Penguin Comic

http://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2004/05mar_arctic/

www.grist.org/article/penguins
http://www.penguinscience.com/clim_change_ms.php

http://www.grist.org/article/humans-spur-worst-extinctions-since-dinosaurs
http://www.well.com/~davidu/extinction.html

Another AWP Comic

Another AWP Comic

Things I Wished after Going to AWP, another AWP comic

AWP Comic: Why Are You Afraid of AWP?

Another AWP Comic

D is for Dear . . .

yet another tale of childhood humiliation

Every year after Christmas my mother would ask me to write thank you letters to my grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins who sent me gifts. I would always procrastinate until long after Christmas vacation was over—some time in January. By then I couldn’t remember who gave me which gift. I wouldn’t know what to write.

Thankfully, my mother had a little book that told me how to write a good thank you letter. So I would follow the directions carefully.

So I wrote the same letter to everyone:

Dear

Thank you so much for the gift. It is a very special gift, which is why I like it so very much. This gift is like no other gift. Never has there been a gift like this gift. This gift is a gift I use and appreciate every day. It was so thoughtful of you to think of me and then send along this gift, the perfect gift for me.

My mother didn’t send all of my letters. Instead she saved one for a few years and then read it aloud at the dinner table. . .

AWP comics

AWP

B for My First Bologna Sandwich

yet another tale of childhood humiliation.


When I was about 4 years old, my mom decided I needed to learn social skills. Growing up on a farm, I had never been to a friend's house. So she arranged for me to visit a girl in a nearby neighborhood: Sharon Love.

It was a short visit.

I remember Mom walking me in the back door which opened into the kitchen, and then saying goodbye, maybe wondering if I was going to cry or follow her. I was happy to stay at the Loves, though I don’t think I ever made it past the kitchen. I remember that kitchen perfectly. It was as sparkling clean kitchen as an ad for Windex. There was a Persian cat on the counter, watching us, flicking her tail.

Shortly after my mother left, Mrs. Love served a lunch of bologna sandwiches. I had never eaten lunch meat before. Or white bread. Or store-bought mayo. I remember eating it as fast as I could, trying to get it past my tongue so I wouldn’t taste it. No sooner did it go down then it came right back up. I was really impressed. Wow, I said. That sandwich tastes the same in both directions.

My parents repeated that line at cocktail parties for months or maybe years after.

And if that story is disgusting enough, here's a great recipe for bologna cake!


1 lb. Sliced bologna
2 Tbsp. Grated onion
1 pkg. cream cheese (8oz.), softened
1 Tbsp. worcestershire sauce
1 pkg. Ritz crackers
How to make it

Mix softened cream cheese, onion and Worcestershire sauce.
Beat well.
Place a slice of bologna on a plate, spread cheese mix on.
Repeat process until all bologna is used.
Ice like a cake with rest of cheese mixture.
Cool in refrigerator.
Slice in thin slices and serve on crackers.

The Physics of Flying

Okay, so I don't know how to draw a plane. But I've been wondering about the physics of flying. Last summer a friend flew on a small plane. She said that before they took off the stewardesses asked everyone if they would mind storing much of luggage from below beneath their seats and in the overhead compartments and even on their laps as "carry-on."

That way they could make their weight limit and fly safely.

So I had to ask my physics professor husband:

Does the plane change weight
when you move the suitcases?

A similar event/question--I put in one of my dear professor poems:

Dear Professor,

I wanted to ask you a question about flying.
I took a small plane from Charlotte to Richmond
and there was an extra-large man in the back of the plane.
The stewardess made him move to the middle
“to balance the plane.”

I was pretty nervous, especially
when he went to the bathroom mid-flight.
The stewardess said, Don’t worry. It’s okay.
As long as he doesn’t stay in there too long.

How long would that be?

published in Stud Duck along with several other Dear Professor poems.

Sarah Palin and the Beauty Parlor

I was at the beauty parlor, waiting for my stylist who was running late and listening to this teenager talk while she was getting a cut.


My mom? she was saying. She always wants me to be like you know, like a better student and like . . . .

Your mom is a smart lady.

Yeah, but like I told her, like smart is like over-rated, like. You know? Like take Sarah Palin. I mean she's just a redneck beauty queen. Like she can't even talk, and she has like books out, and stuff, you know? So I'm thinking I got glasses okay, but so does she. So like maybe I should like learn to shoot a moose, like. You know?

