Their Turn

Presidential election cycle in the U.S. I’m so weary of it and we have a year to go. It’s making me very tired and short-tempered when it comes to political rhetoric.

Many candidates don’t have anything helpful to say. They talk and talk and talk, and all I hear are empty promises and sometimes outright nonsense.

The students at my community college look at me funny when I refuse to talk politics with them.

Instead, I say, YOU are the ones that need to consider running for office.

Their eyes bug out of their heads. What was in Mrs. B.'s coffee this morning?

Start small, I tell them. Run for county commissioner, city council, work up to sheriff or mayor. Keep going from there: state legislature, working for a congresswoman, running for a national office or accepting a federal appointment.

YOU have more to offer than most political figures we see.

YOU came home from three combat tours and enrolled in college. YOU were the spouse who kept it together while your hubby/wife was in harm’s way. YOU know what it’s like to live on a budget, to work your job all day, study all night, take care of your kids, and get up the next day to do it all again.

YOU are the solution to this mostly shoddy field of poor excuses for leaders.

I tell them often. It’s your turn. IT’S YOUR TURN.

I’m a registered independent, I say, so I don’t even care what party you want to throw in with.

Who would do a better job than you? WHO?

They laugh at first or smile indulgently like I’m nutzo. I say: I’m not kidding!

Sometimes I see a glimmer in their eyes. Maybe Mrs. B. has something. Could I do it? Am I good enough, smart enough? they wonder. I'm the first in my family to go to college. How could I become a person of influence, a person whose opinions matter, and who could make things happen?

You are good enough, smart enough, moral enough to run for office, I repeat.

They think over this preposterous idea. Maybe I should consider helping to run this county, this city, this state, this country of mine. Maybe I could do better than those in office now. Should I listen to this crazy lady, talking her crazy talk?

I will keep talking, wearing them down to the possibility. They need to get used to the idea, to the glorious notion. I will keep talking.

God, I hope they are listening. 

My Last Meal

Oh, no!

It’s my last meal?

That sucks.

Fire up the grill, then, mes amis. But first….

Launder, dry, and iron my white linen blindfold, light on the starch. Load the rifles of the firing squad, and bring me hot water for my final ablutions.

Is Chaz Dean available to do my hair? Will he weave some baby’s breath around my head? Bobbie Brown for my makeup, please.

My sunset ombre ruched gown by Monique Lhuillier just arrived from Neiman-Marcus, for a mere $5,290.00 + tax and shipping. Sunset colored, get it? Isn’t it the bomb? Strapless, backless, full flowing skirt.

No thanks on the Spanx.

Oprah—so good of her to attend every day of my trial—has loaned me her favorite diamond drop earrings. I won’t need them for long. Kim Kardashian sent me her 20.5 ct. engagement ring, since she can’t bear to look at it with the unfortunate pending divorce. That will round out my understated jewelry.

For my perfume… hmmn. C’est tres difficil. I’ll have a light spritz of Insolence (Guerlain)? My Sin (Lanvin)? Poison (Dior)? Yes, Poison, please.

No shoes. I’ll have a nice pedicure and expire, au naturelle, barefoot, just the way I was born.

The hour is upon me.

Bring out the antique bone china, the cut crystal, the sterling flatware. Something nice and ornate.Being held prisoner in this royal castle does have its advantages. The dining room is well appointed; a ballroom is nearby.

Some red rosebuds in a crystal bowl are the centerpiece. Twelve ivory beeswax candles glow. The air-conditioner is cranked, so the room is just slightly cool. Even preparing for death, my menopausal needs must be met.

Billy Joel, wearing a tux, is singing “Only the Good Die Young.” Gregg Allman and the boys rock out on “I’m No Angel.” Sting makes a special appearance, and patiently waits for his turn to sing “Every Breath You Take.” “Hungry Heart” is Bruce Springsteen’s contribution.

Now, for the repast. The appetizer: a half dozen Chesapeake Bay oysters, with lemon, chilled on ice.

What’s this? Jon Bon Jovi offers to be my server for the evening. He looks smashing and asks me to dance while my main course is prepared. I’m a wonderful dancer after the tutoring by Maksim Chmerkovskiy. Jon sweeps me across the floor in a blur, whispering the lyrics to "Living On A Prayer" in my ear.

Next arrives a 1 ½ inch thick Angus beef, New York strip steak, marinated eight hours in a mix of fragrant, freshly chopped garlic, olive oil, red wine vinegar, fresh thyme, salt, and black pepper. Grill it medium rare, over a hickory-wood fire, and make sure it is still pink in the middle, please.

I am a woman of simple tastes.

