Anything a woman uses, a man invented. Face it, zippers in the back of a dress? Yes, it can lead to passion, "Can you zip me up?" or the "I can't quite reach my zipper, can you undo it for me?". But come on, guys, you're not always around. Yes, there are women designers, some have even put the zippers on the side of the dress, but true to form, most zippers are on the back of the dress. Some traditions are just hard to break.
Women's restroom stalls. I get that businesses don't want to waste valuable merchandising space, or seating space on extra room in restrooms, but women sure could use it. With toilet paper dispensers sticking out into the stall, right above the toilet, there is little to no room to maneuver hands, elbows, and panty hose. A woman can't bend over to pull her hose up from the ankle to get rid of the wrinkles, no room to move. If a woman carries a purse, and there is no hook for it, then the purse is hung over the neck, making wiping difficult. Long skirt? Where does it go? No room to toss it over your shoulder without getting it all over the stall walls.Yuck! Just a few more inches all the way around, and women would be so much happier.
Vehicles. Even though I am a woman, I love to tinker on cars. If a bulb goes out, I'm on it. A new starter, I can do it. Change a tire, the radiator, you bet. However, I need way too many tools to accomplish what should be an easy job. Today, I needed to replace a tail light bulb. One would think that it would be a simple job. I opened the tailgate of my truck, looked at the screw heads, and went to get a torque head screwdriver. Easy. Tail light assembly removed, only to be met with a cover with four screws that needed to be removed before I could replace the bulb. Well, those just so happened to be phillips head screws. So, back to the tool box (this one is too big to go to the truck). Mission complete, and tools put away. It would have been so much faster if I had only needed one type of screwdriver.
Engine work is another story, some tools need to be metric, some not, some need to be only an eighth of an inch different, on the same part! What is the deal with that? I understand that one size won't do all, but whoever came up with the list of screws and bolts to be used had a screw loose of his own.
Do men need to use so many tools before they feel macho? Do they think if they use screws, and bolts with too many size differences women won't be able to figure it all out?
Dresses, hidden front zippers, or just stretchy fabric, problem solved. If women designed restrooms, there would be plenty of room to comfortably get the job done. If women planned cars, only a handful of tools would be needed. Men, figure it out.
Just let a woman take care of it.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Why Do You Write?
People often ask me why I write. Why poetry? The truth is I'm not sure why, but it is something that I must do, much like breathing. My mind whirls, and my fingers twitch to put the words on paper.
I have paper and pen everywhere. In the bathroom, the car, by my bed, in my garage. I have notebooks, large and small filled with words, some complete, others just the seeds for the idea has yet to grow. I have a lot of those. An overheard word, sentence, a funny reality takes a turn and becomes poetry.
Short stories, essays, blogs, those come into the picture too, but my forte is poetry. I don't adhere to the standard practices of iambic pentameter, or this should be here, because..... I just write. If I'm stuck, I pull out the good old word magnets - themed of course from vampire, booze, to cowboy poet, and haiku, and select at random words.
These words, with no conscious thinking on my part, become a poem. It just happens, I really have no control over the end result, however I do edit, and refine. But the direction the poem goes is its own. I may choose words from the Put Downs bag of magnets, and come up with a lovely poem. It flows, the words appear on the page without much work, although writing is hard work.
I get in the groove, quiet music in the background, no one around, the bird chirping and wind chimes whispering notes. I hear these things, but am really unaware of them, I am there, in the place where my mind goes, sometimes unbidden, to create. If I haven't written in several days, I feel like I have unfinished work to do - kind of like waking up at one a.m. wondering if you put the the washed clothes into the dryer. You get up and check; I get up and write.
My family is used to this, they say I get a funny look on my face when I get an idea that must be written down, or forgotten.
I am sure this explains nothing, especially to those who do not write. It is difficult, even for a writer, to express the need, the urgent swelling of the idea, that must, must be put onto paper. The old question of "If you were stranded on a desert island, what would you want with you?" is simple - something to write with, and something to write on.
I always keep my original scratchings. Backs of place mats, napkins, coffee cup heat wrappers, all have a spot in my files, tended to, caressed as ideas flow from pen to paper. I can only imagine what my children will think after I'm gone - Oh! here is the idea about the ....... I can only hope they enjoy reading my ramblings as much as I enjoy writing them.
