The Not-So-Fine Art of Texting

I hadn't texted in a while, but when my granddaughter sent me a message a few months ago I figured I knew how to reply. It's like riding a bicycle, right?

Not exactly. Imagine learning how to ride a bicycle and then trying to apply those skills to a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. What I didn't know was that my new cell phone had T9 text messaging. For those who don't know (and I still barely know it myself), T9 anticipates what you want to say and says it without requiring a lot of keying on your part. People under 18 love it. People between 18 and 25 probably love it, too. Some people between the ages of 25 and 45 probably think it's pretty cool at least some of the time. And then there are the rest of us.

Anyway, my granddaughter texted me to ask when I was going to pick her up. I don't remember the exact wording of my intended answer, but I do remember that it came out Demo nonononono. I thought I'd screwed it up, so I erased it and tried again. This time was worse: nnnon dfkawe lelamslelfn nonon. I know when to quit, so I hit send.

A minute later came my granddaughter's reply: You really need to work on this, Grammy.

I pretty much forgot about texting until today, when I received another message from my granddaughter: Is it hot out today? Let's see if you've improved any.

Still completely clueless about T9 (and any number of other things), I sat in my car in the Staples parking lot with the intention of slowly and carefully composing a reply. What I ended up with was Bacon cab cannon? It even put the question mark in for me. I sent it, and then I rolled up the window and laughed myself silly.

My 17-year-old texter par excellance wasted no time replying: Awesome! Just as I thought. Hahahahahah I love you.

Butterfly Face

My Front Yard

Craigslist Shoppers Must Be a Sickly Bunch

Yes, Craigslist shoppers must indeed be in frail health.

The latest indication came when I listed a grain mill for sale for the second time. A woman emailed, saying she was interested in it and giving the name of her town. I emailed back, saying I would be driving through her town in a couple of days. No response. A couple of days later I emailed again: I'll be coming through your town around 7:00 p.m. Are you still interested in the grain mill? No response. This morning I received a brief emailed apology, saying she was sick.

The first time I listed the grain mill, another woman was strongly interested in buying it, but she, too, dropped out of email sight for a while, and then reappeared to say she was sick.

The man who wanted to meet me in another town to buy my lab glassware was unable to do it after all because he came down with something.

And then there was the couple who wanted directions to the property I was selling. They never showed up, but I found out later that they'd gotten sick together.

I picture these people reclining on their chaise longues, pale faced, weak, longing to mingle in the world of people who walk around and buy things. Kind of like Mimi in La Boheme. With a laptop.

Statin Drugs for 8-Year-Olds????

When I heard this on the news I was appalled. Healthy children, even overweight children with high cholesterol, do not have heart attacks. Why give them drugs in childhood to prevent something that the children themselves can prevent when they grow up? And their parents, rather than administering pills like mindless characters in a sci-fi book, should give their children a healthy lifestyle from the start.

Like every other drug out there, statins are not without side effects. I know several people (adults in their 50s and 60s) who had to come off them. They hope the damage done to their livers and muscles wasn't permanent. Damage done to a young, developing body would add a whole new level of worry.

Both sides of my family have a strong history of diabetes and fatal heart attacks. I watched my dad give up smoking and change his diet, reversing the heart disease that crippled him in his forties, and live to be ninety. I have to be strict about my own diet. I would never permit my child to be medicated in this way. Nor would I be crazy about the idea of having my two-year-olds tested.

We are an over-medicated, over-diagnosed society. Sadly, a large segment of the population seems to be content with this situation.

From the New York Times, here's what I'm talking about:

AMERICAN pediatricians are recommending wider cholesterol screening for children and more aggressive use of cholesterol-lowering drugs, starting as early as the age of eight, in hopes of preventing adult heart problems.

New guidelines issued yesterday by the American Academy of Pediatrics also call for children to be given low-fat milk after 12 months of age. The recommendations are certain to fuel a continuing debate about the use of prescription drugs in children and about the best approaches to ward off heart disease in adults.

But proponents say evidence is growing that the first signs of heart disease show up in childhood, and with 30% of US children overweight or obese, many doctors fear a rash of early-onset heart attacks and diabetes.

The academy estimates that 30 to 60% of children with high cholesterol are being missed under screening guidelines. For some children, cholesterol-lowering drugs, called statins, may be their best hope of lowering their risk of early heart attack, proponents say.

