Bleeping bleepity bleep

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There were two things my parents might say that could make the hair stand up on my arms. One scenario involves Mother in the sewing room at the back of the house, hovering over her sewing machine. Perhaps she made a mistake in her sewing, or more likely, her old Singer machine had eaten up the thread, or the needle had broken. "Curses!" she would say with considerable vitriol. That would make me disappear from the room in a hurry. That is what Mother said when she was outraged. The other time she would do this was sometimes when she was trying to style her hair before going to church. Mother, poor Mother, has always been incredibly impatient with her hair. Typically, she would sleep on pink sponge curlers, then take them out after Sabbath breakfast. There she would be in the bathroom, after all of us had finished getting ready for church, trying to get her hair to behave. Since it wouldn't conform to the picture in her head of how she wanted to look, she'd begin raking through it with her hairbrush. Of course, that would make it bushy and wild. "Oh...curses!" she'd explode, slamming her hairbrush down on the counter top. We'd all head for the car to wait for her to come out, hair askew. It never crossed our minds to laugh--she was white hot.

This was the way we felt the few times when we heard Daddy say with the strongest passion, "Jew-dass pa-reest!" We'd freeze, then try to disappear just to get away from his fury. He wouldn't hurt us, just explode and stomp around. But he only did that when he was at the height of his element. The other thing he'd say that made me hold my breath was, "What the Sam Hill?" or his incredulous, "What in the cat hair?!"

I ask you, who is Judas Priest and where is Sam Hill, and of what significance is cat hair? I don't know the origin of these sayings, but country folk used to say some pretty funny things. If this was as bad as the language got, it really wasn't that bad at all. But it was funny.

There were other things that I heard people say when they were angry. Nana used to exclaim, "By Cramp!" when she was upset. Great-grandfather used to say, "Gee Rudney!" when something of note happened.
"Gads!" "Gah!" or "Guy!" were other comments that always make me chuckle. My friend, who grew up on a farm in Tennessee drawls out, "Hwhat in tar?!" while others say, "what in tarnashun?" And a shirt-tail relative used to say, "Great Day in the mornin!" An elderly man whom I used to care for used to say, "Good night shirt!" if he saw something that defied explanation.
Mother tells of an old boyfriend she had in New York City back in the 40s who used to say, "Holy jump up and sit down!" Mother would go to pieces laughing. "Jumping Jehoshaphat!" conjures up a hilarious mental image, as does "Holy Nellie!" and "Great Scott!" My sister's, "What the blazes?!" cracks me up.
The British say things that to our American ears are quite hilarious, but to them mean really bad things. Sometimes it makes one laugh just to hear anger expressed with an accent. My friend Betty used to say with exasperation, "My giddy auhnt!" with great effect. And my cousin's grandmother used to exclaim, "Mercy me, I do pray!"
My Australian friend used to use the qualifier, "flogging" in front of anything that he wanted to emphasize: "The flogging door was locked!" This used to double me up with laughter, which annoyed him more.
Then there is my dear cousin who exclaims, "Oh, forevermore!" Daddy's description of an irksome element as being "consarned" or his hasty comment, "Confound it!" used to make me want to laugh. But he said these in the heat of the moment, when a laugh would be seen as defiance. So I have chortled to myself for years over his, and other such euphemistic expletives.
I wonder where some of these hilarious comments come from. For now, they are a mix of warm memories and laughter.

Waiting for babies

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Sam and I have wanted to get a dog for a long time now. The house is just too quiet without having little wiggly, furry bodies buzzing around us. Otis is good but only so far as his feline dignity allows him to move past proper decorum. So we thought maybe we'd get a puppy. After sifting through all the breeds available, and trying to decide what our miniscule yard could provide for exercise opportunities, we ruled out Great Danes (very sadly, I might add) or any other large breed of dog. But we came across Cockapoo dogs: a cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a small size poodle. Poodles, as you may know, are the most intelligent of all dog breeds. They also do not shed and are lovely little dogs. But a bit too fru fru for me. I will not be the type of pet owner that buys little matching sweaters for dog and owner, or who paints their nails pink. I would like an intelligent yet loyal and fun-loving dog. I've always wanted to have a schnauzer, but Sam thinks they look like mean little, yappy dogs. He's turned off by their eyebrows and beards. What about a schnoodle? He doesn't like that, either. Then we came across these little dogs.

