Category: Blather

Blather

Saturday Blather that dips into controversy

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In case anyone wonders, I took down the Dormasha I had written for the W3 prompt. Even though it was based on a front desk conversation, it was too dark. I often process hard things through writing, but I’m learning that I don’t necessarily need to share them here 🙂

The truth is that most of the material I get for any of my writing is from front desk conversations. I have met some of the most interesting people just through the slow building of relationship by daily greeting people and asking how they’re doing.

Yesterday, a young man who comes to swim, and who has been telling me bits of tidbits about his family and job, leaned on the counter and asked me if I had read the news about where he works. I had not. So he told me why his place of employment had made the front pages.

I told him that I often avoid the news. “Depending on what news source I go to, I feel like I’m in two totally different countries,” I said.

“It’s the politics of teams,” he replied. “Politicians used to be the people who could work out compromises, but now it’s sport. It’s the Yankees vs the Red Sox.”

He couldn’t have picked a better rivalry. The Yankees and Red Sox have spent the better part of a century vilifying each other.

“We don’t look for common ground anymore,” he continued. “Take gun control…” and my mind immediately wandered off to Wyoming.

Honestly, I don’t remember what he said next. I had lived for a time in Wyoming, though, and people there take their gun rights pretty seriously.

I thought about them. I thought about the time we house-sat for a guy who had a ranch, and he had told us about the gun in the hall closet, in case … I don’t remember … coyotes? He failed to tell us, however, about the arsenal in the spare room, or the loaded handgun in the nightstand of the room we had put our young son to sleep in — thank God, I checked that drawer!

In upstate New York, the gun owners that I know are responsible and safe. Primarily, they hunt deer.

I don’t personally own a gun or want to own a gun — and I actually don’t want to enter the whole debate.

After talking with the guy who brought it up — and he had headed off for the pool — one of the custodial staff walked by. I knew he was really big into gun rights with tattoos that bear witness to his strong beliefs.

“How do you feel about background checks?” I asked him, and was surprised to hear that he really wasn’t that far off from the other man. And he was very knowledgeable and well-spoken on the topic.

Can I just stop here and say — this is why stream-of-consciousness writing produces blather in me. I write myself into a hole. I wanted to tell you that I get my material for posts from conversations I have — and now I’ve just stepped into controversy — but I’m going to leave it here because Stream of Consciousness.

Here’s some safer blather — three times a week, this little guy comes in wearing a backpack that’s bigger than his torso. He was chattering up a storm yesterday about school.

“How old is he?” I asked the mom.

“He’ll be three in a few weeks,” she said. “He’s very excited about school because he watches his brother get on the bus every day.”

It made me smile.

I think I’ll just leave you with that.

Blather · Life

When I Grow Up (a blathery post)

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Truth: I am 63. In the prime of my life, right?

I think most people my age are not doing what I do almost daily which is to ponder the question, what do I want to be when I grow up?

For crying out loud, I AM grown up! I have grown-up children. I have grandchildren marching towards grown-upness. (Well, at least marching towards double-digits, which is just a hop-skip-and -jump away from teenager years which are pretty darn close to being grown-up.)

Most of my peers are pondering how to spend the retirement years. I struggle to relate.

I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I moved from part-time to full-time two years ago. The last full time job I held before that was 1984.

I took a whole bunch of years off to bake cookies and have teas, as Hilary Clinton once said. Except I didn’t have teas. I played with Lego, read aloud, changed diapers, did laundry, read aloud some more, and went for walks to the library. We went for family swims, had skunk watches (just what it sounds like — watching a skunk make a daily trek outside our sliding door), played with math manipulatives, raked leaves, painted Christmas cookies, colored Easter eggs, hid birthday presents, etc. etc. etc.

Now, at work, I struggle with having a boss. I struggle with the politics of the work-place, with the certain amount of fakeness that is expected required, and I just can’t do it.

I love planning things. I love when an idea comes to fruition. That happened with events twice this week.

I hate any sort of spotlight.

I love listening to people. I love stories. I love making people feel welcome. I now know how to say “Good morning” in at least 6 languages — which I really do use to greet people. The Russian lady, especially, always smiles and laughs when I do. Sometimes the “r” rolls in dubro utro and sometimes my tongue gets stuck. Either way, we both laugh about it.