"We are in an epidemic," said Dr Jatinder Bhatia, a member of the academy's nutrition committee, which is making the recommendation, and professor and chief of neonatology at the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta. "The risk of giving statins at a lower age is less than the benefit."

Dr Bhatia said that while there is not "a whole lot" of data, research shows cholesterol-lowering drugs are safe for children. Surprisingly, the paper in the journal Pediatrics that explains the guidelines notes that average total cholesterol levels in children, as well as LDL and HDL cholesterol, have remained stable, while triglyceride levels have dropped, based on data from 1988 to 2000.

The recommendations call for cholesterol screening of children and adolescents, starting as early as two and no later than 10, if they come from families with a history of high cholesterol or heart attacks before the age of 55 for men and 65 for women.

Up at 4:00 a.m.

I was mistaken . . . we didn't get in the car at 6:00 a.m. to go to the hamfest. We set out at 5:15. I set the alarm for 4:00 and got up on time, but I still didn't have everything done by 5:15. The important stuff was finished, though: The sandwiches were packed and the directions were printed out.

We lucked out on the weather. Just sunny skies; none of the rain that was forecast. My son sold some stuff and bought some stuff, all ham related. In my trip around the grounds I found a pair of needle-hosed pliers ($3), a pair of olive drab Army issue wool mittens with a trigger grip ($1), and a wonderful multi-level piece of play equipment for cats—just perfect for J & L's two new kittens. The guy was asking $8 for it, but I got it for $6. I brought it back to our tailgate, where two people (including a three-year-old boy) tried to buy it from us. I hope Oscar and Emmy like it as well as humans seem to.

My son also bought me an adjustable wrench. And I was this close to buying (for $1) a VHS edition of "Hillary and Jackie." Fortunately, I remembered in time that I own the DVD. Surprising what you can find at a hamfest.

It's Hamfest Time!!!

It may sound like a midwest pork event, but a hamfest has nothing to do with food. Hamfests are big (sometimes giant) flea markets for ham radio operators. As you can see by the photo above (taken this weekend in a tent), my son is a ham. I am his devoted companion on our annual treks to the hamfests. We have two to attend in July, and I'm really looking forward to them even though it means getting in the car at 6:00 a.m.

I'll be put in charge of selling while my son checks out the buying opportunities. Sometimes he buys to buy, and sometimes he buys to sell. And sometimes he ends up selling what he bought to buy. It's very complicated.

It's also a lot of fun, even for people like me who don't understand a word of the science behind amateur radio. Invariably, a few tables will be set up with items designed to attract spouses (or loyal mothers): usually used books and DVDs. I've also bought some interesting little tools at hamfests, and one of my all-time favorite flashlights.

I should also mention that hamfests are my excuse to eat bread. The food served at these events is usually not anything I'd want to eat, so I pack our own: egg salad sandwiches, sliced chicken sandwiches with mayo and southwestern mustard, red grapes.

Ah, bread. Just for hamfest day, I will not think about carbs and the scale. Is it any wonder I look forward to it?

Okay, here's the haircut

The Haircut from Hell

No, I'm not going to show it to you.

It's my own damn fault. I wasn't 100% happy with my last haircut (I admit I'm never 100% happy with my haircuts) so I was vulnerable when a friend told me about S. S was wonderful, she said. S was beyond wonderful. People came from all over to experience her wonderfulness. In fact, they traveled so far that she had to situate her salon near the Interstate. I had to put myself in S's hands. I wouldn't regret it.

Regret is too mild a term for what I feel. I suspect S has more than a touch of sadism in her makeup. And maybe those people who arrive via the Interstate have more than little masochism in theirs.

Okay, here's my haircut: Imagine Julie Andrews (I appreciate her charm, but hate her hair) crossed with Queen Elizabeth (I admire her . . . um . . . stamina, but hate her hair). And imagine that this person has always had her hair cut in an institutional setting. By a student. A student who is attempting to pass the course yet one more time after seven failures. A student who is in a bad mood because of this and because an outbreak of her genital herpes coincides with her third date with the cute guy who works in Laundry.

Just imagine that.

It's been five days and the urge to smash all my mirrors is just beginning to subside. And that only because I'm wearing a baseball cap.