Found here

One of my students has a 3-month old cockapoo that is all black and had been enjoying long sleepy naps in her satchel (in my class!) I didn't even know she had this puppy until one day it whimpered and her cover was blown. I called Sam right away at work and asked him to drop by my class on his way home. If I could just get him to hold one, it would be all over. I did, and it was.

That very night he called the same breeder that my student's dog came from and put our name on the list to be notified when they arrived.

But how could we get a puppy only to leave it alone for 9 hours at a time? One of my concerned students suggested that we do what she did: buy two of them and they will keep each other company. Terrific idea. So we are on the waiting list for a copper colored puppy and a black or brindle puppy. We hear that the females are possessive and temperamental, so both will be male. Sam's girls are ecstatic that they will have puppies to cuddle when they visit, and we are too. Especially when the breeder called to tell us that they will begin the breeding process next month and we should have our puppy ready to bring home no later than mid-July. These dogs make excellent therapy animals. Perhaps I will get mine and put them through obedience training for a year, as is required, and then have them join me in therapy. My student took her puppy to a school (with the principle's permission) and worked with a little boy who had quit talking due to some kind of distress at home. When Meli climbed into his lap, he started talking to her and petting her, even asking questions about what kind of dog she was, etc. He was an entirely different child. I think this might be a great use for a dog, in addition to cheering our hearts.

Now while we wait, I'm thinking about puppy names. I always wanted a Great Dane named Fiona, (roll your eyes, Sam!) but that will not happen until we have a house in the country at retirement. For now, Baxter, Buoso, and Fritz sound like good possibilities. What do you think?

Moto perpetuo

This quarter has been almost more than I could bear. Honestly, as I look back, I wonder how I've managed.
It all began when some students whom I am supervising decided that they weren't going to teach an online course at another university. They decided not to do it on the morning the class began. Guess who got caught holding the bag and is teaching it now? I was beside myself for about 10 minutes, before I realized that if I didn't get with it, I'd be behind. So far, so good.
But that is only the beginning. A couple months ago I was asked to write two chapters for a book that is coming out of Andrews University Press. It is about social issues and the way the church can respond to them. I chose two topics that I have some clinical interest in: female circumcision, and prostitution. The goal was to have them written by the end of December. However, it was soon apparent that I wouldn't have time to get to it during December, even though I only took 2 days off during Christmas break (which was no break at all).
You guessed it: I got an extension from the editor until January 31st. One chapter was co-authored, so I cranked out the changes and got it sent in right away. The other chapter though, had one week in which it had to be written. I wrote from 6:30 Sunday morning until 4:45 a.m. on Monday morning. I hope not to do that again anytime soon. I'm sure that I'll have to revise some of it after the editor reads it. Then I spoke Wednesday evening at the church for an hour and a half, about relationships and longevity. I was so exhausted that all inhibition slipped away and I acted like a wind up clown. People were roaring with laughter and shouting out answers to me as we went along. I think it went okay but I didn't recognize myself in my delivery. I think it was that I was just so very tired.
Today I hosted Medical Family Therapy Grand Rounds, and provided breakfast for everyone who attended. Then I had a conference with my research team at another university before taking a student to lunch so we could talk about a paper she's written and plan another one that we're co-authoring. Then I rushed home to clean up and cook for our company tonight.
On Wednesday I will address the university body at our weekly chapel. Do I know what I'm going to say? No. So I will have to work on that this week.
On top of all of this, I have been really having a hard time teaching one of my classes about health and illness in families. Why? Because three clinical psychology doctoral students sit in the class and they stare at me unflinchingly through the entire 3 hour course. I've never had anything like it! They rarely write any notes, and they don't look bored or engaged. It is disconcerting, and has put me in knots. So I've had trouble trying to do the mind over matter thing and just teach as if they aren't staring at me. (The learning culture is quite different in their department. We tend to be warm and personable and they are more remote and formal. I'm just not used to it). So I've put all kinds of extra time into developing lectures that might move them to respond more. I'm not convinced that I have figured it out, but at this point I'm planning just to teach and they can take it or leave it (I hear through the grapevine that they like it, so that is a relief).
Oh, and did I mention that my computer is trying to crash? The university ordered a new one for me, but in the meantime I'm enduring bouts of pinkish coloration, a jiggly screen, blotchy black blobs, and wavy wrinkles zipping across the screen. I've been using a loaner computer from the department but I quickly found that I can't access wireless with it. My documents are on my crashing computer, so I have to keep that one nearby. Then, in order to show slides for class I have had to use Sam's computer. So off I go to school with three computers in tow. Ridiculous.
With all of this going on I feel like I'm ready to drift into a coma. Is it any wonder that I am thrilled to welcome the Sabbath to our home? I thank God that I've been able to keep up with all of this. Thankfully, it won't be for much longer.

