Our youngest cat, doing her impression of Grumpy Cat.
This seemed like a good idea at the time. We used to call Dushenka “Li’l Bit” when she first chose us. Now she’s more like Pudgy Bit.
Either way, she did not seem thrilled to be asked to pose for a holiday picture. Not that the Fourth of July means much to cats except begging for barbecue and hiding under the bed.
They should like it though, if only to maintain their reputation for independence.
I had a mammogram today and it raised questions in my mind. Not about whether mammograms are a good thing, despite the new study in the British Medical Journal that said they don’t really help. My mother had breast cancer and a mastectomy. She survived. A dear friend had a lumpectomy. (Digression: By accident, it almost became a complete boobectomy. Her breast survived.)
When my doctor told me to schedule the test, I admitted to him that I don’t do the breast self-exam thing every month. I told him I couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, not even after another doctor gave me the fake boob with the different sized lumps to practice on. “My breasts are weird and lumpy,” I told him. “All women’s breasts are weird and lumpy,” he replied. Good to know. And, yes, there have been plenty of volunteers who’ve offered to help. So don’t even go there.
I dutifully scheduled the test, especially since I think that now, thanks to the ACA, insurance has to pay for the whole thing. (Further digression: The thing that caused the most resistance to the ACA, in my opinion, was letting its opponents get away with calling it “Obamacare.” That and not emphasizing that it wasn’t health care reform, which scares people. It was insurance reform, which only scares insurance companies.)
(I think I was working up to making a point somewhere. What was it? Oh, yeah, mammograms. Questions. That was it.) My questions were not about the actual test, but about the process.
When I entered the elaborate medical photo booth, the tech asked me, as usual, to remove my clothing above the waist and put on a cloth gown with the opening in the front. She told me to open the door a bit when I was ready.
Leave me alone with nothing to read and I start thinking.
I said to myself, “Self, why does she want me to put on that extremely fashionable gown when she’s going to see my weird, lumpy breasts anyway?”
When I discussed this with my husband later, he said that some people are modest.
“About what?” I asked. “They know the tech is going to see their boobs.”
I thought some more. “When the mammogrammers snap the pics, the techs ask you to uncover one breast at a time. Why is that? Are modest people okay with exposing one boob to a stranger, but not two at once? Plus, the tech touches them. If they’re going to be modest, isn’t that the bigger issue?”
I was on a roll. “And that whole leaving the room while I change is silly. They could save time – and laundry bills for the gowns – if they just said, ‘Strip to the waist and stick ’em in the machine.’
“They should reserve that delicate sensibility crap for first-timers. Everyone else just wants to get it over with as quickly as possible. Am I right?”
My husband said he didn’t know, which is probably true, since he’s never had a mammogram.
So, what’s the take-away here?
When I have a mammogram, I already know that someone will see and touch my breasts. And I’m okay with that.
But if I see my pictures on the Internet, I’ll really be pissed.
UPDATE (IRONY ALERT)
The mammogram I was so flippant about revealed a cyst, which has gotten larger. Tuesday I go for a follow-up mammogram and ultrasound. Even more people will see my breasts, and I’m still OK with that.
Lately I’ve been involved in a number of grassroots efforts, crowd sourcing, and increasing the bandwidth of various projects (other people’s, not my own).
It’s the modern version of networking. I can’t increase the sales of a friend’s book or a favorite local restaurant, but I can let people know where to find it. I can’t rescue a stranger from poverty or foot (paw?) the vet bills for someone else’s cat, but I can contribute something. I can’t speak authoritatively about a lot of subjects, but I’m a whiz at knowing where and how to find information.
In a way, it’s like the Six Degrees of Separation (or Kevin Bacon) theory – if I don’t know how to do something, one of my friends or one of their friends does. It’s one of the reasons I’m on Facebook, despite its many flaws. It’s similar to a giant “Phone-a-Friend” lifeline from the old version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
“The hive mind” is just another way of saying “brainstorming.” “Signal boosting” is tech-speak for “spreading the word.” “Crowd sourcing” is the modern way to “pooling our resources.”
It’s an answer to the question “But how can I, one small person, make a difference?” And it’s a way to “stand on the shoulders of giants” to see farther. Come to think of it, it’s a lot of the reason we have WordPress blogs.