I hate pettiness. I hate micromanaging. These aspects of my job come from on high and drive me crazy. I want to scream,”Just let me do my job!”

Sometimes I think back to my horse riding days. Some horses needed a tight rein, but most were much happier and cooperative with a little slack. I rode bareback most of time, and could feel the horse, which is kind of strange to explain to someone who has never experienced it. Horses and I got along well.

I LOVE having a counterweight to my idea-ness. I have such a person in my life right now who can see the potential in my ideas and can either point out the flaws or move them forward. Idea people need that someone else. They don’t micromanage; they work alongside.

All this is to get to the concept of Ikigai which I stumbled upon yesterday in my struggle to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I found a Venn diagram — and I love Venn diagrams — that illustrated it:

The more I read, though, about Ikigai — defined by Wikipedia as “a Japanese concept referring to something that gives a person a sense of purpose, a reason for living.” — I realized that this is one of those foreign words that doesn’t translate well. Even the Venn diagram — and I DO love Venn diagrams — sort of makes it formulaic, and it isn’t.

So — prime of life or not, I’ll still ponder what to be when I grow up. Maybe someday I’ll figure it.

But can someone just get rid of these darn micromanagers??!

This way-too-wordy post is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday prompt: prime

About My Dad · Blather

A Ramble about Ice Cream and Little League

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About 15 miles from where we used to live was a seasonal ice cream shop called Humdinger. In March, when we would see the “Opening Soon” sign go up, we waited with eager anticipation.

I suppose every area has their own hidden gem ice cream store. Humdinger was Binghamton’s.

Blue Cow in Roanoke, Virginia is another such treasure.

Honestly, I don’t know if Cooperstown has one anymore. I would have said Pop’s Place but they closed. When I was a kid, Cooper Cabin had the best ice cream. They are long since closed.

My father would take his Little League team there after a winning game. The Cooperstown Dry Cleaners — the name of his team because they were sponsored by, well, I’ll let you guess — was not the winningest team, so it was quite a treat to go there. My father believed in every player playing, regardless of skill level and whether we were winning or losing the game.

I say “we” because I was a part of the team. I begged to play but there were two issues. One — I threw like a girl, a fact I was reminded of regularly when I tried to play catch. Two — girls had NOT broken into Cooperstown Little League at that point.

I remember reading about a girl my age in Pennsylvania who was allowed to play, but when she took the position of catcher, other coaches insisted that she wear a “cup” because it was in the rules that catchers had to wear cups to protect themselves. She pinned a toy teacup onto her uniform. I bet she didn’t throw like a girl. Catchers have to have a pretty good arm.

But I digress. I was part of the team because I learned to keep score and my father had me be his official scorekeeper. I learned the numbers for the positions. I tallied the strikes and balls in the little boxes. I knew to write 6-3 if the shortstop threw the ball to the first baseman to get the batter out. I checked with my dad on errors, because, God forbid I should make that all-important determination. At the Little League level.

The occasional ice cream at Cooper Cabin was my reward. That, and spending time with my father.

Yesterday was the anniversary of his passing.

I should have had an ice cream in his honor. His favorite was vanilla, same as mine.

The ramble is brought to you by Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt was “hum” – Find a word that starts with “hum” or use the word “hum” itself. 

All I could think about was Humdinger Ice Cream — but I meandered.

Blather · Grief · Leaning In · Life · poetry

Mom’s Wedding Dress

Sally18 Comments

Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.

Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.

The W3 prompt this week was a quote:

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.

I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.

On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.

I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.

The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.

“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.

But I couldn’t.

Kudos to those of you who can or could.

It’s just beyond me.

I closed the box.

But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.

That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.

She always loved a garden.

Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.

But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.

My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom

My mother gave her wedding dress
To me so I
Could use the lace for my gown.
I frown, I sigh

As I find the remains of that
Dress so many
Years later. A wreck of a thing –
Fitting, any

Joy I might have had now replaced
With a heartache.
The box holds scraps of what once was –
I pause – head-shake —

What do I do? “Throw it away,”
Says one voice in
My mind. “It’s just garbage now.”
Somehow the bin

Is not the proper place for it.
It is a wreck –
Like my life – but I simply will
Not kill that speck

Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection?
It is a dress!
Nothing more and yet so much more –
But for my yes

My own promise — oh, how I grieve!
I will bury
The scraps. My heart is still not free
To be merry


Blather

Blather about Running

Sally8 Comments

Spring, Summer, and Autumn I keep my windows open at night. In the morning, I sit in an easy chair at the front of the house near the open windows and read-journal-read before I start my day.