I write because I must, that, is my answer.
I have paper and pen everywhere. In the bathroom, the car, by my bed, in my garage. I have notebooks, large and small filled with words, some complete, others just the seeds for the idea has yet to grow. I have a lot of those. An overheard word, sentence, a funny reality takes a turn and becomes poetry.
Short stories, essays, blogs, those come into the picture too, but my forte is poetry. I don't adhere to the standard practices of iambic pentameter, or this should be here, because..... I just write. If I'm stuck, I pull out the good old word magnets - themed of course from vampire, booze, to cowboy poet, and haiku, and select at random words.
These words, with no conscious thinking on my part, become a poem. It just happens, I really have no control over the end result, however I do edit, and refine. But the direction the poem goes is its own. I may choose words from the Put Downs bag of magnets, and come up with a lovely poem. It flows, the words appear on the page without much work, although writing is hard work.
I get in the groove, quiet music in the background, no one around, the bird chirping and wind chimes whispering notes. I hear these things, but am really unaware of them, I am there, in the place where my mind goes, sometimes unbidden, to create. If I haven't written in several days, I feel like I have unfinished work to do - kind of like waking up at one a.m. wondering if you put the the washed clothes into the dryer. You get up and check; I get up and write.
My family is used to this, they say I get a funny look on my face when I get an idea that must be written down, or forgotten.
I am sure this explains nothing, especially to those who do not write. It is difficult, even for a writer, to express the need, the urgent swelling of the idea, that must, must be put onto paper. The old question of "If you were stranded on a desert island, what would you want with you?" is simple - something to write with, and something to write on.
I always keep my original scratchings. Backs of place mats, napkins, coffee cup heat wrappers, all have a spot in my files, tended to, caressed as ideas flow from pen to paper. I can only imagine what my children will think after I'm gone - Oh! here is the idea about the ....... I can only hope they enjoy reading my ramblings as much as I enjoy writing them.
I write because I must, that, is my answer.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Help! I've turned into my (GASP) Mother!!!!!!!!!!
Yes, it's true. I started a sentence today with "When I was your age..."
It was a fun story, no lesson involved, just something to share, but I cringed, as did my granddaughter, at my utterance of "When I was your age." She even said "Oh, no!" She had just come in from feeding and watering the peafowl, and said how hot it was -maybe upper 80's, and I related that I had grown up in the Phoenix, AZ area, daily temperatures of 115 degrees, cooling down to a nice comfortable 110 degrees at night. All my friends had pools, and in a pinch, if no one was home, the local Howard Johnson Hotel that had a pool would let locals swim for only .50cents. What a deal.
My friends and I would ride our bikes to the hotel, towels draped over the handlebars, shorts over our suits, and thongs (what are now called flip-flops). We'd park and lock our bikes, go thru the lobby, and head out to the pool. Chairs claimed with a toss of the towel, shorts and thongs, and without missing a step we dove into the cool, cool water. After cooling down, we'd sunbathe, swim, sunbathe, swim, then head home, cool and pink with the kiss of the sun, and our youthful joy.
Those were the days. No worries about kids swimming in a hotel pool without parental supervision, no worries about riding safely, we never wore helmets, and all survived. Such a peaceful time. We had a blast, trusted everyone, and everyone was kind.
One summer my friends and I donned our backpacks, rode our bikes 5 miles (seemed a lot farther) to the Phoenix Zoo, walked around, ate lunches we had packed, fed the ducks, and elephants, then went on to the Hole in the Rock section of Papago Park, climbed and hiked.
Hole in the Rock at Papago Park, Phx. AZ
Next we went to the Wax Museum. After a full day, we rode our bikes back home.
What a day. So, "When I was your age" we rode our bike everywhere, enjoyed the outdoors - even in 115 degree weather. Kids these days are just wimps.
It was a fun story, no lesson involved, just something to share, but I cringed, as did my granddaughter, at my utterance of "When I was your age." She even said "Oh, no!" She had just come in from feeding and watering the peafowl, and said how hot it was -maybe upper 80's, and I related that I had grown up in the Phoenix, AZ area, daily temperatures of 115 degrees, cooling down to a nice comfortable 110 degrees at night. All my friends had pools, and in a pinch, if no one was home, the local Howard Johnson Hotel that had a pool would let locals swim for only .50cents. What a deal.