Smells

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I remember sitting on my hotel bed in Dublin watching a BBC special program about the sense of smell, and how it regulates so many aspects of life. This is a scene from that special and it cracks me up, just like it did then. And you thought your job stinks! Just try this for a couple days!

There are still so many things that one sniff can initiate. Just this morning I drove in to work the back way, out through the orange groves, through town on an historic "old money" street, then back down behind a community hospital to a historic wagon trail that is now a meandering road through a canyon, then around through another orange grove and into town where the university is. I love going that way--so much to look at. This morning there were more than sights to attend to. A skunk had been wandering across campus and left a trail of eye-watering stench behind him. Since my office had been closed up all night, the air from the vents had no place to go. Yes, my office reeked this morning and there I was, just a few moments before doing a telephone interview for my research and my eyes were swimming with the smell. I'm sure my voice sounded full of empathy as I choked and blew my nose from time to time. My African student thought it was hilarious, especially since there are no skunks in Kenya and this was an entirely new experience for her.

My older brother has a nose like a hound dog. He can detect anything. If he were not a teetotaler, he would be a wine taster. He actually has been hired in his job at a bakery to be a food technician, largely due to his sense of smell. If a product doesn't sell very well they bring it to my brother. He will taste a cookie or muffin and thoughtfully chew for a moment or two before saying, "You can't package this in styrofoam. I taste the styrofoam. It's not good." So they change it to a cardboard box and celophane and the sales go up exponentially. What a discriminating nose! He has also been known to be driving the car in a downpour, when he will scrunch up his nose and say, "Someone up ahead of us is smoking a really nasty cigar." He speeds up and sure enough, we pass a car with their windows rolled up and a man is puffing away on a big old cigar. Amazing!

There are many smells that bring me back to memories of my early life. For example, my Nana's kitchen smelled like stale coffee and kitty litter. I can still see the milk bottles from the dairy sitting at the top of the steps into the kitchen.

There is also a scent that I smell whenever I go into my mother's apartment. I can smell the old glue in the antiques that she has in addition to a musty old cedar scent--I don't know what that is, but it's strong. Mother's glaucoma eye drops have robbed her of most of her sense of smell, so she often asks me if I will come over to "smell my sweaters." She can't tell if they need to be washed. I've asked her, "Why don't you just wash them every time you wear them?" but that somehow goes against the grain, since frequent washing will ruin them. So sometimes when I drop her off at the Villa, she says impishly, "Hey...want to come up to my room and sniff my sweaters?" I roll my eyes and she throws her head back in laughter.

I well remember sitting in church next to Mother on more than one occasion when she leaned over to my father before the service started, and in a stern whisper discreetly asked, "Does this dress smell bad?" Daddy would get a glimmer in his eyes, lean into Mother and inhale deeply, choking and snorting loudly. He would sometimes fan the air or go into a fake coughing spasm. Mother's eyes would twinkle then, and she would say to me out of the corner of her mouth, "Give me strength!" and to Daddy, "Raiford! Please! Contain yourself." That would set all four of us children--and often Daddy--into fits of laughter.

I appreciate Mother's concern about how she smelled. We once attended a small church in the country. The strong body odor of one of the men would hit us in the face like a wall when we stepped inside the door of the church. One would think he would consider bathing before the Sabbath an important task. Someone tried to tactfully speak to him about it and most unfortunately, he was deeply offended and never came back. Perhaps another congregation will have more success than we had with him on this matter.

The other day I was looking through some clothes that I had tucked away for the winter, and came across a sweater of my fathers. It was sealed in a plastic bag, with a little twistee around the opening--a sign that Mother had carefully stored it away for him. For a few heavenly moments I could smell the scent of Daddy when I closed my eyes and buried my face in his sweater. It was the same scent that I noticed the last time I hugged him.

Someone once asked, "Do you know why people clink their wine glasses together?" It's because drinking wine should include all five senses: with the eye we see the color, we taste the fruity flavor, we feel it as we drink it, we hear it as we clink the glasses together. Yes, and we smell it in the glass first (that is usually what turns me off of wine, however.)

