religious woman. One day, her fellow believers were discussing other religions and brought up the question of whether they would ever visit a synagogue or a mosque. All of them said no, until they got to Mom. She said that, of course, she would. When asked why, she replied, “If I didn’t listen to them, how could I expect them to listen to me?”

Have a sense of humor

It largely doesn’t matter what their sense of humor finds funny. Bad puns. Song parodies. One-liners. Musical comedy. Satire. Witty wordplay. Politicians of all stripes are fair game. And religious jokes are welcome. Most of all, I love people who find humor in everyday life. The world needs more people like that.

It occurs to me that the qualities I love in other people are ones that I aspire to. I want to live a life that is varied and full of humor. I would like to think that I have an open mind and a willingness to try new things. I want to improve. The people I love are inspirations and role models for me. I just hope I live up to them.

Home on the Suburban Range

etc., family, humor, , ,

My father had a thing about cowboys and the Old West. He loved Western movies, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour novels, and Marty Robbins’s Gunfighter Ballads album. He did Western-style crafts like working leather. (Once his car blew a gasket on the road. He just happened to have some leather in the car and fashioned a new gasket from it with his pocket knife. But I digress.)

He wasn’t an authentic cowboy, of course. He only ever lived in Kentucky and Ohio, neither of which has any cowboys to speak of. (Kentucky has lots of horses, of course, but they need trainers and jockeys, not cowpokes and wranglers. But I digress again.)

Through most of his life, Dad (we called him Melvyn, though his name was really James) worked in a government job as an Industrial Engineering Technician. (I never quite got over the fact that I was never going to be able to write a country song that went, “I was born an Industrial Engineering Technician’s daughter.” But I digress yet again). He did time and motion study and had a clipboard with a stopwatch, and also a slide rule, which he tried to teach me how to use. Fortunately, he kept his work at the office and never tried to improve the family’s efficiency.

But he was a cowboy at heart. When the family was on a road trip, he liked to pretend that we were in a covered wagon or buckboard pulled by horses. He’d shout, “Get up, Smoky! Yah! (whip-cracking noises and whistles)” and similar encouragements, particularly if we were going up a hill. As kids, we loved this and played along. He sometimes called my mother “Old Squaw,” which she didn’t take as an insult, though these days it would be considered culturally inappropriate.

(My husband sometimes calls me “Old Boot,” which is a term of endearment between us. We have many other peculiar ways of referring to each other, like “Thing” or “Doodle,” which we tend not to do when there are other people around. But I digress some more.)

When he retired from his government job, Melvyn went back to (or invented) his cowboy roots. He wore Western or plaid shirts, old jeans, and a cowboy hat wherever he went. (Once, when he was thus arrayed and leaning on a cane, he went into a Ponderosa restaurant and a little boy looked at him and asked, “Did you get shooted by an Indian?” Dad loved to tell that story. But I digress even more.) For some reason, he never got cowboy boots, preferring sneakers instead.

Dad was a gun collector who bought and traded pistols and rifles with his buddies over the years. He left them to me when he died. (Once, when I went shooting at a gun range with some of my fellow martial arts students, I brought along the revolver. All the guys (who had automatics) wanted to try out “the cowboy gun,” but only one, who knew me well (my eye doctor), dared to ask me directly. But I digress still more.)

Even with all that, my father wasn’t the oddest member of our family. That honor belonged to Uncle Sam (yes, he really was named that; we also had an Aunt Jemima). Sam was a sharecropper in the hills of Kentucky, and it was said that he was a moonshiner. I don’t know if he made the stuff, but he used to keep a jar of it hidden in his barn.

There aren’t any horse thieves in the family. At least not that I know about.

Could You Repeat That?

etc., family, health, humor, ,

It’s been said that when a couple is old, their primary form of communication is being in separate rooms, yelling “What? What?” a lot. My husband and I do it multiple times a day. So, yes, we are old.

We’ve determined that Dan needs hearing aids. (I probably don’t. Since Dan can’t hear well, he talks softly, imagining that he’s speaking loudly enough and that the other person can hear him. I can’t. But I digress.)

Years ago, he had a hearing test that said his hearing banana is rotten enough to be covered with fruit flies. Since then, he has struggled along until we reached the “What? What?” phase. (The “hearing banana” is a measure of your ability to hear. Your results on a graph look something like a banana. Where the banana is located determines which pitch of sounds—high, low, or medium—are problems for you. Dan had trouble with midrange sounds. But I digress again.)

