Waiting for a Better Excuse - Fear of the Run-on Sentence

Dear Mrs. Prager,
I know you told us to go home yesterday and study the homonym and most commonly mixed up word list for a test today which was going to count for twenty-five percent of our grade this marking period and I had every intention of doing just that because you know how much I think about good grades and doing well so I can go to college and make something of myself and feel good about myself and make my parents proud of me so I got home and had some water and some carrot sticks because I am on a diet and I walked right past the chocolate cake that my mother made for my aunt's birthday and then I went into my bedroom to start studying because I really needed to because the whole list was so confusing and like I said I wanted to get a really good grade so I opened my notebook to the pages with the notes I took in class when you explained each of the homonyms and commonly mixed up words and I read the first one which was desert/dessert and I remembered what you said about the one you eat having two S's like two servings and I closed my eyes to force it into my head so I wouldn't forget it on the big test and all I could think about was not desert/dessert but the chocolate cake which my mother made for my aunt's birthday which I passed in the kitchen when I got my carrot sticks and water and I opened my eyes and I sat there sweating and breathing heavy because I didn't want to eat but I really wanted to eat some chocolate cake and I decided to go on to the next one on your list which was weight/wait and I knew the one with eight in it said how many pounds I wanted to lose so I closed my eyes to force it into my head and all I saw was the chocolate cake which my mother made for my aunt's birthday so I opened my eyes and I was sweating real hard now so I went to the next one which was waste/waist and I remembered you told us to make up tricks that work for us when we're trying to remember things and I looked at waste/waist and saw the little "i" in the middle of the one which meant the middle of my body kind of waist and wondered if I could lose enough weight so I could have a tiny tiny waist and I closed my eyes to try to force waste/waist into my head and there waiting for me in my brain was that chocolate cake dessert that my mother made for my aunt's birthday which made me stop forcing things into my head earlier when I was trying to remember desert/dessert and weight/wait and I opened my eyes real quick so I wouldn't think about the chocolate cake again that my mother made for my aunt's birthday and my mother makes the best chocolate cake and it's hard not to think about it when she makes it and the smell of her chocolate cake is all around the house and I looked at the list once again so I would get a good grade on the test and found the fourth set was their/there/they're and I looked at the examples I wrote to remember how to tell them apart and the first sentence example was "They brought their lunch" which made me think about supper because I skipped lunch and all I had since I had the Slim Shake for breakfast was the water and carrot sticks I had when I got home and THEY'RE not enough to fill anyone up so I started to sweat and shake and I went to the kitchen to have just one more carrot stick and some water and I couldn't help it because I swear a force greater than myself just took over my hand and forced me to drag my finger across the chocolate frosting and I sucked it off and then I fixed the mess I made with the frosting and I also grabbed a cookie on the way/weigh out of the kitchen which/witch was the official way/weigh of me ending the diet and this made/maid me sweat and feel horrible about myself because I/eye didn't really want to end the diet and I/eye did really want a thin waist/waste and I/eye wanted to lose weight/wait more than anything in the world except maybe doing well on your/yore test and I couldn't stop thinking of the chocolate cake that my mother made/maid for/four dessert/desert because it was my aunt's/ant's birthday and she was coming to/too/two dinner at our/hour house in an hour/our and now the cake was messed up and I broke my diet and I/eye was all sorts of depressed and I started to cry and I fell asleep and the next thing I knew/new was my mother was waking me up for my aunt's/ant's party and we stayed up really late celebrating with my aunt/ant so/sew I/eye never got to finish the studying and I/eye hope you/ewe can find it in your/you're/yore heart to give me another day to/two/too study because I/eye know/no I/eye can pass if you/ewe give me another chance oh please oh please and I/eye stay out of the kitchen and stop thinking about the chocolate cake that my mother made for my aunt's/ant's birthday. Oh please, oh please say yes, oh please. You/ewe don't know/no how it would/wood make a difference to my grade and my parents wouldn't get mad at me and I/eye wouldn't lose my phone and my parents wouldn't get on my case about being lazy and talking on the phone too/to/two much and daydreaming and sleeping my life away and everything would/wood be/bee nice and all and I/eye know/no you/ewe will say yes because you/ewe are my favorite teacher I/eye ever had ever for/four/fore always and always I/eye swear.
From your/you're/yore favorite student,
Kimberly Heather Jennifer Melissa Miracle Crystal Sunshine Smith
---
Originally published at the Irascible Professor: http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-05-17-02.htm
---
©2002 by Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved

Mom Goes On The Line

Mom Goes On The Line

By

Felice Prager

I received three e-mails from my mother today. This is unusual because until today, my mother didn't own a computer. She's watched me work on my assorted computers that occupy my office and my kids’ bedrooms. For us, computers are a way of life. For my mother, computers have been frightening machines that collect way too much dust.

The first e-mail from my mother said, "Believe it or not---I'm on the line. It took a long time. Call you later. Mom." I figured by "on the line" she meant "online" and laughed at her interpretation. As a little girl, I remember my mother putting someone on hold by saying, “hold the line.” Then again, to my mother, there was a phone line, a clothes line, and A-line dresses. “Online” was never a concept she learned. “Online” just happened.

 “Welcome to the club,” I replied in my e-mail. “Have fun exploring.”

The second e-mail came several hours later. It said, "I'm just learning, so don1t mind the mistakes. I bought a Dell like you suggested. Eventually I!ll know what I!m doing. gIVE mE A lITTLE tIME. Love you- Mom." This was all written in the subject line of the email. The body of the email was empty.

With a little interpretation, I saw what my mother did. So used to typing on a Smith Corona keyboard, she let her fingers decide which keys to press instead of looking at the keyboard to see the computerized differences.

I didn't want to burst my mother's bubble and tell her that she might never know what she's doing on a computer. So I sent her a reply explaining that the apostrophe and quotation marks are not over the 1 and 8 anymore like they used to be on her old Smith Corona typewriters. I explained where they were and a few other intricacies of the newer keyboard. Then I told her that the message didn't belong in the subject line. I told her where to put it. I told her to have fun and explore this new cyber-world. I told her about bookmarking favorite places, using a virus scanner, avoiding pornography, and other simple things. I worried that I was putting too much into an e-mail, but then again, I had wished I knew someone when I started out using mine who could walk me through the tough stuff. I told her I hoped the beginning is interesting and relatively easy for her. I told her not to be afraid. I told her that unless she messed around and tried to upgrade the inside of her computer like I do, she'd be fine. I don't think she'll try to see what's inside the box. And if she does, which I doubt she will, I can fix it for her.

I also sent her a second email with some links to some of my published work online, things she has never read because she could not access them without a computer. My mother has seen most of my print publications; until now she has missed everything on the Internet.

When I was in elementary school, my mother was one of the few moms who worked outside the home. In the late fifties and early sixties, other mothers stayed home. Mine worked because she had no choice. Life sometimes forces us to make those decisions. Some mothers made cookies; I don’t have any memories of my mother baking. Instead, my mother typed my school reports for me.

In my case, the situation was ideal. The office where my mother worked was across the street from my school. She was often able to coordinate her lunch with mine, and I was none the worse for it. I always had a ride to school, and for lunch, we would visit a local coffee shop and eat grilled cheese sandwiches together. I'd have my chocolate egg cream; she would have her black coffee, no sugar.

It was so long ago, but I can still visualize her office with the modern machines that impressed me so much back then. I have always liked machines. This probably explains why I love my computers so much and why my sons had no arguments when it came to purchasing Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Nintendo 64, Playstation, Xbox, and the other game machines they have wanted. The only problem for my sons was getting Mom to stop playing so they could.

In my youth at my mother’s office, I liked trying to figure out how her machines worked. My mother's office had great modern machines such as assorted electric typewriters, phones with five lines, a manual adding machine with a slot machine-like pull arm, and a Xerox machine that needed pink paper placed on top of white paper all placed in a hard plastic sleeve just to make one copy. These copies were always too dark or too light and looked nothing like the original, but there was no alternative and I was the only one I knew who could ask her mother to make copies of things. My mother never said no since she was in charge of ordering supplies at this office.