My friends and I would ride our bikes to the hotel, towels draped over the handlebars, shorts over our suits, and thongs (what are now called flip-flops). We'd park and lock our bikes, go thru the lobby, and head out to the pool. Chairs claimed with a toss of the towel, shorts and thongs, and without missing a step we dove into the cool, cool water. After cooling down, we'd sunbathe, swim, sunbathe, swim, then head home, cool and pink with the kiss of the sun, and our youthful joy.
Those were the days. No worries about kids swimming in a hotel pool without parental supervision, no worries about riding safely, we never wore helmets, and all survived. Such a peaceful time. We had a blast, trusted everyone, and everyone was kind.
One summer my friends and I donned our backpacks, rode our bikes 5 miles (seemed a lot farther) to the Phoenix Zoo, walked around, ate lunches we had packed, fed the ducks, and elephants, then went on to the Hole in the Rock section of Papago Park, climbed and hiked.
Hole in the Rock at Papago Park, Phx. AZ
Next we went to the Wax Museum. After a full day, we rode our bikes back home.
What a day. So, "When I was your age" we rode our bike everywhere, enjoyed the outdoors - even in 115 degree weather. Kids these days are just wimps.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Pox on the Kindle
A pox on the kindle.
I love to read, and others I talk to, who also love reading, say they love the Kindle. "I have 150 books right here. I don't have to go anywhere for another read."
Well, pishaw. I always have at least 3 books with me, one in my purse, maybe two if I am near the end of the current read; books in the truck, suitcase, car. Lots and lots of books.
Today I just purchased two books, one published in 1896, the other, 1897. How exciting to hold a book of poetry in my hands, that was written, and published over 100 years ago. The deckle edged pages, yellow with age, spotted by finger oils, and food. An old piece of newspaper tucked between pages, brown with air exposure, has stained the pages with shadows of itself. Amazingly much of what was printed 100 years ago is still pertinent, poetry still rings true, political warnings are just as relevant today as they were back then, which to me, makes it all the scarier.
The love of the written word, to me, is something you fell when you turn the page, caress the cover, enjoy the flow and meanings of each sentence. That is part of the joy of reading, the tactile senses that are aroused. How can you achieve reading nirvana with a kindle? You can't. All you can do is read. I suppose that is OK, but why settle for just a read when so much more is out there?
Using a kindle (or other such device) is like using flickering pieces of orange, blue and red paper in your fireplace instead of a real fire. What's the point?
Eventually I may break down and get an electric reader, but I will always have real, hold in my hand books.
I love to read, and others I talk to, who also love reading, say they love the Kindle. "I have 150 books right here. I don't have to go anywhere for another read."
Well, pishaw. I always have at least 3 books with me, one in my purse, maybe two if I am near the end of the current read; books in the truck, suitcase, car. Lots and lots of books.
Today I just purchased two books, one published in 1896, the other, 1897. How exciting to hold a book of poetry in my hands, that was written, and published over 100 years ago. The deckle edged pages, yellow with age, spotted by finger oils, and food. An old piece of newspaper tucked between pages, brown with air exposure, has stained the pages with shadows of itself. Amazingly much of what was printed 100 years ago is still pertinent, poetry still rings true, political warnings are just as relevant today as they were back then, which to me, makes it all the scarier.
The love of the written word, to me, is something you fell when you turn the page, caress the cover, enjoy the flow and meanings of each sentence. That is part of the joy of reading, the tactile senses that are aroused. How can you achieve reading nirvana with a kindle? You can't. All you can do is read. I suppose that is OK, but why settle for just a read when so much more is out there?
Using a kindle (or other such device) is like using flickering pieces of orange, blue and red paper in your fireplace instead of a real fire. What's the point?
Eventually I may break down and get an electric reader, but I will always have real, hold in my hand books.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
I, Am a Writer
I am a writer. Big deal. So I sit at the computer and type all day. Stare into nothing, frown, ponder write some more. I get paid nothing, get published rarely, and feel that my family, while they listen, don't really appreciate my poetry.