It would be difficult to live without a sense of smell. On some days, it would be a blessing to be without it. On other days, we go back to earlier times and the dearness of wonderful memories.

Places not to visit

Someone asked me the other day if I'd like to go to China for a visit. Without hesitation, I declined. There are a number of places in the world that I have no desire whatsoever to go--and this is one of them. It could be some internalized ethnocentrism or hidden prejudice of mine, but there are places that I don't want to ever visit. Here they are:
1. China
2. Japan
3. Any other Asian country
4. Russia
5. much of Eastern Europe
6. Hawaii
7. Indonesia
8. India
9. Iceland
10.Turkey
11.The Holy Lands region
12. The Gobi desert
13. The Sahara
14. The South Pacific
15. South America

So where DO I want to visit?
1. UK
2. Ireland
3. Western and Central Europe
4. Scandinavia
5. Puerto Rico
6. Bahamas
7. Jamaica
8. Alaska
9. Banff
8. Glacier National park
9. Park City, Utah
10. Anywhere in Canada

Perhaps this list reflects the changes in adventure that I have as I get older. I would have probably jumped at the opportunity to go abroad just about anywhere when I was in my 20s. Now, the inevitable has happened: I want to stay close to home for awhile. Amazing.

Just do it

The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"
He replied, "If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea' and it will obey you. Suppose one of you had a servant plowing or looking after the sheep. Would he say to the servant when he comes in from the field, 'Come along now and sit down to eat.' Would he not rather say, 'Prepare your supper, get yourself ready and wait on me while I eat and drink; after that you may eat and drink?' Would he thank the servant becuase he did what he was told to do? So you also, when you have done everything you were told to, should say, 'We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty. (Luke 17:6-10).

Last time I read this passage of scripture, I paused. What an unusual juxtaposition of ideas it contains. First, when the disciples ask for their faith to be increased, Jesus tells them about what miraculous things they can do--planting trees in the ocean, healing illnesses, doing great things. This paints a rather grandiose notion about what faith consists of.
But then Jesus talked about something quite different--servanthood. Servanthood in the context of having faith.

It takes faith to be a good servant. We are told to plod along, doing what we are instructed to do as children of God. And so we do as we are told--not for a reward--because as the parable points out, the role of servants is to obey without hope of reward beyond mere sustenance. Yet we seem to be called to a life of obedience without much variation. It sounds like hard work for a long time. It could be considered boring, it's so unchanging.

The world likes sensation. It becomes disheartened with ceaseless rounds of responsibilities without variation. Movies of the latter would simply not sell. And yet it appears that God calls us to do our duty, the everyday responsibilities that He requires, without reward or renown. The "Just do it" kind of faith.

The sensational kind of faith produces sensational results: healings, being able to find items that have been lost, receiving a check in the mail for a certain amount of money that is needed that hour. We believe in Christ in part because of these kinds of miraculous events. These are the miracles born in extremis. The other kind of faith is an entirely different thing. It is the kind of faith by which we act from principle. We do what is right because it is right, not because it feels good, nor that we will gain anything from it. It means that our everyday actions are rooted in the belief--the faith--that God can do what He has promised in making us righteous. That He can make our actions count for something much greater than anything we can make them mean. It means putting one foot in front of the other, doing what He calls us to do, cheerfully, wholeheartedly, without hesitation. Because we know that God can do what He has promised in and through us. That is reward enough.

Faith and works travel side by side, step answering to step, like the legs of men walking. First faith, then works; and then faith again, and then works again; until they can scarcely distinguish which is one and which is the other. (William Booth, 1992).

I believe that this is the kind of faith, everyday "just do it" faith that Jesus referenced in his parable. In my mind, it is a manifestation of much greater faith to move through life doing one's duty responsibly and well, than to have the flash-in-the-pan variety. It is interesting that Jesus would talk about these two kinds of faith here in this one conversation and that most people miss the fact that the second part of His comments are about faith--just a different kind. This division of faith types is picked up again in Hebrews 11, the "Faith Chapter."

Hebrews 11 is comprised of accounts of marvelous things that people were strengthened to accomplish and perform--women received their dead, Noah built an ark, and others were able to endure scourgings and being sawn in two. But then there is the comment, "These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what was promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect." (Hebrews 11:39, 40). Abraham did what he was told and never saw the reward. Moses had the horrible job of trying to coral all those garlic smelling people into the Promised Land, and he still didn't get to go in. And what about all the women of the Bible who were alive but not mentioned? The wives, who had to follow their husbands around without question; who had to see their boys go off to war; who had no say about so many things.