 I remember when I took typing in high school, a required course for all academic students going on to college or secretarial school, and I finally made it to 40 words per minute; my mother was doing 65 words or more at the time. She never made mistakes. I tested her once at 80 words and no errors. She was an incredible typist. In those days, fixing errors required specialized typewriter erasers that tended to rip the paper if pressed too hard against the print. Sometimes it required starting from scratch. In those days, carbon paper made barely readable copies, and they served the purpose because if another copy was needed, my mother would type it again. In those days, my mother typed the addresses, one at a time, on the letterhead and on the envelopes. Billing clients took several days. In those days, my mother was the master of her trade. She typed fast and rarely made an error that she couldn't fix with ease.

My mother’s third e-mail was a reply to the one I had sent filled with, what I thought, were helpful hints. It was also written completely in the subject line. “Why did they move the apostrophe and quotation marks? There was nothing wrong with where they were. I’m going to write Dell a letter about it. Love Mom.”

Today, my mother took a big step. She is on the road to being computer literate in a world very alien to the one where she had been a super star. With as much tact as I could muster, I told my mom where to find the apostrophe and the quotation marks, and she told me, in a 21st century e-mail, what I could do with them.

 -----end

©1998 by Felice Prager. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This essay has been published in several places including The Front Porch, Sasee Magazine, and Chicken Soup for the Working Mom's Soul. aka MODERN MACHINES.

Republished In 2006 and 2012 in Memory of Marcella S. Klein.

Neglected Disabilities

It was about four PM. I was home alone. I was sitting on the bed that used to belong to my son before he got married and moved to another state. Three of my five cats were looking out the window, and I was watching them as they stalked a bougainvillea leaf as it was being moved by a breeze.

I am easily entertained. Some have referred to me as a cheap date.

I had opened the window so the cats could smell “spring.” They like how "spring" smells. Then the bougainvillea leaf started moving in the breeze and the entertainment began. The cats were darting back and forth in front of the window as the thin red leaf caught bursts of air. I was tempted to go outside, retrieve the leaf, and bring it inside for them to tear to shreds, but I knew my cats were having more fun watching and chasing the leaf, and giving them the leaf would simply end the game too soon.

Suddenly, the cats stopped short and assumed the position of fear and distress. Their hair stuck up. Their ears were alert. Then they scooted under the bed.

I then heard the source of their fear and distress as well. Clackity clackity clackity clackity. (That is my best attempt at onomatopoeia.) A young boy was coming down the hill on his skateboard. Each time the wheels hit a sidewalk seam, the board went clackity clackity clackity clackity.

What made the occurrence significant was the fact that the boy on the board was simultaneously talking on his cell phone while navigating the hill. I know the kid because I used to tutor him. He had been labeled ADD, and his mom had come to me for help. He was a very nice kid and well behaved, but he tended to prefer watching bougainvillea leaves float in the breeze rather than watching his math teacher create math magic on the white board.

It made me think. Since I am unable to drive my car and talk on my cell phone at the same time, I found it interesting that my ex-student with a documented disability could balance on a skateboard going downhill fast -- occasionally jumping a curb -; while simultaneously talking on his phone. Yet, despite all the hours of quality one-on-one tutoring he had, he probably is still counting on his fingers and toes. I also know in my heart that he will go through life unable to deal with fractions, despite my best efforts.

We all have things we can't do. I could never climb the ropes in PE class. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get my arms and legs to work together well enough to conquer the task. There was no disability I could find to get me out of rope climbing in PE, and the best I could do was feign a sprained ankle -- complete with a doctor's note. I was stumped by calculus but the best I could do was major in English because I couldn't claim a calculus disability. Though I could memorize the Gettysburg Address in third grade, memorizing the correct lyrics to songs has always been a burden. Yet, there is no disability that keeps me from being embarrassed at karaoke bars.

I have a million of these undiagnosed but very real (to me) disabilities. We all have them. The difference is that we only hear about the ones written about in books. Call them whatever you want -- disabilities, gaps, shorts. We may all have them; some of us just deal with them better than others, I suppose.

I am now going to reveal a handful of my undiagnosed disabilities just to prove my point. The important thing to remember is that I, Felice Prager, am a survivor. Despite my shortcomings, I am choosing to see success despite my deficiencies. You probably are, too. You just don't know it yet.

CLWEAS – aka Can't Leave Well Enough Alone Syndrome. Those who have CLWEAS don't know when to stop. They tend to pick the scab until it is infected. They tend to want to get to the root of something even if it means the need for a plumber or electrician in the end. They nag their kids to the point of insanity. They say things like, "Do you want more?" and fill a dish despite a negative response. They call too often and when the calls aren't answered, they write letters and send gifts. When they help their sons move into an apartment, they buy enough tea and chicken soup mix to last several decades just in case of flu of epidemic proportions. Tea bags and chicken soup have indefinite shelf lives. When it comes to education, a person with CLWEAS will check answers obsessively and possibly not hand in the exam fearing there is an error that was missed. As a writer, proofreading becomes an activity that never ends. Rewriting is inevitable.

CPITWS – aka Can't Pee in the Woods Syndrome. Those who have CPITWS avoid camping trips, exploring the wilderness, and car trips on roads that post signs like "Next Stop: 50 miles."

WDIPTDTS – aka Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Syndrome. Also Known as WDIPTDTAS -- Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Again Syndrome. This condition tends to eat up a lot of time and is one of the most frustrating disabilities. A person puts something down in a very logical place and then it disappears. It happens with earring backs, notes, lists, bills, credit cards, homework, documents of major importance, $50 bills, and eyebrow tweezers. People with WDIPTDTS and WDIPTDTAS are firm believers in conspiracy theories and know that the physics theory that matter cannot be created or destroyed blah blah blah is a fallacy – and have dozens of backless earrings to prove it.

IJHTHAFFD – aka I Just Have to Have Another Furry Friend Disorder. This condition is best detected in the home. Just count the pets. If it goes beyond two or three, IJHTHAFFD may be at the root.

(An aside: Yesterday, while planting a few cacti in my backyard, I found a hole under our mesquite tree. From experience, I knew the hole was either the home of a snake, a rodent, or a rabbit. I thought: "Six foot rattler!" since we have had those in the past, so I ran like the wind for the garden hose, attached the power nozzle, and got close enough to spray into the hole but not close enough to get eaten. I also had my cell phone ready so I could call the snake police. The snake police are number one on my speed dial. Then a baby bunny popped out. It was two inches -- newborn, probably. And it was sopping wet. I felt so bad. I ran to get lettuce and carrots while the baby bunny dried off in the sun. When I got back, another baby bunny had joined it. I named them Jack and Jennifer. I scattered the lettuce and carrots and kept saying things like, "I’m so sorry! Now go back in your hole so your mommy can find you." I took a picture with my cell phone and sent it to my son -- the one who used to take scorpions and centipedes outside instead of killing them because "they are beneficial, mom." He wrote back and said, "Since you almost killed them, you should keep them." I didn’t respond since I like furry faces but I know jackrabbits don't make good pets -- we've done bunnies before and the only thing I remember is that they create a lot of poop and then they eat it. I went outside this morning to inspect the bunny hole, and it seems that Jennifer and Jack Rabbit have two other siblings: Jillian and Bob. All is well. They like lettuce but prefer what falls off the mesquite tree. ANYWAY, I looked up Sonoran Desert bunnies online and it said that 80% of them are dead within a year -- their life expectancy being two years -- because they get eaten by almost everything. Sometimes, people who think bunnies are snakes tend to drown them. End of aside.)

TTMS – aka Talk To Machines Syndrome. Those who have TTMS tend to see inanimate objects as audiences. They think what they say to machines will change things. They tend to personify. They are often not aware that they are doing this and have been known to say things like, "Come on, finish perking!" to coffee machines and "Please don't freeze!" to computers. Some suffering from TTMS have said that the inanimate objects have menacing personalities and tend to be vindictive.

DCFBD – aka Diet Coke for Breakfast Disability. This is sometimes referred to as "Do as I say, not what I drink." People with DCFBD know it is not healthy. They don't care. They are even known to finish off the warm, flat can of Diet Coke that was left on their desk the night before.

SATDS – aka Share All The Details Syndrome. People who have SATDS tend to tell a story, include all the details, and leave nothing out -- even when they are not asked. The syndrome tends to waste time, keep a person from staying on task, and alienates friends and relatives.