On the side, freshly made mashed Idaho russet potatoes with butter and cream, salt and pepper. Butter melting into the lovely mound of fluffy goodness.

Asparagus spears, lightly steamed, with homemade hollandaise sauce.

Hot, crusty French bread, and keep it coming, with the finest Italian olive oil and herbes de Provence in a small bowl for dipping.

Scotch, please, in a Waterford crystal glass. An 18 year-old-Macallan single malt should do.  A goblet and a pitcher of spring water with ice, as well.

For desert… an assortment of miniature French pastries, Devonshire scones, clotted cream, and a warm dark chocolate sauce on the side. Some strawberries, too.

Ah, I am replete. I will say my prayers, now, and bid you, adieu.

I push away from the table.

But what is that ringing? The telephone? The governor, a reprieve?

I’m not giving back the gown.

Steampunking

The automobile, the aeroplane,

Are useful gadgets, but profane:

The enginry of which I dream

Is moved by water or by steam.

From “Doggerel By A Senior Citizen” by W. H. Auden

In The Norton Book of Light Verse, 1986

As usual, I’m a little late to the party. This time it’s the Steampunk phenomenon.

I was around for the TV show Wild, Wild, West when it originally ran in the 1960s (OMG, how is this possibly almost 50 years ago?), and I recently read The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I noticed that Goth had maybe morphed into another sub-culture with some polished brass accents, corsets, dirigibles, and funky mechanical oddities, but I hadn’t given it much thought.

There was buzz about Steampunk lit on Twitter, and CBS Sunday Morning, prior to Halloween, ran a piece about a Steampunk convention. So I did a little Steampunk research, in my typical, “let’s over-think this!” style.

In case, like me, you hadn’t given the movement much thought, or even known that it qualified as a “movement,” here’s a definition courtesy Amazon.com, in their page for Jeff VanderMeer’s popular book, The Steampunk Bible.

Amazon calls Steampunk, “A grafting of Victorian aesthetic and punk rock attitude onto various forms of science-fiction culture” and adds that it “has come to influence film, literature, art, music, fashion, and more.”

To get an eyeful of Steampunk, Google the word and hit images at the upper left. Pretty amazing, imaginative, and literally brassy. Steampunk computer keyboards, Steampunk spiders, Nerf guns, motorcycles, cameras, and of course, even cell phones. Most objects of daily life now have a Steampunk interpretation.

Attire favored by Steampunkers includes for milady: remnants of a Victorian hat or helmet, the aforementioned corsets, pantalettes, black lace-up boots with helical brass gear dangles, torn fishnet hose along with random ruffles, leather, and lace. Weaponry optional, but encouraged, as long as it has antiqued brass, gears, and whimsicality. 

For the gentlemen: leather goggles, brass appurtenances (some look sharp enough to cut glass!), white silk shirt, flowing scarf, brass/leather/tweed vest, black steel/brass weapons, and casual worm/spur/ herringbone gears, gears, and more gears and pinions.

Also, as Amazon notes, “A burgeoning DIY community has brought a distinctive Victorian-fantasy style to their crafts and art. Steampunk evokes a sense of adventure and discovery.” 


You can find Steampunk articles by crafters on Etsy—a search yielded 140,000 items. From a brass octopus hairclip, to a made-to-order leather under-bust harness, to a pattern for sew-your-own military spats, we can all make our Steampunk dreams come true.

Okay, this Steampunk research has been quite the voyage of discovery for me. My grandparents were all Victorians, born in the years 1869-1899 (I know; I’m an antique, right?). I'm thrilled to teach Victorian literature, and have always loved reading about Victorian life.

Now I have a new interest. Color me Steampunk!

Excuse me—must run. Brass needs polishing and my lighter-than-airship awaits. Ta-ta!

Are you interested in the Steampunk phenomenon? Have you already jumped on the steam-powered train?

Crock Pot Saves the Day with Barbecue Pulled Pork

I pride myself on keeping a fairly well stocked pantry of basics. Imagine my surprise today when I didn’t have enough barbeque sauce or ketchup to follow the recipe for pulled pork barbeque in my trusty The America’s Test Kitchen Family Cookbook (2006).

Hmmn. I was already browning the pork. Instead of boneless Boston butt (how’s that for alliteration—poetry is everywhere) I had picked up a 3 lb. package of boneless country style ribs on sale at the local Harris-Teeter. These ribs were lovely and quite lean. I sprinkled them liberally with Tony Chachere’s Cajun spice mixture. Chachere’s mix has salt, pepper along with spicy hotness. Go easy on it if you don’t enjoy a bit of zing.