My Garden in June

I feel the first stirrings of gardening energy in April. It peaks in May and June, begins to dissipate in July, further deteriorates in August, and by September all I can do is laugh at the articles that talk about all the fall cleanup I'm supposed to be doing. I'm beginning to see that the amount of energy I have for the garden corresponds directly to its appearance. Most perennials are at their best in May and June. The later bloomers shine in July and part of August, but by the end of summer the garden is generally looking kind of rusty—and my joints feel about the same way around that time.

The rose Abbaye de Cluny, photographed this morning, is at the top. Pink roses seem to dominate the second photo. I'm always surprised at how my pictures of this flower bed never ever look as good as it does in person. I suppose it's good that you can't see the couple of tomatoes growing in containers that I tucked in there. In another month lavender zinnias should be making a show.

In the third picture you can see my 15-year-old blue delphinium, some foxglove, a couple of spent iris, phlox waiting for mid-summer, and anchusa. What you can't see are five roses (four of them planted this year), monarda, shasta daisies, lupines, lots of iris that need to be divided, and way too much archangel.

I can't claim that I have toned arms, but thanks to gardening I have biceps that I didn't have last winter. And I think my garden has muscle, too.

I Barked at a Deer Yesterday

(Obviously, not the deer in the photo. No snow on the ground yesterday. At least not that I noticed.)

When our collie-shepherd, Caroline, was alive, we never saw deer near the house. Caroline had only three legs (thanks to an overzealous hunter) and no inclination whatsoever to chase deer, but evidently deer didn't know that. They kept a respectful distance, which was a real boon for our garden.

However, Caroline has been gone for several years now, and it didn't take the deer long to move on in. Yesterday I looked out the kitchen window and saw a large buck taking his lunch break at my plum tree. Munch, munch . . . I watched the baby plums disappear and thought about the roses, hosta, phlox, and sunflowers not far away.

Remembering the deer's response to Caroline, I opened up the back door and barked. It was a great bark—deep, aggressive, and nasty.

Nothing happened.

I took a deep breath and barked again—louder, longer, meaner.

This time I got his attention. He stopped eating and turned to face me.

And then he lifted his leg.

Inside a Delphinium

Those of you familiar with delphiniums (delphinia?) know that these individual flowers, each about 1" wide or less, grow on a tall spike. The overall effect is gorgeous, but so are the little blossoms by themselves. The center part is called the bee. And yes, the blue really is iridescent.

I'm so glad the delphinium survived yesterday's hailstorm. The rose pictured below didn't fare so well.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

Since Crystal said there were lots of flower pics on my blog, I thought I'd better post another one fast. Actually, there are lots, but they're buried in the blog in various places.

Suddenly, my yard is filled with the scent and sight of roses. Here's Prairie Princess, bred by the late Dr. Griffith Buck of Iowa. His mission was to produce beautiful, fragrant roses that would withstand harsh winters. He succeed beautifully.

Iris, intimately.

If you told me this was silk . . .

I'd believe you.

Iris Perfect Pitch in bud yesterday.

I'm off to see the wizard......

The wizard in this case is an orthopedic surgeon. Would you believe I'm having surgery—real, operating-room, anesthesia-required, fasting-beforehand surgery—because a careless move in the garden resulted in the tip of a rose thorn getting embedded in the back of my hand?

My regular doctor sent me to the orthopedist because the little invader (the thorn, not the physician) is sitting on a nerve and a tendon. I thought he (the orthopedist, not my regular doctor) would whip out a scalpel and maybe a little needle for a little Novocaine, but no, he said the operating room was necessary.

In the meantime, I got another tiny thorn tip stuck in the end of my index finger, same hand. Yes, I've been good about wearing gloves, but one cannot pluck caterpillars off rose bushes with anything other than a bare (and sometimes bleeding) hand. (See caterpillar above and note thorns!) I figure by the time I arrive for the surgery on Tuesday I'll have three or four more.

A busy surgeon is a happy surgeon.

If I've learned anything from Grey's Anatomy, it is that.

The Long and Short of It

I learned shorthand when I was 19. I'm not 19 anymore. (Or even 20.) Back then they taught the Pitman method. Today Pitman is obsolete. Come to think of it, the more "modern" Gregg method is probably obsolete, too. Is shorthand even taught anymore?