OMGOMGOMGS – aka as Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God! Syndrome. This occurs when a large insect or arachnid is in the vicinity of the person afflicted. They get up on furniture and scream, "Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God!" until a brave person comes in and smashes the creature. These people often suffer from SATDS, with a twist. When they Share all the Details, the insects and arachnids get larger with each telling of the tale. In the end, the insect or arachnid takes on the appearance of the supernatural and develop menacing personalities similar to those in TTMS.

IIDWIDIWFIS – aka If I Don’t Write It Down, I Will Forget It Syndrome. These people have very good memories. The problem is that they can't remember what they need to know when they need it. They function well with lists but tend to also suffer from WDIPTDTS -- so they cannot remember where they put the list.

CRWTISFD – aka Can't Remember What The Initials Stood For Disability. Those who have CRWTISFD can spout off initials like ADD, ADHD, SCUBA, and MRSA, but cannot remember what the initials represent. In fact, they often ask those using the initials what they stand for, but they have known to become indignant when others ask them to translate initials into real words.

There are many other syndromes, deficiencies, and disabilities. Some are mild and some are severe. With all of them, it depends on the degree to which a person has it and how well they learn to cope. I am doing well with mine. I just take it a day at a time. I inhale and exhale and always have my trusty hose by my side along with my cell phone. But don’t ask me to use both of them at the same time. I'm having a tough time with CDTTAONMHHITS -- aka Can't Do Two Things At Once No Matter How Hard I Try Syndrome.


© 2002 by Felice Prager. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This essay, any part of this essay, or any item on this blog may not be used in any form without the author's express written permission.

(This essay originally appeared at The Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-04-11-08.htm)

Big Stupid Bad Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Bad
Headache
Bad
Day

Outa
Ink
Bad
Day

Outa
Stamps
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Lost
Ideas
Bad
Day

Forgot
Sunblock
Bad
Day

Phone
Ringing
Bad
Day

Another
Survey
Bad
Day

Deadline
Approaches
Bad
Day

Not
Writing
Bad
Day

Not
Creative
Bad
Day

Nobody
Loves Me
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Furball
Kitty
Bad
Day

Black and
Blue Mark
Bad
Day

Broken
Water Heater
Bad
Day

Sparking
Hairdryer
Bad
Day

Missed

Appointment
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Sneezing
Coughing
Bad
Day

Have a

Fever
Bad
Day

Can't Find

Keys
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Burnt
Dinner
Bad
Day

We Don't
Deliver
Bad
Day

Disgusting

Cold Sore
Bad
Day

Big
Zit
Bad
Day

Watery
Eyes
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

The Mailman
Cometh
Bad
Day

No
Check Yet
Bad
Day

Emailed
Accounting
Bad
Day

Be
Patient
Bad
Day

Cost of
Gas
Bad
Day

Tank's

On Empty

Bad

Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Your Server
Is Down
Bad
Day

Nothing
Fits
Bad
Day

Chocolate
Stains
Bad
Day

White
Carpet
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Evil
Email
Bad
Day

Did My
Taxes
Bad
Day

No
Refund
Bad
Day

We Owe
Plenty
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Eating
Pretzels
Bad
Day

Eating
Pasta
Bad
Day

Eating
Everything
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

Flat
Tire
Bad
Day

Waited
An Hour
Bad
Day

Record
Heat
Bad
Day

Bad
Hair Day
Bad
Day

Raining
Buckets
Bad
Day

Roof
Leaking
Bad
Day

No

Repairmen
Bad
Day

Not
Fair
Bad
Day

Back to
Bed
Bad
Day

Big
Stupid
Bad
Day

-------

Copyright 2001. Felice Prager. All rights reserved. Distribution via linking, mailing list, disk, or any other form is prohibited without permission of the author under U.S. copyright law.

Waiting for the Big "O"

(An Excerpt from Waiting in the Wrong Line - available at Amazon.com - links follow article.)

The car is pulled to the side of a narrow dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage. A beautiful white sandy beach can be seen from the car through a small clearing, and waves are relentlessly eroding the shoreline. We are on the island of St. Martin in the West Indies. We are on our honeymoon.

And we’ve been fighting all week.

We have battled in restaurants.

We have bickered on the beach.

We have brawled in the waves.

Strangers hear us coming and going.

Strangers want to remain strangers.

Right now we are sitting in a rented car on the side of a dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage, and we have drawn a bright red boundary line down the middle of the front seat.

I am so mad. It is at least 90 degrees outside, but you can see the steam coming out of my ears, seeping out of the car, rising from the roof of our rented car. If this were a cartoon, there would be horns growing out of the roof of our car and a devil’s tail would be coming out of the exhaust pipe. The car would be rocking with body parts being thrown from the car windows.

Unfortunately, to make the week just perfect, our rental car is the lemon of all rental cars. The air conditioning doesn’t work. The radio is not attached. There is gum stuck on the driver’s side of the windshield and a spring is coming out of the passenger seat, right under my behind.

When we point this out to the rental agent, he says, with a thick accent, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

And, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got,” is all we’ve heard all week.

Orange juice with breakfast? “Papaya today. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

Hot water in the shower? “Cold showers. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

This has not been a good week.

Of the three pieces of luggage we put on board the airplane, only two came off. The one we can’t find has my asthma medicine and my brand new expensive bathing suit in it. It took me a month to find that bathing suit, to find one that fit just right and was so comfortable and sexy. The lost piece of luggage also has my husband’s Tums. My asthma medicine is secondary. My new bathing suit doesn’t matter. My husband’s Tums? He’s a basket case!

“What am I going to do without Tums?” my husband frets.

I stare at him, wheezing, desperately trying to fill my lungs with air, hoping I can find an island pharmacist who will make a long distance call to my pulmonary specialist. I say, without a hint of nastiness, “Maybe you should lay off the spicy food this week.”

To which my husband agonizes, “I won’t make it without Tums!”

To which I reply in oxygen-poor gasps, tugging at my bathing suit that I had to buy from the store in the lobby, even though it is too small, “I guess you’ll have to live with heartburn, honey.”

It’s been a tough week.

Now we’re sitting in the rented car, on the side of a dirt road. I am tugging at my too-small bathing suit. I am wheezing. My husband has heartburn. We haven’t had a good cup of coffee in a week. And we are both pissed. We are pissed at the car. We are pissed at the hotel. And we are really pissed at each other.


My husband gets up this morning and says, “Let’s fix this vacation now.”

I nod my head, somewhat skeptically, but I agree. We need a quick fix for this honeymoon in hell.

My husband goes to the lobby to talk to the concierge. He comes back an hour later and he’s bubbling. He’s found a perfect place for us to go. He’s waving a hand drawn map. He says it’s going to be great.

I’m already upset.

Nothing on this island could possibly bring this level of excitement.

Then he starts, “The concierge says it’s called Orient Beach. It’s on the other side of the island. It will take about an hour to get there. It’s a nude beach.” My husband’s rambling now. “All the movie stars go there. Very private.” he continues.

“A nude beach?” I ask. “Why’d he tell you about it?”

“Well, we got to talking about surfing, and then he told me,” he answers. “And he said there were great waves.”

Surfing.

Great waves.

I should have read the scribbling in the sand dune.

“Great waves,” the concierge says to the boy who spent the summer of his freshman year in high school painting his mother’s house to earn money to buy his first long board.

“Great waves,” he says to the teen who hid surfing magazines under the mattress, to look at the waves, not the girls in the string bikinis.

“Great waves,” he says to the college student who memorizedEndless Summer.

“Great waves,” he says to the young adult who watched surfing specials on television instead of the Super Bowl.

“Great waves,” he says to the homeowner who wanted to decorate our living room around a poster called Sunset at Doheny.

“Great waves,” he says to the man I married who I have never seen on a surfboard.

My husband tells me “nude beach” and “movie stars,” expecting me to react with, “Wow, what a wonderful, fabulous, original idea you have,” and all he gets is a nasty look from me.

Being the wonderful sport that I am, and wanting to try to salvage this semi-miserable honeymoon in paradise, I decide to go along with it. We grab towels and sun block. My husband hands me the map, and we’re on our way to a beautiful nude beach where movie stars hang out, which just by coincidence has great waves.

We drive for an hour. The island is very green, very lush, and extremely humid. It is early when we leave. For miles we drive never seeing another vehicle. We pass many other beaches. The sand is white. The water rushing to the shore comes in long, lingering pushes against the sand. I imagine myself lying in the sand at the water’s edge. There are no people on these beaches.