Our faith tells us that the obstacles to obedience, endurance, and steadfastness in what we are called to do for God, will one day be repaid over and above anything that we could fathom. But for now, we put one foot before the other. Just do it.

Stages of Love--IV

The last stage of love is what I'll call, Forgetful Love. Forgetfulness goes with people of a certain age, I'm told. Mother writes things down during the day that she wants to remember to tell me. When I call her, she hurries down her list in rapid-fire speed so she won't forget what she wanted to tell me. She gets annoyed at certain friends where she lives because they repeat themselves, yet she herself, tells me the same things every week.
It is a time of life when a parent says to a child, "Did I ever tell you about what my father used to do to the mailman?" The adult child says, "Sure. About gluing the letters to the mailbox." And the parent smiles and begins to tell the story, even though their son just said that they recalled the story and even can quote some of the wording that the parent uses in the telling of it.

From my observations, which are admittedly limited, it seems that elderly people love to tell stories not so much for transmitting information, but for the act of being engaged with others, and for leaving behind a legacy. It is not just poor memory that prompts older people to tell and retell their stories. In addition to providing a venue for communication, it allows them to do that all important developmental task: review their lives.

According to Erik Erikson, people in the last chapter of their life need to feel that their life had integrity--that it meant something positive in the larger picture, and that the total sum of their life was positive. The questions that may be spoken or unspoken, are things like, "Did my life matter?" "Will I be remembered for something good?" "Will my life have made a difference for anyone?" "Did all my hard work, all my efforts to live right--did these count for anything?" Those who have difficulty with their spouse, siblings or children usually have significant struggles feeling that their lives had positive meaning. These folks fall into despair and depression--one of the least addressed mental health issues of older Americans. So since a positive summary of life is critical to good mental health, perhaps this is why it seems that the elderly have so many anecdotes about their family members, or about the things they have accomplished--all with a positive spin.

And maybe this is also why so many of the stories that surviving spouses tell about their deceased life partners have a bit of a whitewashed quality to them. I have been surprised on several occasions to hear Mother exclaim quite forcefully that she never had such-and-such a problem with my father, when I distinctly remember events when they were irritated with one another or she was outraged at something goofy he had said, etc. "That's not true, Mother!" I'd remonstrate. She would look at me in surprise and correct me. "No, I have no recollection of ever having that issue with your father." In her memory, Daddy had not done anything objectionable in that arena, and she could not recall this behavior being problematic.

I've heard many older people tell rather expansive stories about their partners, most ending with a positive summative statement. Even though onlookers would say that one partner had irritated the daylights out of the other for years. Even though anyone else would have been driven to drink on account of the spouse. But this must be how forgetful love is. At the end of the day, when one looks back, maybe what stands out is that overall it was satisfying, enriching, heartwarming, and enduring. It is the evaluation of love as a whole, not in the moment-by-moment experience of it that the children record in their memory. It is the reflection of a life shared with someone who stayed with them, had faith in them, and saw them through tough times.

Forgetful love is the kind of love that God has for us, quite possibly. Our sins have been forgiven and we stand before Him as though we have never erred. One only has to read the Faith Chapter (Hebrews 11) to get a taste of that heavenly forgetful love. There is a whitewashed quality to the narratives there, even though some quite painful circumstances are referenced. This kind of love is a wonderful love, observed from the endpoint, not from the beginning or middle. It is as comfortable as an old shoe. It is informed by a lifetime of seeing others struggle in their marriages and being grateful for what one doesn't have to endure; of realizing that although some things have been difficult, overall, it was well worth the ride. It was a good thing.

This is an endpoint at which we shall all be fortunate to arrive one day.

Sabbath Hike

This morning we skipped out of church and took a hike up in our hills. It could not have been more clear or beautiful. Sam was in fine form, as you can see. We had not showered yet, and fervently hoped we didn't see anyone we knew out there. Sam had brought me a light breakfast in bed (an omelette with mango-tomato salsa on a corn tortilla), so we'd have some energy for the climb. In fact, it was just right.

We hiked up to Zanzar Peak, which is a high-flown name for a little prominence of probably 2000 feet that stands up behind the local community college. Until today, I didn't realize that there are miles of trails and hills in which anyone at all can hike. Our little Zanzar Peak is the size of a helicopter pad, and there are 360 degree views. The view below is looking east toard one of the "Four Saints," as they are known: San Jacinto, San Bernardino, San Antonio, and San Bernardino. This one is Mt. San Bernardino, which I'm proud to say, I've climbed (back in the dark ages).