If you’re interested, here are some groups that do crowd-sourcing:
Kiva.org (rotating micro-loans to help alleviate poverty)
DonorsChoose.org (funding for individual teachers’ classroom projects)
Kickstarter.com and GoFundMe.com (fundraising for creative projects or personal needs)
I’ve made donations through all of these and never regretted it.
And while I’m at it, here are a couple of friends of mine whose signals I am boosting:
TomSmithOnline.com and thefump.com, for those interested in Dr. Demento-style music (FuMP = Funny Music Project)
Rejectedprincesses.com, neglected kick-ass women of history and myth who would never make it in a Disney movie
What organizations or projects would you like to promote? Just leave a comment below. No waiting for the beep.
This being Friday the 13th, black cats are on my mind. I’m not superstitious, so neither the date nor the cats bother me, but they do bother a lot of people.
A pass-along this morning said that black cats (and black dogs) in shelters tend to be overlooked and are killed disproportionately. Another common rumor is that black cats are adopted at Halloween by Satanists (or teenage wanna-be Satanists) to sacrifice in horrible rituals.
Snopes.com says the evidence is inconclusive on that last point, although they also mention people who want to “rent” black cats as party decorations. I don’t know if this actually happens, but I doubt that it actually works. Cats of any color are more likely to spend a Halloween party behind the sofa or ralphing on the snack table than posing prettily in a tableau of pumpkins. (Digression: Hairballs are pretty grody, so I guess they could be considered decorations, if you’re the horror-fan sort of party-giver.)
I don’t believe cats are bad luck, because I don’t believe there’s any such thing as an all-black cat. As far as I can tell, they are required by law to have at least ten white hairs somewhere on their bodies. Show-offs prefer the chest area.
But I have a confession: I have never owned a black cat. (Digression: My mother-in-law has. No comment.) We did once have a lovely tuxedo cat named Shaker. She had, in addition to the white chest, white whiskers and adorable little white feet. She had a lot of dignity, but then spoiled the effect when she jumped off my lap at the vet’s, made a break for it as fast as her tiny little feet would carry her, and ran headlong (bonk!) into the glass door. It was so sudden that she couldn’t realistically pull off the “I meant to do that” look. Nice try, though.
We did have a black guest cat (a foster) that I named Joliet. (Digression: Here’s the story. I had a black friend named Darryl. I couldn’t call the cat Darryl because she was female (Darryl Hannah notwithstanding). My friend Darryl came from Joliet, IL, so I named her Joliet in his honor. It didn’t matter, because everyone misheard it as Juliet and called her that.)
We might have kept Joliet, but she proved to be a brazen thief. (If she were he, we could have called him Joliet Jake. Or Darryl, I guess, except Darryl wasn’t a thief. Never mind.)
One night we were eating in front of the TV and had a large steak on a plate on the coffee table. Joliet did not choose the typical cat ploy of sniffing daintily at the edge of the steak and making the pitiful “nobody-feeds-me” face. She swooped in and grabbed the whole thing, then raced across the living room with it. From our vantage point it looked like a steak with four feet and a long black tail fleeing the scene of the crime. We recovered the steak, washed it off, and ate it anyway. We were not so well off that we could afford to waste a steak.
(Digression: Once I was cruising the cheap meat (reduced for quick sale) section at the grocery. A guy, obviously embarrassed, picked up a couple of steaks and said, “I feed these to my dog.” “Yeah?” I said, tossing some into my cart. “I feed them to my husband.”)
Anyway, we decided that Joliet and another family would be happier with each other. Looking back, we may have made the wrong call. She never brought us any bad luck. We just needed to train her to steal steak from other people and bring it back to us. Then again, trying to train a cat is difficult enough, never mind trying to train one to give away stolen meat.
The other day I was talking with an old friend about my time at Cornell. I was concerned/regretful/annoyed that I had wasted my time there. There was so much more I could have done if only I had been properly prepared and focused.
Digression: He was excited. “Hey! I had sex with an Ivy League coed!”
Cornell had what they called “distribution requirements,” meant to broaden a person’s education by forcing them to take classes outside their major and even outside their College.
Digression: They also made everyone learn to swim and/or pass a swimming test. I cheated. I can still barely swim.
Of course I was an English major in the College of Arts and Sciences. Here’s what I took in addition to poetry and Chaucer and Shakespeare and Creative Writing and all that stuff:
Astronomy (with Carl Sagan)
History of Science in Western Civilization (with L. Pearce Williams)
Communications
Bee-keeping
Russian
French (Literature. In French.)