We are, for the first time this week, chatting peacefully. We are even laughing. My husband doesn’t have heartburn and I am not wheezing. With some distance between the hotel room and us, this vacation is starting to look more memorable. I’m starting to think that maybe, for once, my husband has had a good idea that won’t turn into the Nightmare in the Caribbean.

Then I see the sign: Orient Beach.

The sign is large. It is brightly colored. Orient Beach.

Our day is about to be an adventure in paradise. “I got you here,” I announce, crumbling the hand written map and throwing it in the back seat.

My husband looks around. He looks at the sign. “This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, pointing to the sign, “Orient Beach.”

“Nope,” he says. “This is Rient Beach. We want Orient Beach.”

“It is Orient Beach,” I continue, not having a clue what he is trying to say.

“Rient Beach,” he argues.

Now there’s an explanation here, an artistic interpretation. Imagine the word “Rient.” From the top of the “R” start an “O”. Bring it up and around the back of the “R” so that it looks like a giant “O” going around the word “Rient.” It is very clear to me. I can’t see the confusion.

I get out of the car.

“Get back in the car! This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says. He leans over the back of the seat and retrieves the map I just crumbled. “Why did you crumble this?” he mumbles. “I’ll get us there.”

“We are there,” I say. “Look at me.” He looks up.

As if my arm is a giant, thick, bold, black magic marker I am dramatizing the big “O” with my arm. I am drawing a giant “O” in the air. “See O … rient. ORIENT. See it? Don’t you see the “O”? Come on, think outside the box.” I am standing there drawing this giant “O” over and overagain in the air for my husband’s benefit.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go up to the billboard. I point to the “O” and draw a giant circle one more time.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go back to the car. I am standing next to his window. “Think of a giant ‘O.’ Now put the word ‘range’ in it. What have you got?”

Expecting to hear, “Orange,” all I get is, “Get in the car.”

“Orange,” I say. “Think ‘O’ plus ‘range’ is ‘orange.’”

He says nothing.

I try again. “Imagine the word ‘liver’ with a giant ‘O’ around it?”

“In the car,” he says louder.

I get louder, not liking the bossy tone he’s delivering. “Oliver. Think: ‘O’ plus ‘liver’ is Oliver!”

I push myself up on the hood, blocking the driver’s view. I am visibly enraged. With my finger, I write on the filthy windshield, “vulate.” Then I add the giant “O.” I am screaming. “Think. ‘O’ plus ‘vulate’ is ovulate.”

He has stopped talking.

“‘rgasm.’ ‘O’ plus ‘rgasm.’ Think!” I am writing “orgasm” across the windshield.
Screaming, “verload,” I yell and write. “‘O’ plus ‘verload,’ ‘OVERLOAD’.” I am now screaming over the engine. If anyone is hiding in the bushes, they’ve all jumped into the sea in fear of the mad woman on top of the hood of the car giving a spelling lesson to a baboon who can drive.

I get down from the hood. I open the car door get in, glaring at him, “You are such an AF!” I say.

“You mean ASS?” he says, trying to correct me.

“No,” I say. “You are an AF! ‘A.’ ‘F.’ ‘AF’.”

“What is an AF?” he asks.

“Sam, ‘AF’ with a big ‘O’ going around it. YOU ARE AN AF!” I say.

I turn my body away from him and stare out the window, trying to get a view of the great waves before we leave Rient Beach.

And then he shuts off the ignition.

“Oaf,” he says. “I am an oaf.” He meekly smiles, staring through the windshield with the words “orgasm” and “ovulate” and “overload” written in the filth.

I don’t say anything. We both silently get out of the car, grabbing our share of gear from the trunk and head toward the beach, and I swear, as we pass the “Orient Beach” sign, my husband says, “Ya know, that’s a really cool logo.”

---end

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

The Contents of this blog – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used, distributed, shared, emailed, or copied in any form without the written consent of the author/photographer.

Originally Published In Traveler’s Tales – Whose Panties Are These?
Also Published at CommonTies.com and Sasee Magazine.

To purchase WAITING IN THE WRONG LINE, follow the links at http://www.feliceprager.com

The Switch

My husband says, “Turn it off already!”

I tell him, “They forgot to install an on-off switch when I came off the assembly line.”

He mumbles something about the mold breaking when I fell off the conveyor belt, but soon forgives my inability to stay focused. He sees my shortcomings as a source of income.

The truth is, even if I could turn it off, I don’t know if I would.

At night when I’m in bed, my husband asks, “Are you concentrating, Felice? Are you with me? Are you here?”

I tell him I am. I wave from my corner of the galaxy.

“You’re writing in your head again, aren’t you?” he asks.

I reply, “Faster. Faster. A little to the left.”

The cop says, “Lady, do you know how fast you were going?” I don’t think it would convince a jury of my peers if the officer wrote on the speeding ticket, “Defendant said her mind was going a million miles a minute. She was developing a plot.”

In my house, food is never undercooked, cakes chew like cookies, and I never ask anyone how they want their meat cooked because I cannot guarantee results anyway.

I don’t know what the big deal is. I keep things under control. I pay bills early so they won’t be late. I never miss a deadline. I compensate for my distractions by being incredibly neurotic. My mind may be somewhere else, but my body is in the right place at the right time. I never forget a comma, but sometimes I forget directions or my makeup.

“I couldn’t help it,” I say. “I was writing.”

When my kids introduce me, they say, “This is my mom. She lives on another planet.”

Once my older son said, “This is my mom. She talks to pretend people.” Someone in Hollywood heard it, changed the quote a little and got very rich.

If the conversation is at Point A, I’m at Point K. I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ve been told I should pay better attention. I've also been told my segues are indicative of bad manners.

I have a friend who puts up with me. She says I entertain her. When she introduces me, she says, “Felice is somewhat circular in a semi-direct way.” She isn’t offended by my inability to stay on subject.

If you were on the perfect wave, would you stop surfing? If you found a gentle, intoxicating breeze, would you go to the indoor mall? If you were on a swing and you thought you were going to go over the top, would you stop pumping?

I have to go grocery shopping today, but first, I’m going to sit down at the computer for just five minutes. It may be five hours.

Did you say something?

----

Writer’s Digest Chronicle’s Winner December 2005

The Contents of these pages – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used or copied without the consent of the website owner and/or author/photographer.

The Math-Challenged Dieter

I received a phone call from the health and beauty reporter at a local newspaper.

"I read your essay in Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul, and I thought I could get an expert quote and some feedback from you about a theory I'm researching," she said.


The essay she was referring to is cute and easy to read, and I had sold it a few times to a few different periodicals before the Chicken Soup folks sent me a contract. The article does not make me an expert. In fact, I have written a lot about the success I had dieting and have made a little pocket change from it, but it still does not make me an expert. Losing a lot of weight just gave me a reason to shop for new clothes. According to this reporter, however, being in a Chicken Soup book made me worthy of being interviewed.



What she needed from me was a quote. "I'm doing a story about how the math part of dieting makes it hard for people to lose weight if they aren't good at math. I think everything that people count from calories to steps can intimidate people who want to lose weight. I'm looking for someone who can say something about how numbers make losing weight difficult. Maybe you know someone who failed at dieting because she hated counting how many calories or carbs she was eating. Maybe someone didn't like measuring portions or weighing food."


"I don't think being good or bad at math has anything to do with losing weight," I said.


"Experts say it does," she said. "Experts in the health and beauty field say it is why so many people fail at diets. They hate math. They hate numbers. So the diets don't work!"


It's kind of scary thinking there's a group of people out there who believe that being bad at arithmetic is going to lead a person to an inevitable fate: Permanent Irreversible Fatness.
My mind started wandering, as it often does when I'm talking to silly people about silly things. I envision the new topic on news broadcasts being "PIF – Permanent Irreversible Fatness – the disease that goes after those who never learned to add and subtract without using their fingers. Details at 5!"


I returned to the regularly scheduled broadcast as the reporter continued, "They've just discovered that counting calories helps you lose weight!"


"Are you serious?" I asked her. I was referring to the "just discovered" part of her statement, but in retrospect, I think she thought it was news to me.