Red tennis shoes

For some reason I have been thinking of childhood humiliations lately. And my mother who is coming up on her 94th birthday. Take first grade as an example--a year of many humiliations. My mother insisted I wear red tennis shoes to school that year even though the dress code stated girls and boys were to wear brown shoes. "Girls and boys should run around at recess. Hard shoes are not good for running, so my daughter is not wearing hard brown shoes," my mom said. For the first weeks of school the teacher would phone my mother every day to complain about my red shoes. She also said my skirts were more than two inches above my knees. And my hair needed to be combed. I had a permanent cow lick that the teacher once hosed down with Aqua Net. But the worst was the day when my mom picked me up, and my teacher came to the car to tell Mom that the treads of my tennis shoes were caked with cow manure. "What cow manure?" my mother asked, looking at my shoes which were coated with brown crusts and had a little bit of hay sticking out the sides. "Well," Mom said after a moment of silence. "It looks like she's wearing brown shoes today, doesn't it?"

DMQ

www.dmqreview.com/

A is for Apple (and a post on editing)

1.
I remember first grade as the year of apples. It was the year all the kids gave shiny waxed apples to Mrs. Wallace. One day I decided I would join the apple kids. I picked an apple from our tree and brought it to school. Sadly, my apple didn't look like the others. It had specks all over it. I had asked my mom about the specks, and she just said it was the kind of apple it was. "It's a speckled apple. Not a thing wrong with it. Not all apples looked like they came from Safeway." But Mrs. Wallace wasn't so sure about my gift. Are you sure these gray specks belong on the apple? she asked. Oh yes, I told her. I was sure. My mom said so. Mrs. Wallace washed and polished my apple. Next thing I knew, the apple started to look like the other apples . . . Well, not exactly like it came from Safeway. But the specks vanished.

Mom, I said later that day. Mrs. Wallace said my apple was dirty.
She did?
Yeah. She washed it and the specks went away.
Oh. She didn't like specks.
It was dirt, Mom. You think I should eat dirty apples?
Well, what do you think the animals do? If it's fine for them, it's fine for us, too.

2. Once, when I went to the dermatologist, one of her assistants told me she'd had her freckles removed. She was really proud of it. I guess there's some new technique out there that removes freckles. I think she thought I might want to do it, too.

You did what? I asked.
I erased my freckles. I feel so much prettier!
Why did you do that? You didn't have many freckles, did you?
I hated my freckles.
You only had a few. I didn't even notice them.
Oh, but when you see your own freckles, they multiply. It's like a freckle attack.
Wow! I had no idea.

I have been wondering about my freckles ever since.

3. Sometimes I spend so much time in the last editing of a poem. It's as if tiny blemishes or specks jump off the page. I never see them until right before I am about to publish a poem.

I sometimes wonder if they are a big deal. Or if I am only making a big deal out of them.

Male and Female Models

I think the last time I drew for real was in college. It was a class in drawing nudes. I remember how the female models were so fluid and relaxed. The male models were uncomfortable and boxy. (Actually there was only one regular male model, but every now and then the art professor would try to coerce others.) One week when we were drawing moving models--when they were going from pose to pose (so we sketched quickly), the woman moved moved gracefully and happily as if she were so at home in her body. But the man (who modeled the next class) struck this one pose as if he were serving us dinner and forgot to change positions for a long time. It stuck in my memory, the imaginary server . . . He seemed to be saying, I am here, offering you everything I have on a platter.

I guess I can't generalize from the class too much. I can't say women are more at home in their bodies than men, though it's tempting. But then again, the college I attended was actually a merger of 2 colleges, an arty women's college and a conservative men's college. The latter swallowed the former. Creativity died, more or less, in the process. Or so I am told.

There's a little glass case now at the college (Hamilton College) with memorabilia of the women who once were there. It's creepy. Like a large casket. In it is a white peasant dress that some girl wore to graduation. A photograph of ballerinas leaping across the grass. And a few other relics of our once upon a time . . . way back then, when artsy folks imagined an artsy college catering to women's needs and dreams and ideas . . .

Yes, it seems to say, this is all that is left . . .

Bye

One thing I never get used to: saying goodbye to my children (who aren't children anymore). It takes me a few days to recover from the feeling of emptiness after they leave.

Dogs in snowsuits

I have to dress the dogs up in snowsuits in winter. Then I put a turtle on top of the suit and boots on their feet, esp. when the roads are salted. Jeepers. They look at me as if I'm nuts. But then, what's a dog for if you can't walk it? Even if they are the size of cats . . .

"Students Today"

I was thinking today about some of the things my children's teachers said over the years, such as:

Students today . . . I mean, they don't make them like they used to.

Well, the students were conjugating their nouns again today in Spanish class.

A student asks for some extra work in math class because she's bored, and I ask,
Why? You want me to make extra work for next year's teacher?

I don't feel like teaching Spanish today. Do you want to watch Jerry Springer instead?

I understand that students usually have to write several essays for their AP English classes. But this is a large class, and I assigned the first paper for the year. It was horrible! The students do not know how to write, and I, for one, am not going to read 35 horrible papers again.