Now that his hearing is a bad banana with a greasy, black peel, I began shopping around online for hearing aids. And let me tell you, there are many different brands and kinds available. All sorts of price ranges, too, from $99 to nearly $2000.

Shopping online is one of my family responsibilities. I know enough not to pay attention to the ads that say a product is a fabulous innovation at a low, low price. Even online reviews are iffy. Some companies invent their own comparison sites and rate their own products highly. Eventually, I decided to buy a subscription to Consumer Reports. I figured that the savings on the hearing aids alone would make the cost worth it.

The Consumer Reports article on OTC hearing aids didn’t even rate the $99 ones. There was a large chart that compared the choices in different categories. (I once had a job that required proofreading large charts. We had to print them in sections and tape them to a wall. Then one person read from the manuscript and the other checked the printout. It was beyond tedious, especially all the yes/no columns. But I digress yet again.)

The device (devices?) I chose cost $250 and had pretty good ratings. They included features I liked, like a rechargeable recharging case (if you can follow that) and different-size “cups” to accommodate fat and skinny ear canals. (There were also features I ignored, like the ability to control the devices from your smartphone. Dan uses his for phone calls from exactly two people (me and his mother). But I digress some more.)

Dan won’t even look older because of wearing the hearing aids. The little piece that goes behind the ear, and indeed the piece that goes in the ear, will be pretty much invisible. With Dan’s more-than-ample locks of Jerry-Garcia-like gray hair, they will be completely hidden from view.

The hearing aids won’t be delivered until the end of the week, so it remains to be seen—or rather, heard—what effects they will have on both Dan’s hearing and our relationship. I know I won’t miss the shouting from room to room or having TV shows set to window-rattling volume. Those are my goals—not to restore Dan’s hearing to preadolescent levels, before he started going to large rock concerts and cranking the sound on his stereo to 11 and yanking off the knob, but to cut down on the yelling from room to room. Our cat seems to have gotten used to the cacophony, but I worry about his sensitive ears. The cat, at least, has a fine hearing banana.

On the other hand, I most likely won’t be able to sneak snacks without Dan hearing me rattling the packages. This will lead to a more equitable distribution of cookies, of course, but every advance has its drawbacks, and I suppose it is simply one of the sacrifices I must make.

My Journey Through the Vast Wasteland

books, cooking, etc., food, humor, television, , , ,

I used to read a lot of books. I still read more than the average or even above-average American (though that’s not saying much). But increasingly, I’ve been journeying through what F.C.C. chair Newton N. Minow in 1961 called the “vast wasteland” of television. It’s only gotten vaster and waste-ier.

I’m not going to hold up my TV viewing habits as lofty and noble. What I watch is easily scoffed at, and you may do so if you choose. If you do so quietly, that is. I don’t need to hear how I’m disgracing my two English degrees. Think of it as my “Dare to Be Shallow” phase.

Reruns

These shows are what I call my “comfort shows.” Sometimes I actually watch them. More often, I just have them on in the background while I write. I think of them as my “emotional support noise.” (My mother used to do this too when she lived alone after my father’s death. She put on baseball games, but didn’t watch them. I’m not sure what she did after baseball season was over. Game shows, I think. But I digress.)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ve already seen every episode dozens of times, so I don’t have to actually watch them, just glance over when a particularly interesting bit comes on, like the musical episode. (Oddly, my husband got me hooked on Buffy. I don’t know why he was hooked on it. But I digress some more.)

Forged in Fire. I like competition shows where the contestants actually make or do something. On Forged in Fire, they make knives and swords from scratch (or scrap). I can even put up with Project Runway. But cooking competitions are my go-tos: Chopped, 24 in 24, Top Chef, and such. (I never make any of the recipes—except once when I made Ina Garten’s Triple Ginger Cookies, as I’m a ginger freak. But I digress yet again).

Medical, legal, or medico-legal shows. House. Bones. Forensic Files. Mystery Diagnosis, Monsters Inside Me, and Dr. Pimple Popper (another show hubby got me hooked on).

Science fiction series. Star Trek, of course. Firefly, even though there are few episodes. And Babylon 5, which is eerily relevant even now. (See the “Nightwatch” episodes if you don’t believe me. But I digress even more.)