"If you count calories and keep your caloric intake low, according to the experts," she repeated in a new and more serious way, "a person will lose weight! If you don’t count calories, you will fail at your diet."


"That's not new," I told her.


"Well, it's a new theory," she replied.


"It's not new," I repeated.


"Well, it doesn't matter if it's new or not," she said, "because if you're bad at math, then you can't keep track of calories and you're going to be fat."


I was wheezing at this point. There's something about comments like this that sets off my asthma more than a field of pollen-producing plants. I reached for my inhaler and started scribbling down her comments because I knew there was an article in this conversation. I was thinking that sooner or later, the health and beauty experts would be pointing their fingers at math teachers across America, saying, "You are the cause of a generation of fat people. Billy is FAT because BILLY CAN’T ADD!"


"So what you're saying is that if you can't add, you will lack success in dieting?"


"Yupper, you have to be good at math to keep track of all those calories, carbs, or whatever you’re counting. That's what the experts say. If you can't keep track of sit-ups and crunches, you're doomed."


"Does it work backwards?" I asked her.


"I don't understand," she replied.


"Well if you're bad at math right from the start, does that mean you'll be fat. If you're fat, does it mean that you're predetermined to be bad at math? Is it commutative?"


"Which one is commutative again?" she asked.


I didn't answer her.


"So can I quote you?" she asked.


"I didn't say anything to be quoted yet," I said, "but if you need a quote, try this: 'I don't agree with your theory. It doesn't make sense. It's silly. Losing weight has nothing to do with being able to add or subtract or even do long division. Dieting isn't about math, it's about really wanting to lose weight. It's about not putting garbage in your mouth. It's about exercise. It's about self-control. Not math. Plus, you can buy a calculator for under five bucks if you are really mathematically impaired.'"


"Yeah, but the experts say that it's hard to remember to keep track and write everything down," she said.


"Like I said," I repeated. "If you want to lose weight, whether you have to add, write something down, or maybe keep track of how many sit ups you do, if someone really wants to, the person will figure out a way. It has nothing to do with math."


"So you don't think it’s harder to lose weight if you're bad at math? You don't think being bad at math makes a difference?"


"You can quote me on that," I said. "One thing has nothing to do with the other."


"But. I mean if you're on a diet and you want to lose weight, when you have to count all those calories, and keep track, like it makes it so hard for some people."


"Then those people can go on a low carb diet," I told her, "because all you have to do is count up to twenty at first to stay under twenty carb limit at the Induction Phase, and some of the lowest carb foods have zero carbs. Zero carbs means zero math."


My humor was wasted on her.


- - -


©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.



This essay originally appeared at the Irascible Professor - April 10, 2007.

"Kewl Ur Jets! This Aint Skool."

Yesterday, I saw the words fued and occured in the headline of a very popular Internet provider's news page. I looked them up in the dictionary to make sure I wasn't losing my mind. I was right. They were spelled wrong.

This morning on a major news station on TV, the moving news banner at the bottom of the screen included the word truely. I knew without checking that they didn't even take the time to reread the text.



I see errors like these and I start screaming, "Proofread! Proofread!" as the rest of the world is screaming, "Kewl Ur Jets! This Aint Skool." No matter what I do, no matter how much I try, I open my eyes and I see them. They stick out on the page like chocolate stains on a white wedding gown. To me, they are as evident as a bad hair day. Right there in front of my eyes, they are yelling at me, "Hey, look at us! We're misspelled, and you can't do a thing about it!"

In the back of my brain I'm thinking, "How did those people ever get their jobs?" I'm mentally wording sarcastic letters to the editor explaining that they can purchase a paperback dictionary for less than ten bucks. More importantly, I'm asking, "Doesn't anyone care anymore?"

I cannot tell a lie: I sweat the small stuff. True, I probably sweat more small stuff than ten or twenty people combined. I suppose correcting the spelling on my husband's love letters twenty years ago was proof of that.

It also doesn't help that, in mixed company and on a regular basis, I yell at the TV every time someone mispronounces or misuses a word. "There is NO th in height, you moron!" Perhaps the fact that my kids introduce me as NM, NM being a shortened form of Neurotic Mom, should be a sign that I should lighten up a bit.

But I can't.

And I don't think I want to.

OLD STAINS

I wasn't always NM. There was a time when I was NT: Neurotic Teacher.

In my first year of teaching, I prepared a list of words that bothered me when they were misspelled. I gave my students a copy of this list and told them I wouldn't tolerate these words misspelled in their work. (I said things like, "I won't tolerate…" when I was a teacher. It made me feel so powerful. The power of the red felt tip marker. The power of the old-fashioned grade book.)

However, with that word list, I didn't care if they glued the list to the back of the head of the person who sat in front of them. I just didn't want to see those words spelled incorrectly in my student's work. I explained the concept of first impressions to my students and told them that when representing themselves with the written word, it was fundamental to get it all right.



Take the word a lot. It's always two words, but many people incorrectly spell it as one. Knowing this, I'd have my students recite things like "A lot is always always always always always always always always always always always always TWO WORDS." And when someone spelled it wrong anyway, I'd go a little crazy. I'd dramatically jump up and down and bang my head against the wall. And then I'd plop a dictionary on the kid's desk.

"Find alot!" I'd say. I'd watch the kid flip through the pages, and then eventually I'd hear, "Hey, Miss Klein, it's not here."

"Of course, it's not there!" I'd dramatically emphasize. "It's not a word. It's TWO words."



Then I'd make the kid write a lot a few hundred times for practice - to help him remember for the next time.

Nowadays, that would be considered corporal punishment, but when I taught, it was considered reinforcement. And it worked. By the end of the year, there wasn't a student in my class who would spell a lot wrong again.

One day while I was still teaching, I went out for my 42-minute lunch break and ran into an ex-student at the deli where I got my coffee. By this time, he had become a CPA.

"Yo, Miss Klein," he said. "How ya doin? Ya know, you were wrong about a lot. It is one word."

"No, it's not," I said.

"Yes, it is," he said.



Then he explained that he had written a report for his boss. His boss called him into his office, told him the report was excellent, but suggested that the next time he correct his spelling prior to submitting it. His boss had the two separate words a lot circled in red on his report.

At that point, I realized I was fighting a terrible monster because a lot is always always always always always always always always always two words…unless your boss says it's not, especially if your boss is also the guy who writes your check.

NEW STAINS

Fast forward to now. My kid comes home from school. "I have to memorize the demonstrative pronouns," he says. I dig up from the cobwebs of my brain the words this, that, these, and those. My kid shows me a sheet the teacher distributed from which to study. On it he has the title Demonstrative Pronouns. Then he has this, that, these, and there.

"THERE isn't a pronoun," I tell my kid. "It's an adverb. He should have had those on your list."



"Not according to my teacher," he says.



"Want me to call him and explain demonstrative pronouns to him?" I ask.



"Please don't, Mom. Be a writer, not a teacher," he says.

"But he's teaching you wrong," I say.



"I don't care," says my kid. "He's the one who gives me my grade. You hung up your grade book when I was born. Remember? "

He writes my check.



He gives me my grade.

FUTURE STAINS

My kids communicate with me at times via email and instant messages. We are a 21st Century Family. For instance, my younger son is saving for a drum set. I have to be honest; I haven't been doing a thing to help my kid in this direction. In fact, my house is already too noisy.

The other day I received an email from this son with an extended explanation and photos of a $500 set of blue drums. In the explanation was something about how drumming helps a student's math scores. He also mentioned that for a mere $59, silencing covers could be purchased and shipped with the drum set. I thought this method of persuasion was very creative on his part.



I sent my kid an email back with, "Nice drums. So how many lawns do you have to mow to get $500?"



I sent him a second email, "Higher math scores are over-rated. When, in the real world, will you ever use calculus anyway?" I know my reply will come back to haunt me.

As my sons get older, life has them spending more time with friends and less time with us. We pass in the night. I know this is the natural progression. I compensate by making great meals that teen aged boys can't pass up no matter how hard they try. Then we eat as a family, and we talk, laugh, discuss, and catch up on the little details they feel comfortable enough to share. Then they leave.

Computers and the Internet have kept us close. Just last week, I was sitting here writing, and an Instant Message popped up:

Drums987: Ur fone wuz bz, NM. Im at ryans. Can i sleep over? His mom sez its ok w/her if its ok w/u.