I am a writer. Big deal. I'll never be famous, unless sometime in the future, (far, far into the future) someone unearths a notebook, reads my poetry and ponderings, and declares them an invaluable find, one that sheds light onto how life was during this century. "A brilliant mind", "Truly remarkable", would be the raves of the critics.
So perhaps I will yet have the accolades due me, maybe not now, but sometime would be nice.
I am a writer. Big deal. I'll never be famous, unless sometime in the future, (far, far into the future) someone unearths a notebook, reads my poetry and ponderings, and declares them an invaluable find, one that sheds light onto how life was during this century. "A brilliant mind", "Truly remarkable", would be the raves of the critics.
So perhaps I will yet have the accolades due me, maybe not now, but sometime would be nice.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Coded Love Letter
A dear friend sent me a copy of a "Curious Love Letter" - it was filled with things far beyond love. (If you're curious about it, Google Copy of A Curious Love Letter)
After reading the explanation - The girl's father would read dislike - good, and the girl would read love - good.
The code, which only the girl, and writer knew, was every other line was to be read by the girl. This made all the sense in the world.
I figured I try it! This was one hard writing exercise. Here is my attempt at a curious love letter - I have followed the same rule, read the first, third, fifth, etc. lines for the true meaning of the note. My attempt is fair, and I am going to keep at it, hoping to get a really good coded love letter.
Sir,
After reading the explanation - The girl's father would read dislike - good, and the girl would read love - good.
The code, which only the girl, and writer knew, was every other line was to be read by the girl. This made all the sense in the world.
I figured I try it! This was one hard writing exercise. Here is my attempt at a curious love letter - I have followed the same rule, read the first, third, fifth, etc. lines for the true meaning of the note. My attempt is fair, and I am going to keep at it, hoping to get a really good coded love letter.
Sir,
Your intentions toward me are exceedingly
loathsome. They are not in the least
acceptable . I cannot wait until the day you
no longer turn your head in my direction.
Take my word for it - I will never love you
as you wish. I could
not love you
any less. My heart only grows with love
for another. Release me from your mind,
your future plans should include someone
else, someone who could truly love you.
A priest for confession, quickly, as I cannot wait
for your dishonorable actions to wane.
To marry the one I love. This is uppermost in my heart.
Please, I beg of you, leave me alone. I dislike
your heart, your eyes, your hair. They are a dream,
a nightmare in the making. Remove them from
my eyes, eyes that long for a glance of my one true love.
I am on my knees, pleading with you to desist.
My love grows daily, hourly, by leaps and bounds.
Nothing will stop my feelings of hatred of you.
My feelings of adoration for my lover will never abate.
Signed: The Lady
Monday, March 3, 2014
Ladybugs, Again
I love watching them, and have been finding them in the bedroom and kitchen. My question is what do they eat? There is plenty of water around the inside of the house, but what are they doing for food? Do they have an exterior exit so they can eat?
I'd love to have more of them, so if I place a mail order, will the new ladybugs fight with the ones that are already here? Are they territorial? Will they all come to live in the house?
Many years ago, we were moving into a house in Northern California, standing in the front yard, checking out our new surroundings. All of a sudden a huge cloud of lady bugs swept past us from the back yard area, around the side of the house, enveloping the family, then flying off to who knows where. We never did see a swarm like that again, but I am happy with our little family of ladies, living in our bathroom.
These little ladies (gents too) are so fun to watch. They crawl all over the walls, up and down the shower curtain, and when the sun hits the window, they race! I love watching them.
It is interesting to note how they die. The first time I tried to help one, my efforts were rebuffed. She was on her back, so I turned her over thinking I was helping. She immediately flipped herself onto her back, so I let her be. The next time I looked in on her, she was gone. Some bugs, push their wings out from underneath their shells, sometimes one wing, sometimes both. No discernible reason.
We now have to turn the light on in the bathroom when we have a midnight call. No stepping on these creatures at night, or sitting on one if it happens to be on the seat! There numbers are shrinking, I'm sure by the end of March they will be gone. Only to turn up again next spring.
Or, Nov. or Dec. depending on the weather.
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