Anyway, I haven't had much occasion to use shorthand over the years, even when working as a reporter. My little Olympus recorder, all of four inches long, hears everything I need to remember. But I had just barely started interviewing a woman the other day when my little Olympus recorder began blinking strange messages at me. Oblivious to my plight, the woman proceeded with her monologue as if nothing had happened. I had to recall some shorthand in a hurry.

I'm not sure how to grade my effort. I have to conclude that when using shorthand for the first time in decades, one must choose between speed and accuracy. Since my monologuette was rattling off facts without pausing for breath, I chose speed.

I covered a lot of notebook pages with the squiggles I learned at the Mary Byers School. But I discovered that translating them into a newspaper article presented a bit of a challenge. Do you have any idea what Presses for put good my you means?

Or how about this: Local man for all about direct up.

And my favorite: Getting to it some full I like thing there it.

I'm thinking of using one of these as a direct quote. I may have lost my ability to take notes in shorthand, but it's good to know I haven't lost my sense of mischief.

I Win! (a poem)

I Win!

I eat a grapefruit every day.
So does Martha Stewart.

I have blonde hair.
So does Martha Stewart.

I have dogs and cats.
So does Martha Stewart.

I grow flowers and vegetables.
So does Martha Stewart.

Martha Stewart married a Yalie.
So did I.

Martha Stewart needs a new hairdo.
So do I.

Martha Stewart is post-menopausal.
So am I.

Martha Stewart has a net worth of $638,000,000.
I have a granddaughter.

Insane Day, Weatherwise

It was hard to believe the date when I took the dogs out this morning. The air temperature was 41º with a wind chill in the 30s. The wind was fierce, and it felt for all the world like fall. I fully expected to see leaves blown off the trees, not apple blossom petals.

The sun came out, encouraging me to try to do some digging. With my Raynaud's Syndrome, I avoid working outside when it's this cold. But I'm expecting five rose bushes to arrive very soon, and I need five deep holes to plant them in. So I tucked a disposable body warmer into my waistband, put on a pair of gloves, pulled a fleece top over my long-sleeved shirt, and ventured out.

I got one hole mostly dug and came inside for a bit. I was gathering up trash when I heard a crack and a CRASH. I went outside to see what had happened, but discovered first that it was pouring rain. I quickly pushed my wheelbarrow under cover in the garage and then took a peek down the road. A huge tree—which turned out out to be two trees—had come down across the road. It was now impassable.

I called the Township Supervisors to come deal with the trees, and by then we were having a hailstorm. I looked out at the dime-sized balls of ice bouncing all over the deck, and thought, It's the 19th of May, for heaven's sake!

The hailstorm ended and the sun came out. It was a tossup what I needed to do first, dig or mow. I needed to mow (badly), but the grass was wet from the storm. I decided I'd mow as soon as the wind dried the grass. I got back to digging. About three shovelsful later, the sun disappeared and rain came down. I rushed the wheelbarrow back to the garage.

It was like that all afternoon. No exaggeration. Sun comes out. I put my gloves back on and retrieve the wheelbarrow. Digging commences. Rain starts. Get the wheelbarrow under cover. Rush back to the house. Start a chore. Sun comes out. I put my gloves back on. And so it went for hours. I don't know how many times that pattern was repeated. At 5:30 I gave up and put the wheelbarrow in the shed.

I have one-and-a-half holes dug. The grass, having spent most of the day sucking up rain, is growing.

The Lusty Month of May

I remember Vanessa Redgrave as Guinevere, singing this song in "Camelot." Easy for her, with her flowing skirts, flowing hair, and full-to-bursting breasts. Not to mention her Maypole. Do you know anyone who has a Maypole? Think of what AC Moore would charge for all those ribbons. Or maybe they're available cheap on eBay. But Guinevere didn't have to worry about such things. Queens just demand ribbons, and they appear—borne on a pillow carried by a lustful knight.

The month of May traditionally finds me in the garden. What man in his right mind would lust at the sight of me digging in the dirt in my grubbiest of grubbies with black-rimmed nails, stringy hair, and face smeared with sunscreen? I am breathing hard, but only because the weeds are stronger than I. As for my passion, it is soaking in a five-gallon bucket, awaiting the planting that will take place as soon as I finish digging a big enough hole.

But judging from the activity my son saw yesterday in the woods, and the noises we heard last evening, May is indeed a lusty month if you happen to be a turkey. Or a duck.