I cringe at his ease at writing in Computer English and try to decipher what he's written. I take a deep breath. I try to recall the joy of childbirth. I try to recall all the hours that I spent reading to him. I think about the hours that I spent helping him with schoolwork. I try to remember all the essays I've proofread for him.


SurfPrincess12345: I don't understand. That's not English. Spell it right for the answer you want.


Drums987: Ur such a pain, NM!!!!!!!!


SurfPrincess12345: Sleep where? I can't hear you. Spell it right.

Drums987: MOM! Why cant u b like other moms?


SurfPrincess12345: That would be so boring. Now, spell it right or come home!

Drums987: U R such an NM.

SurfPrincess12345: So what else is new? Spell it right!

Drums987: I wuv u A LOT. Don't you wuv me A LOT? A LOT IS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS 2 wds..

SurfPrincess12345: I wuv you, too. Call me in the morning.

It dawns on me that this is a battle I cannot win.

- - -

©2002 Felice Prager

Originally Published at the Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-03-10-02.htm

Careers that Begin with "P"

Mike the Plumber helped me unclog my water heater last week. When Mike replaced our old water heater in 2001, he explained that routine maintenance would extend our water heater’s life up to ten years. This amounted to attaching a hose to the bottom of the water heater and letting the water drain down our driveway for 30 seconds a month. Neither my husband nor I routinely maintained the water heater, so when Mike had to poke a wire into the clog of sediment, and the wet sediment sprayed all over him, I felt a little guilty. I got him several towels to wipe off the gunk. I offered him a beer, but he settled for a Coke. I offered to wash his shirt, but he said it wasn’t necessary because he always brings an extra one. While Mike wiped his face and got the sediment out of his hair and ears, we talked about our children. Mike has been our plumber for years; our kids went to the same schools.

Mike told me the latest dilemma in his daughters’ lives has been about their majors. Mike said that his older daughter, who will be graduating in the spring, has decided she hates her major. He said she is very stressed about it and nothing he says to her seems to help. His younger daughter is equally stressed because she has to declare her major at the end of next semester and has not figured out what she wants to do.

I made Mike feel a little better when I told him that my sons were running pretty much parallel with his daughters. One son has told us he is not thrilled with his major with just another lap to go, and the other son is also undecided.

"What made you decide to be a plumber," I asked.

Mike told me when he went to college, he got a degree in anatomy because he wanted to be a doctor. By the time he got his undergraduate degree, he realized he did not want to spend any more time in a classroom, so he became a policeman. Then he got married and his daughters were born. After he was shot once in his shoulder -- he showed me the scar when he was changing his shirt -- his wife made it abundantly clear that, if he ever wanted to see his daughters again, he would find a career that did not require dodging bullets. Twenty years ago, a friend who owned a plumbing company offered Mike a job.

I asked Mike if he was happy doing what he does. He said he liked almost everything about it -- except when his clients do not maintain their water heaters.

Then, Mike asked, "Did you always want to be a writer?"

I shared my story: When I told my parents that I wanted to write for The Tonight Show, the response I got was, "Be a teacher. Teachers have jobs." Their logic was that it was more likely that I would get married and have babies than it would be to get a job writing for Johnny Carson. With teaching, they said, I would always have a career to fall back on. I did what my parents suggested, taught English for a bunch of years, had my children, and never ever ever wanted to fall back on education. I started writing while my kids were at school each day, and except for the obligatory rejection letters, it wasn't a half bad way to make a terrible living.

I told Mike that my husband had a different dream. Having grown up near the beach, he told his parents he wanted to go to the University of Hawaii to major in marine biology. His parents said, "Major in business. If you go to school anywhere near a beach, you will wind up surfing all day and never get a degree." There may have been some truth to that.

When I asked Mike what advice he has given his daughters, he laughed and said, "I don’t give them advice. They don't listen to me anyway." That sounded familiar. What Mike and I realized, however, was that we actually have given our children the same advice: "Do what you love, and if you can't do what you love, then love what you do." Unfortunately, this falls short of actually pointing someone in a direction, so it is probably no better than the advice we got from our parents.

After Mike left, I went on the internet and started investigating college majors and career choices. Many university websites have valuable information that is supposed to help a student pinpoint his or her direction. I decided that if I were making choices for myself, a website would not help me much.

Then I did a little more digging and found some information that I thought was pertinent to kids and adults who are confused about their futures. I learned that:

• Country singer, Garth Brooks, has a degree in marketing.
  


• Frank Capra, director of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life, and It Happened One Night had a degree in chemical engineering.
  


• Roger Corman, director of many films, including the original film version of The Little Shop of Horrors, received an industrial engineering degree from Stanford.
  


• Howard Cosell was a labor lawyer before becoming a sportscaster.
  


• Oscar Hammerstein II received a law degree from Columbia University Law School, but gave that up to write the lyrics for such musicals as The Sound of Music and Show Boat.
  TV host, Montel Williams, is a highly decorated former Naval engineer and Naval intelligence officer.
  


• Ashton Kutcher of Hey, Dude! Where's My Car? and That 70s Show majored in biochemical engineering.
  


• Weird Al Yankovitz got his degree in architecture.
  

Those are just a few of the examples I found. There were pages of them. I figured those few made my point.

Last night, my younger son, who is living in a dorm at his college, called me with a whole week’s worth of things to tell me:

First, his English professor liked his paper so much that she thinks it might be publishable. He said at first he thought that was a sign that maybe journalism might be a good major for him until he realized he really doesn't like to write.

Second, he thinks he is going to drop calculus because even though he did well in calculus in high school, he thinks he is already in over his head and maybe he should have listened to us when we suggested taking an easier math class his first semester.

Third, his roommate accidentally flushed the plastic thing that holds the toilet paper down the toilet. Realizing that when the plumber got there and found the plastic thing inside the toilet, that they might have to pay for the repair, they decided to fix it themselves. They went online and found a site about how to fix toilets. They shut off the water, unscrewed the toilet from the floor, and managed to pull out the toilet paper holder. While reaching up into the toilet, something rubber crumbled in my son's hand. He thought it might be a gasket or something, but he was not sure. They reattached the toilet anyway, and when they turned on the water, the gasketless toilet leaked. They called maintenance. When maintenance fixed the toilet, there was no charge since the repairman just assumed the leak came from wear and not from inexperienced, computer-educated plumbers.

I told my son about my experience with Mike the Plumber and about his daughters' dilemmas. My son said he still does not know what he wants to be when he grows up, but he thought it was cool that he could handle a plumbing emergency. Then he added, "I’m up to "P" this week. Hey, maybe, when I grow up, I'll be a paramedic, a plumber, or a pirate."

It made sense to me, but then again, I am his mother.

- - - - -

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

(Originally published at the Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-10-30-06.htm )

Counting to a Billion

I received a very peculiar phone call last week. The man’s voice sounded unusually similar to that of my Great Uncle Seymour, which is why I didn’t hang up in the first place. The call started with, “Hello, Sir or Madam,” (At this point, I had a hunch it might have been a recording, but I was committed.) “You have just won one billion dollars!”

At the words, “one billion dollars,” my latent listening skills went into over-drive.

“Yes, you, Sir or Madam, have won a billion dollars! All you have to do to keep your winnings is stop everything you’re doing the minute the money arrives at your front door and count it, one bill at a time to check for accuracy. The money will not be yours to spend or invest until you, Sir or Madam, have counted every single one dollar bill in the billion that will be shipped to your home, office, or alternate address. There will be a C.O.D. charge for postage and handling which we will charge to your credit card. Please, Sir or Madam, at the sound of the tone, provide us with your name, address, telephone number, credit card number with the expiration date, social security number, and your mother’s maiden name. Thank you and congratulations, Sir or Madam. This has been your lucky day. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.”

Okay, now before anyone begins to think I was born yesterday, I didn’t fall for the scam. And I knew I was in error thinking it was my Great Uncle Seymour. He still tries to slip me a twenty-dollar bill every time I see him at a relative’s wedding, but I know he’s on a fixed income, so a billion dollars is really pushing it.

The phone call did make me think, however. The idea of winning a billion dollars simply by counting it began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

So I started doing the math. I used a calculator to check for accuracy.