That’s when I’ve heard the owl.

And, during the day, the crows, who fight over whatever I’ve put in the compost.

The other day in the early morning, I heard a bird that I didn’t recognize so I recorded it with my phone on the window sill, and then asked a birder I know at work to listen and identify it for me. It was a red-bellied woodpecker — which, may I point out, does NOT have a terribly red belly.

One of my co-workers suggested I get the Merlin app which would have done the identifying for me.

“I’d rather ask a person,” I said, in part because of the delightful bird conversation that followed the identification.

We’re fighting a battle, don’t you think, where people are being replaced by technology. Self-checkout at the grocery store. Robo-calls and now robo-texts. Apps for everything.

Meh- this isn’t where I wanted to go with this.

The Stream-of-Consciousness prompt this week is “run” and when I started to write, I wanted to tell you about the sound a runner makes when he runs past the house. I heard it this morning.

pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat.

It’s like a metronome, constant and rhythmic. I can hear him come up the hill, getting louder and louder. Once he passes, the sound fades until he’s over the crest.

Newer runners slow as they come up the hill. It’s a steady grade and exhausting.

When there are runners, cars slow down (usually).

If I hear a car slow down and don’t hear a runner, I peek out my window to see what’s happening. Usually it’s a cyclist or a deer.

The ones that drive me crazy are the cars that don’t slow down for anything.

I’m pretty sure they are all from New Jersey.

One of my co-workers was lacing up her shoes for a “little run” the other morning. “How far do you usually run?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Since the Boilermaker [a local 15K race that happens every July], I only run three to five miles a day,” she said, and shrugged.

Mind you, I haven’t run anything even close to a mile since high school. If I did it then, it was because we had to.

I’ve tried running every now and then, but it hurts, so I quickly give up. Something about running is so pounding and jarring that makes it not feel good at all. Maybe I’m not doing it right.

Plus, I’m a fast walker. I have overtaken runners while I walk. I walk nearly every day.

Mostly I consider myself a swimmer, even though I don’t get in the water as much as I would like. Swimming feels natural and at home. I get lost in thoughts. I stretch and rotate and breathe.

As I go up and down the lane, I think, think, think — about things I’ve read, or heard said, or the sounds I heard as I sat in my chair earlier in the morning.

Like an owl or a red-bellied woodpecker or a runner’s footfalls.

Blather · Life

Blather about Football, Basketball & Swimming

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I’m reading a book called Hoop: A Basketball Life in 95 Essays by Brian Doyle. It almost makes me want to watch a basketball game.

Almost.

I don’t think I’ve watched a basketball game since high school. When I went to Syracuse University, I got to know a few of the basketball players, but I never went to a single game.

This was back in the ’70s when they had a new young coach named Jim Boeheim. He retired after the 2022-23 season. I heard a radio announcer on the NPR station talking about the SU basketball coach retiring and she referred to him as Jim Bohemian. I laughed. I knew his name well. I thought it sad that after decades of coaching, he was still unknown to some.

But that’s true of all of us.

No matter how notable our lives, we’re equally unnotable.

And that’s okay.

Mostly, I watched games in high school as a cheerleader.

Yes, I was a cheerleader. I followed in my sister’s footsteps.

Oh, the good old days.

Not really.

My freshman year I had planned to play field hockey but I got very sick with mono and missed three weeks of school. I never tried to play another sport.

Then, I was a cheerleader, as I said. I didn’t — and still don’t — really understand football. But I know the cheers. “First and ten! Do it again!” Don’t even try to explain it to me.

Basketball made ever-so-much more sense. At least I understood the basics.

Reading Brian Doyle’s book makes me understand how much of the game I missed — such as the grace and beauty of dribbling a basketball.

The other day I was walking on the track above our basketball courts at the sports facility where I work. Below me, kids were playing basketball. They had just finished their first day of school and come to the gym. It’s a time-honored tradition in Cooperstown.