The boneless ribs browned in canola oil in my square iron skillet (I’m no pioneer woman so, no, there aren’t photos, but honestly, I trust you to have enough imagination to picture pork browning in a skillet. While you’re at it, imagine a lovely fresh pork aroma). 

I scanned the fridge and cupboard shelves. The recipe called for either a bottled barbeque sauce or asked me to make my own sauce with a ketchup base.

Instead, here’s what I substituted, mixing the ingredients together in the crock pot:

1 cup jarred salsa, mild

1 cup dark ale

½ cup catsup

½ cup commercial barbeque sauce (I used Sweet Baby Ray’s with Vidalia onion)

1/3 cup cider vinegar or more to taste

¼ cup sorghum (or molasses or honey would work)

2 tablespoons of coarse deli mustard

1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

2 bay leaves

Next, I sautéed the following ingredients in a skillet with 1 tablespoon of canola oil for about 10 minutes, then transferred them to mixture already in the crock pot.

1 chopped green bell pepper

2 chopped hot banana peppers

2 stalks celery

1 chopped sweet onion

Once the ribs were browned, I transferred them into the mixture of ingredients in the crock pot. If I’m going to be around the house, I put the crock pot on high until the meal is bubbling, then I turn it down to low. If I’ll be out of the house, I use the low setting. The ribs cooked on low for about 4-5 hours and that was plenty of time.

Pull the pork out and shred it with your hands or using two forks. We like ours on a sandwich or just plain on a plate. You can drizzle some of the thin sauce from the crock pot on the pulled pork. The sauce still has chunks of onion and peppers in it for a nice flavor. The hot peppers really brought the pork up a notch. By the second or third bite, I was loving the flavor of this pork. I put a little extra cider vinegar on my mine at the table. 

Coleslaw is really a necessity with this dish, but cabbage was not in the fridge so we made do with garlicky dill pickles. That doesn’t qualify as hardship in our house! Cornbread or biscuits go well, as do some nice barbeque baked beans, if you have them. A green salad can stand in for the coleslaw if you aren’t having any hardcore Southerners over. They may look askance at a salad, but they’ll be too polite to say anything.

Happy eating!

Nutty in the Family Tree

In doing a little genealogical research, I discovered that a possible relative from the 1500s got into trouble with an ax. According to the records, he killed two people with the ax, and his brother helped him bury the bodies.

He was hanged. His brother was found not guilty.

I am not a violent person and don’t believe in solving problems with violence.

However, I am in menopause. I have had more violent thoughts in the last year than in all the 53 prior years combined.

I get mad. I get red-faced. I haven’t had a screaming fit so far, but who knows how long I can hold out? I have fantasized, lightly, about offing a couple of difficult people, but haven’t laid a hand on anyone in violence. Yet.

I had a student a few years back who told me in confidence that if he ever got a fatal diagnosis, he was prepared with a list of people he would send to the next world before he died. Laughing it off at the time, now I have toyed with a short list of people who would improve the world greatly by leaving it. Just in case.

Does it make me a bad person if I want to make the world a better place?

No, don’t dial 911. This is a post filed under “humor,” okay? There wasn’t a category for “humor in poor taste.”

I’m not going to take action on my little fancies. And come on, if you’ve ever read a novel where someone was killed who needed killing, and said to yourself, “Yeah! Woot!” are you really so very different from menopausal me?

If you’ve read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series, you know what I mean about being happy that Lisbeth had a golf club handy at just the right moment. With my little personalized fantasies of minor blood and guts, I’ve just strayed momentarily over to non-fiction for my subject matter.

I have moments where my cloud of generalized rage makes me think about Mr. T, from the old TV show, The A Team. Remember his line, “I pity the fool!”?

Sometimes when I hear a noise in the night, instead of getting scared, I think, “Go ahead and break-in to my house, knucklehead. I’ve got a hickory walking cane with your name on it.” Then the noisy squirrel or possum on the porch, sniffing my bad karmic energy, wisely runs away.

I do pity the fool who may give me a reason to go berserk in a just cause, like defending myself or others.

I’m not proud of my possible ancestor, don’t get me wrong. But in a tiny, trifling way, through menopause I may understand the homicidal urge just a weensy bit better.

I stay away from axes, but I do keep a hammer in my desk drawer in case I have a sudden impulse to “hang a picture.”

How about you? Any occasional homicidal fantasies? Random thoughts of violence? Please don’t forget, this is humor, people, humor. Have an ax-free day!

Virginity Lost

“I miss my virginity.”

That was Dylan, a 25 year old student in our American Lit II class at a community college in North Carolina, where I’ve been an instructor for a number of years.

No, Dylan wasn’t speaking of the kind of virginity you may first imagine.