I made the assumption that I did, in fact, win that billion dollars. And, as in the phone call, it would be mine only after it was counted. I would do this alone without assistants or a money-weighing machine. I would be diligent and efficient, taking no breaks. I would count until I was finished.

I figured I could count a bill a second. That seemed reasonable. In a minute I could count $60, which would be $3600 in an hour. I kept multiplying. $3600 per hour times 24 hours would be $86,400 per day. If I continued for 365 days, I’d be at $31,536,000 at the end of the first year.

Thirty-one and a half million dollars and I still haven’t slept, eaten, showered, used the phone, paid my bills, paid my income tax, or gone to the bathroom! But those would be only minor inconveniences. I’d have a billion dollars waiting for me! Yippee! A billion dollars would be mine. I’d drive expensive cars and eat in the finest of restaurants. I’d have a maid! I’d be doing the Dance of
Joy in my mansion on my own island in the South Pacific.

Back to counting one bill at a time, one bill per second.

At five years I’d have counted out $157,680,000.

At ten years, I would be at $315,360,000.

At twenty years, I’d be more than halfway there, having counted $630,720,000.

I figured it would take a little less than 32 years to get to a billion dollars. The year would be 2032, and the money would finally be mine.

True, I’d have a Charley horse from sitting so long, my hair would be gray, my hands would be permanently cramped, I’d have developed a nervous twitch, and I’d be over seventy years old, but the money would be mine.

Unfortunately, I’d also have stopped writing for 32 years. This, more than any of my bodily functions, would be a major problem. I might get the label of the world’s most efficient procrastinator. People might say I deliberately counted the money just to avoid facing the day-to-day struggles of being a writer.

But the money would be mine.

Yesterday I had a thought. If I typed a word a second without a break, I’d have a billion words written in 32 years. Then I was thinking I could type really short words like “a” and “an” and “it” and “in” and be done in half the time. Then maybe, I could finish my novel. I could even write another novel, or even two more novels.

The idea of typing a billion words began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

* * *
©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

(The Contents of this blog – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used, distributed, or copied without the consent of the author or photographer.)

Finding My Humor

(Note: This is the first column I wrote and sold after 9/11. I normally repost it around September 11 every year, but I think it is more appropriate to repost it now.)

Finding My Humor
By Felice Prager

　
"I'm holding up well. We all are. I was home all of last week but tried to go into work today. I was able to get into the building, but we didn't have any power or phones, so I went home. It was pretty strange downtown. The smell of burning was everywhere and there were still ashes drifting around. Strangest thing was seeing the soldiers though. On my way home, I stopped by the deli where I get my breakfast every morning to make sure everyone was OK. They were a block closer and at street level. They were all fine. We hugged and cried. Very emotional. The building guy said ConEd was working grid by grid. I won't go into the city tomorrow but probably will try again Wednesday. I need to think of other things. How are you? Written anything lately? I could use a laugh."

(Email from a close friend who worked near where the World Trade Center used to stand.)

　
Through dark clouds of smoke, I open my eyes slowly, take a deep breath, and decide I must go on. I must be wise. I must look ahead from the darkness and the horror. I must remember. I must be strong.

I receive an email from my oldest friend who is still living in New Jersey.

"Do you remember when we hid under your bed during the air raid drills when we were in second grade?" she asks. I was just telling my kid about that last night. Air raid drills. A hundred years ago. A different world ago. Wearing pedal pushers and Keds, giggling with my best friend as we played with dolls during a safety drill, beneath the lavender bed frill on my lavender carpet. "Your father brought us cookies," she writes. "And then he told us not to make crumbs because your mother would be mad."

In my self-imposed solitary confinement, I must force myself to go out. I must not be alone. I must reach into my humanity and be part of the whole, not a piece floating on the edge. It is not a comfortable fit for me. With the world turned upside down, my thoughts have been squeezed beyond recognition and my heart has been emptied.

My older son comes into my office with a gold pencil sharpener in his hands. It is a replica of the World Trade Center. We got it while visiting family back east in 1991. We took the Path train under the Hudson River into the city and went to the top of the tower. The helicopter he could see at eye level mesmerized my younger son, but he says he doesn’t remember the trip at all. He doesn't remember his comments about cars looking like Matchbox cars below. My older son remembers his ears popping in the elevator and that it took a long time to get up to the top.

"Want this pencil sharpener for your desk?" he asks. "Maybe it will inspire you. Maybe it will help you write."

Self-motivation drives writers in various ways. With me, I know what I have to do to get in the mood. I know what works for me. It usually doesn’t take much. I love what I do, so getting in the mood to do what I love isn’t difficult. When I’m not stimulated enough to be creative, I know tricks to get there. However, the occurrences in the world have sent me soaring downward, and like everyone else, I keep reaching for a lifeline, and my hand keeps missing it. I am drained of emotion and full of emotion. I am confused and angry. I have more emotions going through me than I can control, and I’m afraid. Beyond that, I feel guilty.

I hear others talking, explaining, looking for words, "It’s hard," they say. "It’s just really hard."

It is hard.

"What do you remember most about New York?" I ask my husband. We haven’t lived there in more than a dozen years. "I mean besides the obvious. Besides the theater and the restaurants. Tell me some things you remember. I need something to hold onto. Tell me something funny you remember about New York."

I am looking for my humor. In the turmoil and sadness, it’s been buried deeply, and I’m feeling guilty even trying to find it. Where I can usually find words and twist them into humor, there are none. My words are mundane and trite. My words are cliché. At best, my words fit poorly.

"I remember when we you used to meet me in the city after work. Before the kids were born. When we used to go to the theater or dinner. You always insisted on wearing stupid shoes, and you always complained that you couldn’t walk because your feet hurt."

I did wear stupid shoes. I couldn't walk.

"That’s what you remember?" I ask him.

"You wanted something funny," he says.

"You find my foot pain funny?" I ask. "I wanted to look good for you. Those shoes were very fashionable."

"You did look good," he says. "You looked great. You just had to stand still the whole time."

I laugh and feel guilty laughing.

We watch some TV. We see the haunting images. We sit in silence.

"Remember the dessert at Windows on the World?" I ask. That was the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. "The best chocolate pecan praline mousse I have ever had."

We watch a bit more and my younger son comes in the room. He has a picture he’s printed out from something he's seen online. "Look at this," he says. "It was in the news." He shows us a picture. "People are saying they see the image of the devil in the smoke." It's a picture of the enormous clouds of smoke when the towers fell and within the smoke, there are definite shapes. I squint my eyes and see how they can see the shape of a devil, but shake my head at the thought.

My husband looks at the picture. "Adrienne Barbeau." He says. "That’s what I see."

"Jenna Berman," says our younger son. "That’s what I see."

"Who is Jenna Berman?" I ask.

"Period Four. Near the door. Blonde. Hot."

"Oh, he sees Jenna Berman in his Cheerios," my older son says.

We look at each other and there is some levity, but it’s short lived.

It's early in the morning, with the sun behind me. I head over roads with names like Squaw Peak and Dreamy Draw. I am in my Jeep. The top is pushed back. I see 200-year-old saguaros surrounded by concrete growing out of modern cement structures. I see pencil palm trees soaring above the world. I see architecture, crisp, new, and inventive. I am speeding. My foot is pushing, pushing, pushing on the pedal. The wind is blowing my hair into a river flowing behind me. The adrenaline is pumping me up to the place I need to be.

While driving with my senses in overdrive, I know I am going to get there. I will get my drug. I will have a great day of writing once again. I hope. My pad on the passenger seat with the pen in my hand, I am driving one handed, scribbling thoughts, words, sentences. I am getting past all the dysfunctional places I hate thinking about and getting those words onto paper. Whether or not I will be able to read them later is questionable, but it doesn't matter.

I’m sitting at a red light behind a white Dodge Grand Caravan. I can see through its rear window that the driver is a blonde woman and that there are two bouncing toddlers in the backseat. The children are not in car seats and from the height of each of their bounces, I can tell that they aren’t wearing seatbelts. The woman is putting on mascara with her head bent, keeping her cell phone tight between her shoulder and her ear. The traffic light turns green. She continues talking on the phone and applying her makeup while she drives through the intersection. She is drinking a can of Coke without a straw. I watch her bring the can to her mouth several times, tilting her head back to take a drink, presumably taking her eyes off the road. Every few minutes, I also see this multi-tasking wonder woman turn her head 180 degrees to yell at her children. She’s driving above the speed limit, and she is not staying in her lane.