Here is Sam is looking west toward snow-capped Mt. San Antonio (AKA, Mt. Baldy) with parts of San Bernardino, Highland, and Redlands in the foreground.

At the top of our little hike, we stopped and looked in all directions for about 30 minutes. It was well worth the climb and we were so happy that we took the time to do this. It could not have been a more gorgeous day. Had we been on the top of Mt. Baden-Powell, we could have seen all the way to Catalina Island in the Pacific Ocean, and all the way to Mt. San Jacinto, right over Palm Springs (I've had the pleasure of doing that several times).

It's fair to say that we've been bitten by the climbing bug. We want to start climbing the beautiful "real" mountains around us: Mt. Baldy at 10,064 feet; San Gorgonio at 11,502 feet; San Jacinto at 10,839 feet; Mt. Baden-Powell (AKA, the Boy Scout Mountain) at 9,399; and Whitney at 14,505. Why not? If we hike every weekend, we should be able to climb one of these big mountains in the not too distant future.

All in all, we were pretty pleased with ourselves. Our knees didn't bother us, the shortness of breath wasn't too bad, our legs didn't hurt, and we never got dizzy. For two middle-aged people who want to stay young, this might be a promising venture. Mountains, here we come!

Happy New Year--2010!

I like the feeling of having a new beginning. As I look down and see a larger waist than I had two weeks ago, and look in the mirror to see crow's feet wrinkles at the corner of my eyes that weren't there last year, I realize that a new beginning doesn't necessarily give me a new, younger body. It just gives me a new starting point to try to arrest the effects of aging.
It also means that I can think critically about my goals and where I want to go and what I'd like to do for the next year. Here are some things I'd like to do:

1. Slow down. I've been working 12-14 hour days and I'm worn out. It's because I've waited so long to have the privilege of doing this work, and now I can't slow down. My goal is to have the presence of mind to pause before I'm invited to speak, write, or participate in a professional activity, and seriously measure out whether or not it is realistic for me to do it.

2. Invest in my marriage and family relationships. Sam and I are looking seriously at scheduling in more time together and more opportunities to get away from the daily grind. We have had such fun when we've had the time to roam around together. Now that we are more middle-aged than ever before, we need to make good use of our time. I would also like to have time to take my mother away a weekend here and there. I do not know how long I will have her, so it is best to do what I can, while I can.

3. Invest time in my friends. My quality of life has gone downhill in some ways, because I live in front of my laptop, and not with my friends. I really want to be able to dash off for an afternoon here and there, and run riot doing fun things, or nothing--just to be with my friends. My friends are, in many cases, closer to me than my own siblings, and I am tired of being without them.

4. I want to pursue the arts more this year. Ever since I started this new career 10 years ago, I have hardly attended a concert, have not been involved in the music ministry of my church (for the most part), and have not visited the local FaSoLa group--shape note singers. I would like to do much more of that. In fact, I'm also toying with the idea of getting into an orchestra if I can locate a good bass clarinet that doesn't cost an arm and a leg.
Oh, and did I mention that I want to get a baby grand piano?

5. I want to get my house in order. It has been said that to men, a house is a responsibility and a sign of stability. For women, it is an extension of our identities. Well, for the record, I don't like what this house says about me. Our bedroom has the worst collection of oddball furniture in it and this horrid dark brown wall that seemed like a good idea a year ago. The study looks like a cyclone hit it--papers everywhere, the desk heaped up with who-knows-what. We need cupboards all across one wall in there, and then the rest can become a guest room. I'm sick of how it looks now. Our bathrooms also need to be redone--especially our master bath. Our closet needs to be reconfigured. I'd like to paint the whole house, put up curtains, and make the house mine. Perhaps that can be done next summer when I have my 5 week vacation (yipeeeee!)

6. I'd like to be able to climb a major Southern California peak sometime this coming year. I'm only 50, and it's time now to do this, or it will never be done again. My knees might give out before I get to climb Half Dome or Mount Whitney again. So part of this goal involves me becoming much more active by walking a great deal more and getting more exercise. I can do this!