Near a military base, we have many vets of both genders in our classes, most of them logging in multiple combat tours. Dylan has been on three combat tours in Iraq, and is a single dad now working on his associate degree.

What prompted Dylan’s statement was the class discussion of a line from Kurt Vonnegut’s 1969 novel, Slaughterhouse Five. In the story, Mary O’Hare, the wife of one of Vonnegut’s World War II army buddies, has just blasted Vonnegut for planning to write a book about the war. The source of her anger is asleep upstairs in footie pajamas—her young children.

You were babies, she growls at Vonnegut, and yet I know you’ll write the book as if you were men. You weren’t men; you weren’t John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, she hisses. You were children like our kids asleep upstairs. You’ll glorify war in your book, glamorize it, pretend you were big brawny men when you fought it, and people will keep fighting wars forever.

She hates Vonnegut for the book she believes he’ll write.

Sitting at Mary’s kitchen table, Vonnegut surprises Mary. He swiftly agrees with her that he and his pal, O’Hare, were children, in fact were “virgins,” when they fought in Germany. 

Our American Lit class discusses the meaning of the word “virgin” in this context—that it doesn’t refer to sexual virginity but to the innocence of teenagers who have yet to fight their first battle.

Dylan pondered this discussion for a few seconds. Then he stated the line above that deserves repeating-- “I miss my virginity.”

The hair on my neck stood up. His terse comment chilled the stuffy classroom. Some of the other combat veterans nodded.

Dylan has been my student in other classes. He’s smart, no doubt about that. But he’s more than smart. He’s perceptive, analytical, and insightful. He’s wise.

He has been a warrior for us, the best kind of warrior. Sometimes I wonder how many U. S. citizens know, care, or approach understanding what our warriors have done for us.

Dylan probably won’t even mind me adding that I know he can be gentle, although I wouldn’t announce that to a crowd if I ran into him at a local pub on a Saturday night. He is confident, not arrogant, not the macho stereotype of the warrior. I’ll go further. I admire him, and the other men and women like him in my classes.

What they have seen and experienced in Iraq or Afghanistan I can’t come close to imagining, even though I watch the nightly news five nights out of seven. The conflicts that I see in sound bites, they lived in 3-D, 24/7.

Now they’re looking at me, for Pete’s sake, standing here hoping I have something to teach them. They are so eager to learn that they lean forward in their uncomfortable plastic chairs. They are my students, but I look up to them. They humble me.

Dylan is unique, but he is also just one of many warriors among us. He is the warrior who comes home from battle, makes a good life for himself, his family, his community.

He lost his virginity for us.

He misses it, and that is part of what makes him the man he is. 

Me Drive Pretty One Day

Confession: I sometimes make mistakes while driving.

How many driving mistakes am I allowed per year? I’m not talking about the kind that result in accidents. It’s the near misses. The getting honked at moments.

I commute a total of two hours daily on a five-lane highway. Making a concerted effort to drive well, I drive conservatively. Like an old lady, some might say. My goal is to get to work and home in one piece.

I stay with 5-7 miles over the “speed limit,” since it goes without saying that to drive the speed limit would actually cause wrecks as NASCAR wannabes jockeyed to get past me.

When changing lanes or turning, I engage that underused device, the turn signal.  I allow several car lengths of space between my car and the car in front of me. Before changing lanes, I check the rear and side view mirrors, then glance, sometimes twice, over my shoulder.

I plan miles ahead, especially for left turns. I don’t talk on the cell phone. Well, really, really rarely and not for long when I do. I never answer the phone or make a call in traffic. I don’t text while driving.

Further, I don’t apply makeup, change clothes, scold children, braid my hair, tidy up the car, balance my checkbook, or watch DVDs while driving. Yes, I have noted other drivers doing all of the above while in motion at highway speeds. A friend even reported she’d seen a man watching porn on his DVD player as she passed his car one night. IIICCCKK!

In parking lots, I stay in the marked lanes rather than roaring across parking spaces without looking left or right. My preferred parking spot is one I can drive through to the outside, so I can pull out rather than back up when leaving.

In spite of my generally careful ways, occasionally I make a driving gaffe. Last time it was moving from the fast lane back into the slow lane. Even after I looked in both mirrors and over my shoulder, I didn’t see the car in my blind spot and got a brisk honking from the irritated driver.

Truly, it was my bad, I was sorry and embarrassed, and I actually appreciated the honk. When I make a blunder like that, I need to know about it! The honk scares me into even more vigilance on the road. Can I really be too vigilant?

Probably not. At least I try to be a decent driver. Does that count for extra points?

How about you? Will you admit to making the occasional driving boo-boo or no-no?