Very out of character, I don’t get angry.

I’m singing again where I haven’t been able to sing. I’m harmonizing with Dave Matthews, occasionally getting a whole stanza of lyrics right. I’m bopping, even if slightly out of rhythm. With my blinker as warning, I calmly pull past the Caravan of Confusion. I don’t even give the driver of the Caravan the finger. Instead, I wave the small American flag I have on the passenger seat. She points to the flag on her car and gives me the thumbs up sign.

The volume on my CD player is on high, front and back speakers are pumping, woofers and subwoofers are earning their keep, and I can’t wait to get home. There are words screaming out of my head. I can’t scribble them down fast enough at the red lights. I can’t save the thoughts. They’re spilling out of my ears and out of my mouth. They’re sweet. They’re ripe. They taste so delicious. I want to seal my mouth shut so I don’t lose any of them. My heart is thumping. My head is screaming. The fear of losing them is panicking me. Gotta write. Gotta write.

I get home and write for hours. When I read back what I've written, I'm very disappointed, but at least there are words.

My younger son comes into my office after school. "I came up with a great way for you to support our economy," he says. "It's your patriotic duty. It's the American thing to do."

He puts a catalog in front of me. There are a bunch of tee shirts on the page. "I want this one," he says. The tee shirt is black with white lettering. It says, "What if the Hokey-Pokey IS really what it's all about!"

"Well?" he asks. "Can I have it? It's for America. It will help improve our economy."

I give him one of those looks that mothers reserve for sons. It's a look that can be interpreted many ways. My son interprets it internally and leaves my office, but he's laughing. "I knew you'd like that shirt," he says as he leaves the room.

I'm looking for my humor and it's appearing in small doses and on tee shirts in catalogs.

My humor is coming back.

But it’s hard.

It’s just really hard.
　
　
©2001 by Felice Prager.
　

Confessions of a Non-Bungler

"If you bungle raising your children, nothing else matters in life."

Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy Onassis (1929-1994)

(Originally Published September 1, 2002 by the Irascible Professor)

It's been a tough couple of days. My husband and I drove our oldest son to the University of Arizona in Tucson.

Actually, we followed our son who was driving his pickup truck filled with his stuff. We were in our Jeep filled with more of his stuff. Our son has been shopping all summer for college things that seem to be the retail world's newest niche market. From a computer to plastic stackable color-coordinated crates to extra-long sheets to a dorm-sized microwave to foods especially made for dorm-sized microwaves, the cost of a college education has taken on a completely different perspective in 2002.

"Are you buying carpet for his room?" my neighbor whose daughter is attending the same university asked.

"I didn't think of that," I admitted.

"Did you get her a coffee maker?" I asked.

"I didn't think of that," she admitted.

And then there are the ads on TV: "Dude, you're getting a Dell." In our case, it was a Dell laptop with speakers and a subwoofer, CD/DVD burner, and more bells and whistles than are on my husband's Jeep Wrangler. We agreed that a laptop was the computer of choice since the campus was designed with computer ports everywhere, even next to park benches. My son's girlfriend opted for a similar laptop but hers has wrist rests in midnight blue, which coincidentally match her comforter, sheets, desk lamp, and collection of plastic crates.

On our drive to Tucson, we stopped once on the road and ate breakfast while my husband and I reviewed the rules of credit card usage and anything else we could collectively remember to nag about in our son's direction. I had decided I wasn't going to nag about anything, but everything that came out of my mouth was some sort of directive. I blame it on nerves.

We, as did hundreds of other parents, helped our kid get his things up to his mini dorm room that fortunately is on the second floor instead of the eighth floor of one of many buildings filled with excitedly nervous students and their suddenly choked up parents. We met his roommate and his roommate's parents. On first impression, I don't think they will drive each other crazy or make each other as unhappy as my college roommate and I did when we were younger and less tolerant. I made my son's bed for him although it was unnecessary and stopped the mothering thing when I got a stern glance from my husband as I started hanging up his clothes in his mini-closet that is next to his mini-dresser.

"You made his bed?" my neighbor asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"I forgot to make her bed," she said. "I feel so bad."

"Don't feel bad. She probably didn't even notice."

"Maybe I should drive down and visit her. Would you come with me?" she asked. "I feel so guilty."

"I'm sure she's made her bed," I said, trying to cheer her up. Then we both got choked up knowing we won't be driving down to visit them until Parent's Weekend at the end of October.

My husband, my son, and I took a walk around a very 21st century campus. He picked up his pre-ordered books at the bookstore. "You know this is what you're here for" foamed out of my mouth before I could stop myself from making another unnecessary nagging comment. Our son treated us to super-sized sodas at the Student Center using his prepaid food card that we paid for. And then we left.

On the ride home, my husband and I made awkward, choked-up small talk. We agreed that the University of Arizona is a fine choice of schools. We agreed that if our son works hard and takes advantage of what the university offers, he will have a fine future. There were uncomfortable silences as my husband continued to drive us home and I wiped tears from my eyes as I looked out the window. We agreed that the school makes many things much easier than when we were in college. Our son registered for classes online after a mandatory orientation he went to in late May. He ordered his required books online. I paid for his tuition, books, food, and parking online. Last week he went to his personal account at the University of Arizona's web site and found his schedule in list, graph, and map formats. He (and I) can access anything he needs from this site including his bill, a calendar of events and deadlines, degree requirements, a directory of students and professors, and his grades.

When we got home, I showed my husband the site since he rarely gets a chance at home to get online. After showing him the University of Arizona's impressive web site, we looked up the universities we attended so many years ago and were equally impressed with their web sites. We also felt very old. My husband and I were shocked at how the universities we attended had grown and reminisced to each other about this dorm or that building and things that happened almost 30 years ago. In addition, we reminisced about the agony of getting approval for and registering for classes back in the pre-computer age. We also remembered our parents receiving our grades via snail mail. Back in the Stone Age, the requirements for comfort in our dorms consisted of bringing our torn jeans, an 8-track player, and a typewriter and carbon paper. At the end of the corridor in our son's dorm, there were two old phone booths for pay phones that are no longer there. We remembered the phone messages we each found taped to our doors from our parents when we were in school: "What's the matter? Is your finger broken?" That won't be the case with our son who will be able to be accessed via email or phone at any hour. In our son's dorm, each room is wired with phone access with call waiting, cable TV access, and Ethernet capabilities connected to the university's huge computer system. My son already has a list of reading for one class where he simply clicks a link and an article from the university's main library is accessed. He never has to leave his dorm room. He can access it from any port on campus using his personal pin number. He also has copy machines in the lobby of his dorm. In the days of the dinosaurs, we spent endless hours waiting in line for the required book our professor wanted us to read. My husband made comments when we were in the dorm about how with all the electronic paraphernalia, there was no room to actually "write" on the desks. My son and his new roommate both looked at him cross-eyed as they continued to hook up their printers.

I know I'm supposed to be proud of my son's achievements which gained him acceptance into such a fine university and excited for his potential opportunities, but instead, the shock of my son moving out and being on his own hit me like nothing I ever expected. In fact, I spent the last two days cleaning his room, drowning out the sound of maternal sobbing with a powerful steam carpet-cleaning machine. Not that his room was that dirty, although there were Dr. Pepper stains on his carpet and other questionable marks on his walls hidden from me when he suddenly decided to rearrange his furniture a year ago. So I moved his bed back up against the windows where it used to be so my cats can look out and chase blowing leaves, flying birds, and the occasional lizard that races from one safe spot to the next. I went through my kitchen cabinets and pulled out items no one else in my house eats for my son's first care package. I cleaned the bathroom so my younger son can't say, "He did it!" when it gets too disgusting in there. And I anxiously kept the computer on, hoping to see my son's screen name pop up on my buddy list. It didn't. Instead, the phone rang last night, and my husband, younger son, and I each had a short conversation from our son away from home. We learned that he will be driving home to get his bike. He had originally planned to bring it, but while packing, he made the decision not to. I can't say I'm unhappy about his error.

Then my younger son got on the phone. "We've rented your room," he said. "to a Swedish exchange student named Inga."

It was the first time I laughed in days.

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©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.