I am sorry to tell you that I tested the entire class in math skills, and some of my students scored very well. I know this might not be popular with some of you parents and children, but what this means is that I will be asking these talented boys and girls to prepare for the math competition. I think I can take a team to Columbus this year. But I apologize in advance . . .

Praise?

I was never much of a teacher's pet. Sometimes in my dreams I still see one of my yellow-haired teachers with her arms on her hips, glaring at me. As a kid, I used to wonder what it would be like to be the pet, the good little girl, the chosen one. I wonder if little girls still bring apples for their teachers. And cookies. Like little bribes.

A friend of mine who teaches creative writing was telling me how the worst student writers always love to read their work. They get up to the microphone on open-mic night and read and read. It's torture for everyone and gives readings a bad name. The good writers are self-conscious, afraid they might suck, so they stay seated. Or they do get up, but they only read a poem or a paragraph.

That makes you like them even more, doesn't it? I asked.

Yeah. For sure. But what is it that makes talent hide its face? And the lack thereof show off?
Next time you're at a student reading, look for the person who hogs the microphone. I promise you, you will be listening to the worst student I have.

The conversation made me think. I am sure I was one of those crappy writers. Not that I liked the microphone. Or had much chance to read at length. Open readings weren't ever my thing. But I think low expectations have always helped me out. It was okay not to be a great talent . . . yet. I always feel as if I am still hoping to write the perfect poem or story. Or at least to write something I like.

I am reminded of my dad who was an artist, a very critical and self-critical artist, who wanted all of his kids to draw or paint or do something arty. Two of my sisters were what he considered very talented. (He was right. They could draw anything.) Neither one of them ever wanted to be an artist. He ruined it for them by labeling them, praising them, or so it seemed. One of my talented sisters was telling me how weird she thought it was that he would tell me everything I drew was wrong, and I would just keep drawing it the wrong way, not seeming to care. Dad would tell me I held my pencil too tightly, so the images were always too squinchy and cartoonish. They lacked dimension.

He was right. But I never really thought of myself as an artist. It's just relaxing to draw. And I did sometimes try what he said, and I loved his attention and so on. I loved the fact that he would set us up with drawing paper and pencils. But somehow the negative comments didn't seem to bother me too much. I don't know why. I haven't drawn anything for years, but my son just gave me this cool toy for Xmas, so I've been doodling and remembering what a nice way it is to pass a few minutes.

Add to that that another sister, one my father did not choose, is now a really cool artist. She does her own beautiful thing . . .

I keep wondering -- how odd it is that praise can be so problematic. And criticism might be less troubling.

C is for Christmas Concert (The Worst Day Ever)

I was in first grade. It was the Christmas concert. All the girls wore black pleated skirts and red bows in their hair. We were supposed to singing Christmas carols, but I hadn't learned the words. I remember the spot light coming on and thinking, Wow. This is like being a movie star! So I started singing whatever came into my mind at the top of my lungs. We had grits and eggs for breakfast, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la.

I was feeling pretty happy until I looked out and saw the top of my father's bald head. It was crimson, the color he got when he was what he called boiling mad. Suddenly I stopped singing. Next thing I knew I was feeling dizzy. Then I was puking all over Martha who was standing on the bleachers just below me.

As one of my sisters pointed out later that day: We all heard you!

Sometimes, when I stand up to read, I have a flashback to that day, esp. if it's a dark room, and the light is shining on my face.

At the Hair Dresser

I was at the hairdresser the other day, and the beautician asked me what I wanted her to do. She had this cool Italian hair, and if I'd been honest, I'd have said I wanted her do. Instead I said, I want an upside-down tulip. You want what? she asked.

Padding

I don't know why they usually just make snowsuits for kids. But I found one, big enough for me a few years ago. It's become my winter outfit. It's almost as necessary as feet pajamas in the Ohio winter. The minute the temperature drops down into the 20s, every other grownup in town is freezing his or her butt off. Me, I'm ready for ice fishing. No matter if I am in the mall or the grocery store. I am prepared! Blame it on Virginia blood. I believe in padding.

Oh Joy

Another AWP ahead. See how happy I am at the thought? As if I just want to get up and dance? Or maybe I should go shopping, find a body that fits, and clothes. A mind, a soul . . .

The mere mention of the event, and I think I've already evacuated my body . . .

Guess What?

I remember this game we used to play in grade school. We'd ask someone: Can you guess what I have behind my back?
You never knew if it was a candy or a daddy long legs or a tick or boogers.
But the next part of the game was--Open your hands and close your eyes, and I'll give it to you. Okay?
Yeah, okay. Sure.
No peeks!

I think of that game at the beginning of the new year. Or whenever anyone is talking about the future. As if it's a hand with something I don't really want to touch but will anyhow.