New-to-Me Shows

Recently, I was burned out on the shows I was watching and needed something new, so I asked a dear friend for recommendations. (We used to watch Simon & Simon, Magnum, P.I., and MacGyver together, back in the day. Simon & Simon was particularly good, as we each lusted after a different Simon. But I digress still more.)

My friend recommended Will Trent, High Potential, The Rookie, Matlock, Elsbeth, and Sheriff Country, which, alas, I had to explain to my husband as “Inara in khaki.” Unfortunately, these are all shows that, while I like them extremely well, have only one season or so. I have to wait months now for new episodes.

Dexter and NCIS are shows I’ve never seen before. NCIS, at least, has plenty of seasons, so I don’t expect to get caught up on it any time soon. (Dexter is particularly interesting, in that he kills people who kill people because killing people is wrong. But I digress yet again.)

One new-to-me show that I tried to watch for a little comic relief was How I Met Your Mother. I had to stop watching it, though. After the first season or two, it became “All About Barney,” and he’s such a misogynist-sleazebag-horndog that I can’t bring myself to watch.

(Let’s not even talk about my husband’s viewing habits. Suffice it to say that when I go to bed, I have to remind him not to watch the S&E Channel (Screaming-and-Explosions). And that’s enough digressions for one week.)

Where Do Novels Go to Die?

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“The last day of ten-year-old Nicky Fontaine’s life was nothing special.”

That was the first line of a mystery novel I once wrote. I thought it was a damn fine first line, but apparently the next line and the next and the next and so on weren’t. It was a book about death that was fated for death itself.

(It was the second time I had tried to write a mystery novel. The first one I wrote mostly in order to kill off My Rotten Ex-Boyfriend Who Almost Ruined My Life. I figured if that didn’t satisfy me, I could kill him again in a sequel. There never got to be a sequel. There never even got to be a novel. It was written for the desk drawer, as they say—really a file folder in a computer that died, too. But I digress.)

The mystery manuscript I quoted above, titled Cold as Stone, died in an extended, spectacular fashion. I worked on that novel on and off for a couple of years, alternating between spells of despair and rushes of enthusiasm. Then, one day, I declared the novel done, mostly because after rereading it, I couldn’t think of anything else to do to it. It was, I thought, time to seek out an agent and/or publisher. I was, of course, deluded.

I went through an online database that said what the various professionals were looking for. In a fit of—let’s call it hubris—I sent queries and samples to more than 100 professionals who dealt in mysteries and waited to hear back. (I fantasized getting a call from the Mystery Writers Association telling me that I had won Best First Mystery Novel. I told you I was deluded (or having a fit of hypomania). But I digress again.)

The response from each was a resounding empty silence or a politely worded but resounding “no.” Finally, one agent added to the rejection slip a sentence or two about what I had done that sent the manuscript from slush pile to scrap heap in 100+ different offices.

The naysayers were right, and I could see it as soon as that lone agent pointed it out. (My beta readers had not been prose pros and had enthusiastically said the first chapters were fine, except for a quibble or two, like overuse of the word “and,” which I couldn’t deny if I tried with both hands. But I digress some more.)

Even published novels have places they go to die—the thrift shop, secondhand bookshop, and the dreaded remainders table of books with yellow $2 stickers. (There was once a musical supergroup called Rock Bottom Remainders, formed by Dave Barry, Amy Tan, Scott Turow, Stephen King, Barbara Kingsolver, and a cast of other famous writers. Their music has been described as “energetic, if sloppy.” I never got to hear them perform, though I’ve read many of their books, which are often energetic but never sloppy. But I digress musically.)

The ultimate place where novels go to die is Hollywood. Oh, there are books adapted for the screen that produce a movie that’s better than the book. Hopscotch and Three Days of the Condor, I’m looking at you. Repeatedly. But for the most part, filming a book produces something heinous. I could name a lot of titles here, but let’s stick with one—The Hobbit. Sleigh bunnies and three films from a slim children’s book. Feh.

The sad truth is that most novels (or attempted novels) go somewhere to die. The odds against a new writer making that big breakthrough are astronomical. But we keep trying. I’m starting research for a sequel to Cold as Stone right now. (I know it sounds silly to have a sequel to a book that doesn’t exist. Stop me before I digress again.) I hope the hypomania holds off this time.