Intermediate Archery (twice)
Linguistics
Cinema
Wine-tasting (now there’s a surprise)
And a bunch of other stuff that has been lost that in the Swiss cheese that is my memory.
And what use is all that? Except for being on Jeopardy, which I never have been? Or laughing hysterically at The Simpsons when Ned asks that alternatives to Darwinian evolution be taught and Principal Skinner suggests, “Lamarckian evolution”? What possible career could all that prepare me for? I’m not an expert in anything.
Surprisingly, I realized, it prepared me for exactly the career I have: writer and editor.
I can’t write or edit for specialized or technical journals, but I can write and edit the hell out of general interest material and educational fodder for developing young minds.
I know just enough biology to explain how vaccines work.
I know just enough politics to tell the differences between socialism and fascism.
I know just enough art to differentiate Pointillists and Cubists and Impressionists.
I know just enough Greek and Latin roots to explain words like “apnea.”
I know just enough religion to tell you what “original sin” is. (Hint: It’s not sex.)
I know just enough history to tell about Catherine the Great. (Hint: She didn’t die having sex with a horse.”)
I know just enough psychology to tell you the differences between grief and clinical depression.
I am a generalist. My education may not have been deep, but it sure was broad. (Hint: Do not call me a “deep broad.” I know just enough martial arts to make you regret it.)
The last time I even contemplated going to my high school reunion (Fairmont East) was the 25th iteration.
I was terrified.
I went to a high school friend (Mary McCarty) for advice. She was quite helpful. She also wrote about my panic in the local paper (Dayton Daily News).
Here’s what I told her: “Over the last quarter century I’ve confronted and dealt with a number of pieces of my past and tried to make my peace with them. High school, however, is not one of those things.”
Mary did note that “Janet … had more reason than most to be apprehensive. She had been one of those kids too brainy, too head-in-the-clouds, to comprehend how to navigate the social firmament.”
Spot on.
I got my hair done for the event and told my stylist to make me look “successful and sane.” She replied, “Oh, no, here comes the wish list.” “At least I didn’t ask for young and thin,” I pointed out.
I went, taking along my husband and telling him and my dear friend Kathy, who had flown in from the West Coast, not to leave my side. I’m sure the husband came as a surprise to most people there, proof that I had at least managed to navigate that particular social firmament.
I survived it all. My big insight: “Not everyone hated me.”
Mary was much more philosophical: “In adolescence our images are refracted through so many distorted lights – the way we see ourselves, the way everyone else sees us, the way we fancy everyone else sees us. What mattered was that we could all talk face to face, as adults, as equals, as friends.”
It is now approaching time for our 40th reunion. Do you think I am any calmer this time around?
Well, maybe. I don’t have the energy or the attention span to get all worked up about it.
Will I go? Probably not. It’s like the Tower of Terror at DisneyWorld – I did it once and I’m glad I did, but I have no desire to do it again.
Besides, the people from high school that I want to be in touch with – like Mary and Kathy – I still am in touch with, in person or via Facebook.
At this point I have nothing to prove.
I’m an obsessive, insatiable reader, and have been since I was four years old. But lately, there’s a trend in books that annoys me mightily.
It’s the names.
I understand that authors want their books to stand out, but I want characters that are memorable for their dialogue, actions, and thoughts. Not a bunch of stupid names.
I’ve got a little list. (And they’d surely not be missed.)
First, let me say that I’m not including science fiction and fantasy books in this rant. Those authors can make up names all day long. (Though the wizard named Alanon made it impossible for me to read that series.)
Digression: Has anyone else noticed that new prescription names sound like alien overlords? Xeljanz. Vioxx. Or damsels in distress? Lunesta. Levitra.
Romance novels may be the worst offenders, though off-putting names can occur in any genre. I think the worst I’ve seen was a couple whose names were Ben Heat and Rebecca Sweet. Ick. Just ick.
Then there was a couple named Faith and Royal. (Royal’s last name was Baxter. I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking Royal Bastard.)
Last names that are meant to define character are irritating too: Knight, Savage. Another notable was Lexy Baker who was, well, a baker. Like the readers couldn’t figure that out.
First names too: Taffeta (nickname: Taffy), Bliss.
The ones that really annoy me are the cross-gender names. I know this is a trend in real life, not just in books, and we’ll just have to live with little girls named Taylor and Jordan and Madison. Thank you so much, Splash!