I watched one boy trying to dribble two basketballs — one with each hand — and struggling to keep them even. Before long, it looked more like playing the bongos than dribbling a basketball.

A bit later, a girl took up that same challenge, same activity. She was considerably younger, shorter, and more athletic. She made it look easy. I watched her in admiration. If I hadn’t seen the boy struggling to do the same thing a few minutes before, her ease wouldn’t have stood out to me.

But it did.

I hoped the boy would stick with it — practicing, practicing, practicing.

I thought this morning, as I was reading another Brian Doyle essay on basketball, that I should write a book about swimming.

About the grace and beauty of it.

About the heartbreaks and the victories, the old pools and dank locker rooms, the shiny pools and pristine locker rooms. About parent timers who forget to stop the stopwatch because they’re so intent on watching their child. About the officials who have fallen in the pool during a meet, or had a coach in their face about a disqualification.

Mostly, though, about the Zen reality of swimming laps – swimming down, pushing off the wall, swimming back, over and over and over. Because if that doesn’t mimic life, I don’t know what does.

At least, it mimics life for me.

This stream-of-consciousness blather is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday, where the prompt for today was mostly/at least.

Blather · Life

Blather/Musings on Joy & Hope

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The other day a conversation I was in touched on the phrase “Choose Joy.”

“It’s all in how it’s said,” the other person was saying, and it hit me how very correct he was.

Say it with heartfelt sincerity and it sounds like what it’s intended to be — an encouraging sentiment. Say it sarcastically, sardonically, with a touch of a sneer and it is exactly the opposite. However a person has heard in the past probably impacts how they hear it today, right?

Every trite little slogan has that potential.

When life is an utter sh-thole, the last thing someone needs to hear is “Choose Joy” — as if they had chosen the fecal matter surrounding them. Sometimes, our choices do lead us to the latrine — but sometimes a thousand things outside our control take us there.

Timing is everything.

When I wake up in the morning, I can tell myself to choose joy today. When I drop a cinderblock on my foot, I may not choose joy in that moment.

But, then, I do have a sign boldly proclaiming “HOPE” on the side of our barn. Does”HOPE” also fall somewhere on the sarcasm/sincerity continuum? Can it be said both ways? I sure hope so? not?

Hope somehow feels different to me.

Yesterday, I lifeguarded at a local park. All the young lifeguards are back to school or at soccer practice or some such. I’m glad I can help.

An old woman came down to the beach. I would guess that she was in her late 70s, maybe early 80s. She was unsteady entering the water from the beach. I watched her pick her way along, hoping she had water shoes on because the zebra mussels can hurt terribly when stepped on.

She lifted the rope separating the shallow end from the deep end over her head and started swimming. Maybe she was a strong swimmer at some point in her life, but she wasn’t yesterday. She made me nervous, especially when she had to stop and “rest” holding onto the rope delineating the further boundaries of the deep end.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, and sounded annoyed at the question.

When she went back to shore, she lost her footing in thigh deep water. I jumped up, quite sure I would need to go in to assist her, but she finally stood again on her own and walked the rest of the way. Back on the beach, she sat, exhausted, in an Adirondack chair for the next hour.

Why she came to mind as I pondered Joy and Hope stream-of-consciously is a bit of a mystery to me. I wish I understood how my mind works. Here’s my guess though:

I think she chose Joy when she chose to go swimming that day. She drove by herself — a questionable choice because she hit a bench when attempted to park. She descended steep uneven stairs to get to our narrow beach. Then she swam — even though it exhausted her and she had lost her footing in the water. She chose to do all that even though the rest of us questioned her choices.

Maybe that’s choosing Joy — choosing something for ourselves, even when it doesn’t make sense.

That line that she clung to? That was Hope. It’s not so much a choice as it is something we just hold onto when we need it.

This Blather is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Today’s prompt chews/choose. Use one, use ’em both, use ’em any way you like.

I chose choose.

I also choose Hope and Joy.

Blather · Life · people · Writing

Blather about cracks and light and the writing process

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It’s been a week.

I drove to Roanoke and back, stopping overnight in DC where we visited an amazing new museum called Planet Word. I delivered my middle daughter to school and drove home yesterday.

In the meantime, I fell behind in the minimal writing I’ve been doing. Tanka Tuesday and W3 — you’re on my list for today. Readers, stay tuned.

