Cheeky Business

Fio has a black stitch in her cheek that looks like a stray whisker.

Fio feels like an idiot. She came home late from an RWA meeting Tuesday night, walked upstairs in the dark, and tripped on a pair of rolled rugs she had forgotten were in the hall. Down she went, landing on the Bowflex, puncturing her cheek.

What if she bled out? What if something vital had been damaged? She needed to go to the Emergency Room fast!

Husband had already taken his evening pills and couldn't wake up, so Fio, ever resourceful, taped a multiply-folded paper towel across her wound and drove herself to the hospital.
A tetanus shot, a quick stitch, miles of paperwork to fill out, and she was home within two hours. The stitch comes out tomorrow.

Uh--you do understand that the cheek she is referring to is on her face, don't you?

Ode to Rain

Rain, rain, come and play,
Slake the summer's thirst today--
Refill the sinking watershed,
With a well-placed thunderhead.

But play nice, rain, and do not rage
Across my tender acreage--
Just soak the ground and save my lawn
Then pack your toys and move right on.

Well-toned

Perhaps you didn't know, my dear,
That Fio has a well-trained ear--
Which can clasp pencils, if need be,
One or two, or even three.

Lately Fiorella's brain
Seems to have slipped right down the drain--
She thinks she knows what's happened here:
Her mojo's leaked into her ear.

Fio Gets Deep

I say that I don't believe there is any such thing as an absolute vacuum because it would collapse in on itself. But then I wonder, if the space between the atoms isn't collapsing in on itself, what is it that is holding them apart?

Is this where the theory of parallel universes comes in?

Linguistics Will Yet Save the World

I once knew a college teacher who took points off if a student began a sentence with a preposition. In other words, this very sentence would have cost some poor kid five points. An elementary school teacher once told me one shouldn't begin a sentence with "so," to which I, being a smart-ass, responded: "So many people came to the meeting that extra chairs had to be provided." A fellow writer once informed me that I shouldn't use adjectives when I write. Another inveighed against any adverb ending in "-ly."

People get strange ideas about grammar and style. Some of the ideas are left-over old-fashioned ditcta based on Latin grammatical analysis, but others are just plain screwy. I think that basically people are seeking an easy way out, an iron-clad list of '"do nots." But rather than crucify the language, I think people should embrace it. They should learn how it actually works, the system of it, which is really quite rational.

But then, you've already figured me out. I'm a linguist through and through.

My Name, Myself

A person's name is magic. That's why some cultures do not reveal a person's true name. That's why our christening ceremonies are religious. That's why people get new names in secret societies. That's why Harry Dresden has been able to barter part of his name for greater power, but refuses to divulge his full name, which would give even greater power to the possessor of it.

If someone calls out my name, he commands my attention, if only for a moment. If someone remembers my name, I am well disposed toward him. When I was teaching, I tried to memorize every student's name within the first week, and I called roll religiously. I also regularly called on each student by name for class participation. My theory was that every student deserved to hear his teacher say aloud his name on a daily basis. It showed I knew he was alive.

Our names can outlive us. Centuries ago, a man named Herostratus set fire to the temple of Diana at Ephesus so his name would always be remembered. And it has.

Fiorella isn't willing to go that far, but she is writing a blog every day with which she hopes to set her own small world on fire. Such is eternity.

Convent Capers

Husband, Daughter, and I attended a local production of Nunsense recently. The show is pure farce, a series of songs, dances, and gags, all loosely held together by a meager plot. Its construction is similar to that of Cats, except Cats is more serious and its plot is even less substantial (I remember being totally surprised when Grizelda's resurrection drama occurred at the end).

For all its silliness, Nunsense is an ambitious undertaking for a small town civic theater group. It's a tour de force featuring five women whose roles require they all be singing, dancing, and running around at a gallop the entire time.

The performance wasn't perfect. The Reverend Mother kept flubbing her lines and there were some pitch problems on a few songs, but those gals kept on hoofin' and woofin' and spoofin'.
Husband and Daughter were not impressed. Husband, it seems, prefers plots, and Daughter is not turned on by idiocy.

But I loved every stupid minute of it. Life is hard-- I want my entertainment light and easy.