But this is getting ridiculous. Here are some actual names of female characters I’ve seen:
Clyde
Josiah
Noa
Dallas
Sloane
I don’t know why those characters aren’t in therapy.
And while we’re on the subject, puns for book titles have gone over the top. I mean, Maui Widow Waltz? Come on. Really?
Apparently I am out of sync with much of the world when it comes to humor. I often find find things funny when no one else does. Sometimes this is understandable, as when my martial arts group went to a Jackie Chan movie. The rest of the audience laughed at the funny lines and we laughed at the martial arts.
I also had the opposite experience when I went to the movie The Gods Must Be Crazy. The rest of the audience laughed at what to me were inexplicable times. My theory was that they all had been in the Peace Corps and this was the Jackie Chan thing in reverse.
Sometimes people laugh when I say things that to me seem simple and obvious. Once I wanted to leave a business meeting gracefully and said, “I think we’ve reached that point at which I cease to be helpful.” Hilarity ensued.
But those instances aren’t really examples of The Mars Look. That’s the one when, after I make a statement, silence descends and everyone looks at me as though I’m a two-headed Martian in a sequined Elvis jumpsuit. Crickets chirp. A tumbleweed rolls by.
For example:
I wonder if there are beech trees around here?
Me: Probably. This area is known for truffles, and they only grow around certain trees, including the beech.
[chirp, chirp]
The guitar strings squeaked. I guess you can do that on purpose to annoy people.
Me: Strings squeak when they’re brand-new. After you’ve played them a while, the oil on your fingertips eliminates the squeak.
[enter tumbleweed] [exit tumbleweed]
I guess I’m not supposed to provide information unless someone asks me directly. Or something. I’m not all that good at social situations.
The best Mars Look I ever got was in church. The musicians and the choir struck up the Hallelujah Chorus. At the first note sung, I stood. I was prepared to stand there through the whole thing, even if no one else did. Even my husband gave me the Mars Look.
Behind me I heard murmurs. “I guess we’re supposed to stand.” Slowly, the people in the two or three rows behind me started to stand too. The people in the front heard the murmuring and rustling, turned and saw the people standing, and rose as well. It was like doing the wave at a ball game, only different.
At least that time, there were no crickets and tumbleweeds. Just music.
…and fruit flies like a banana.
But right now I have a different kind of arrows on my mind – the kind you shoot from a bow.
Thanks to Brave and The Hunger Games, archery is gaining a reputation as an acceptable pursuit for young women. And I say yay to that!
(Let’s be clear here. I’m talking about shooting arrows at non-living targets. Ted Nugent can have the bow-hunting, as far as I’m concerned.)
It would be wrong to say that archery is my favorite sport. It is, in fact, if not the only sport I like, pretty close to it.
I was introduced to archery pretty early. A man who lived down the street set up a target in front of his garage and shot at it from the end of his driveway. The neighborhood kids, including me, gathered to watch. It was way more interesting than watching someone’s dad practicing putting.
My father, being a proponent of target shooting (with firearms in his case), approved and supported my interest. In fact, he bought me a bow and some arrows.
It was a child’s bow. In point of fact, a girl-child’s bow. Pink-swirled fiberglass like a candy cane, with a red handle. And though pink was never my favorite color, I loved it.
I practiced with it and actually improved. I acquired accessories: a shooting glove and an arm guard. (The arm guard is to keep you from whanging your delicate inner arm with the bowstring. Doing this will result in intense pain, bright redness, and ice packs. And then you get an arm guard and make sure your arm is bent just a little at the elbow.)
My mother, who was given to sewing and whimsy, made me (at my request) a forest green wool cape and jaunty matching hat. No, no pictures exist.
When I got to college, I discovered that students were required to take four semesters of gym. One of them had to be swimming, which I faked my way through, but among the other offerings was Intermediate Archery. There was also Beginning, but no Advanced. So I took Intermediate. Twice.
It was lots of fun. On rainy days we stayed inside and learned to make arrows – one, a fancy kind that would fly a certain distance then suddenly turn straight down with its point embedded in the ground so you could find it easily by the colored streamer-like fletching (feathers).
If you know me, you know what came next. I had my mother send me the cape and the hat, and wore them to class. The teacher, who after two semesters was used to me, just rolled her eyes and said not a word.
But for one brief hour, I was Robin Hood.
A follow-up: At last it can be told! The kitty’s name is Jet (which is way better than Tarbaby).
But I Digress . . . 