7. I want to help Stepdaughter #3 get ready for her wedding this summer. Yes, she got engaged last night and now we are looking toward a wedding in 6-7 months. I'm trying now to think about how Sam and I can contribute in a meaningful way--beyond financial support--and be part of this milestone.

8. I'm going up for advancement to full professor in the fall of this year. That will be incredibly helpful, financially. In the meantime, I'll need to pull together a portfolio beyond what I already have assembled. It will make a big difference for me to do this.

9. Along with my friend, Carla, I am launching a new television program this month called, "This Life." My goal in regard to this activity is that I will be able to feel comfortable and competent with the filming and talk show processes. It should be fun and challenging.

Off the top of my head, these are the things that I'd like to do this coming year. There are lots of things to aim for. Seeing the list makes me realize why I'm so tired, too. Perhaps my life would be more manageable if I were a "Johnny-one-note" kind of person. But I'm not.
So Happy New Year to those of you who are my faithful readers. Thank you for being part of my life. May your dreams and goals for the New Year come to fruition, and next year at this time, may you be grateful for all that God has allowed in the ensuing year.

Headlock Dentistry

Found here

These two refined gentlemen are demonstrating a headlock. There is no way for the man with the bulging veins in his temples and the cauliflower nose to get away from the bemuscled, bearded man holding him captive in a sterroid haze. It is testosterone at its best.

This image that flashed through my mind the other day when I walked in to the dentist's office to get a crown. I have a tooth that cracked around a filling and after putting it off for about four years, it was time. I felt sick with worry and had a lapse in judgment that allowed me to comment to the hygienist about it.
"I have really dreaded this!" I remarked as I sat down on the surprisingly comfortable dentist chair.
"Wow," she said sarcastically. "I've never heard that one before, in eleven years!"

Okay, then. I brought my remarks to a rapid close.

Arranging myself in the chair under the light with the side handles on it, I remembered sitting under one of these in Minnesota. It was when the headlock occurred. Instantly, I found myself having a hard time distinguishing between the events in Minnesota and these taking place in California.
There I had sat, in the chair in Minnesota, my Middle-Eastern dental resident at the U of MN dental clinic, looking grimly down at me.

"Please deaden the tooth well because I'm really sensitive and also really nervous."


"I will give you two shots and that will be enough." Not even a flicker of kindness or sympathy could be seen on her face.

Of course, it wasn't enough. I found this out when she began tapping my tooth with the end of this long metal instrument. It was all I could do not to fly through the ceiling.

"Grmwph!" I moaned.

"Now stop it," she barked. "Just let me get this tooth done. You have nothing to worry about."

"It is very painful, still," I said plaintively.

"Relax!" she said to me in a scolding voice. "If you don't relax, I'll have to take a long needle and shoot the medicine straight down into the head of your tooth. Do you want me to do that?" It was a tone of voice that one might take with a naughty child.

At that point, I didn't care what she had to do to numb the tooth. Just stop tapping on it with that instrument.

"Please give me more deadening medicine before you continue," I choked out.

That's when the headlock happened. As quickly as I could say it, she had me in a headlock and was drilling down into that tooth. The nerve sang out and I pressed my head back into the chair headrest, as if that would help me get away from her. But I couldn't. It was awful. I couldn't scream--I had a mouthful of dental dam and one of those extensor things that held my mouth open. No, I couldn't do anything about any of it except to hang on to the sides of the seat while she drilled into my very sensitive tooth. There was no dental assistant to recruit as an ally. Just me and the heartless dentist.

At the end of the session, I jumped to my feet, went out to the front desk and reported this woman to the receptionist. She looked alarmed and now that I think about it, it could have been either because of my story, or how I looked. I was crying, talking excitedly, and must have had a wild glare in my eyes. I was thoroughly traumatized by this experience.
The dental intern was reported and it was said that she had received dire consequences for her behavior. I hoped so, because I have also experienced dire consequences for her actions, specifically, my irrational tears and panic whenever I sit waiting for my dentist.

My dentist could not have been nicer. He didn't seem to mind that I was crying and trying to look brave. I never felt even one of the many injections he gave me. As my face became numb and my goofy muscle-less grin made me feel like I had only half a head, he smiled and told me stories in a most reassuring way. I drooled out my headlock story and he explained how many ways he could numb up my tooth and whole head if needed. So I sank back into the chair, shut my eyes, and waited for the job to be done. I never felt a thing. What a miracle of modern dentistry and kindness.
I'm going back to have the permanent crown placed this afternoon. There are no headlock jitters. Praise be!