For this post, though, my Stream of Consciousness writing exercise, I want to try to unravel the writing process a little more. I’ve been wrestling with the W3 prompt for this week which is to use line or lines from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” as part of a new poem.

I had Anthem on repeat for a good year at one point not so long ago. It’s a great song.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen, Anthem

So… process… I reread the words to the song, and immediately, the whole thing was playing in my head.

How can I take something so epic, so classic, and craft it into something new?

Enter Doctor Who. Remember the episode when the Doctor meets young Amy. For the record, it’s called “The Eleventh Hour,” S31 E1. My favorite line: “Must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall.”

Process — continued — Suddenly I have two sets of background singers in my head. One is singing, “Must be a hell of a scary crack,” and the other responds, “That’s how the light gets in, that’s how the light gets in.”

Seriously, I even hear a tune to their words. I can hear them going back and forth. And it’s like I’m just waiting for that lead singer to step up to the main mic and start singing the verses.

That’s what I have to write. The verses that go with the background vocals.

In the meantime, all I can think about is this homeless man that came in to eat the hotel breakfast at 6 AM of my day in DC.

I was drinking my coffee and doing my morning reading down in the breakfast area while my daughter was still sleeping in our room. He walked past me, and the first thing I noticed was the worn grocery store bag he was carrying filled with recyclables — bottles, mostly.

He wore a dirty army green jacket — and that was noteworthy to me because it was hot out, even at 6 AM. His hair was unkempt. He was unshaven. All this was one quick impression as he passed me.

I had my back to the food, so I didn’t see what was happening. I was reading, so I didn’t even really pay attention to it at all. There were a few other patrons there plus the woman who was keeping the food stocked and the area clean.

Suddenly, four men went past me in a hurry. They were big and wore vests with the word “SECURITY” emblazoned on them.

I heard the scuffle behind me, but didn’t turn to look.

They literally dragged the homeless man out. He cried, “Where is the humanity?! Where is the humanity?!” all the way out the door.

Then silence.

I sipped my coffee and pondered his question.

The woman who worked the breakfast came over to me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He can’t just come in here like that.”

“I understand,” I replied. “It’s sad, though, isn’t it?”

“If he came back at 10, I would give him the leftover food,” she said. “I have to throw it away. I’d rather it be eaten.”

We co-existed in silence for a bit, each lost in our own thoughts.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “You do a lovely job here.”

But that story, I knew later, was the fodder for the verses to go with my insistent background vocals.

Because, really, where is the humanity? It’s masked by a scary crack. And that’s where the light gets in.

Blather · Life

One

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I’ve been focusing so much on trying to write poems that I almost forgot to blather write a prose-y stream-of-consciousness post. (By the way, did you know that prose as a verb means writing in a tedious, dull way? Hmm — I’ll have to save that for an appropriate occasion.)

The prompt is one/won. Well, I haven’t won anything this week so that narrows it down. Here are some ones, though.

Number of dragonflies that I rescued from the cat: One.

I thought for sure that the dragonfly was a goner, but when I took it away from the cat, I could see that it was still alive. It flew away. Seriously. And I was left with amazement and questions and wonder and all sorts of feelings that are so hard to describe.

Number of operas that I attended: One.

On a bit of a whim, I went to Candide yesterday. I know it’s not really an opera; it’s musical theater. But it was at the opera house. I loved my seats — cheap seats that allowed me to see the orchestra — except I couldn’t see the French horns or the timpani. Ah well.

IMG_6284

Earlier in the summer, I had met the actor who played Candide. Now, mind you, I knew literally nothing about the show, the story, the music — nothing. This guy came into my office to purchase a short term membership at the gym. For the summer. He was with the opera.

“Which show are you in?” I asked, trying to sound like I knew something about it.

“I’m Candide,” he said.

“You’re in Candide?” I replied.

“No,” he said, “I am Candide.”

Silly me, I thought Candide sounded like a female role.

But let me say this — that same wide-eyed cheerful attitude that he brought to the stage sat in my office that day. I highly recommend the show.

Number of times that I swam in the lake: One.

Actually, that’s the number of times for the whole summer. Friday was hot, humid, and miserable. I jumped in the lake and swam back and forth along the rope at far side of the swim area. It was so refreshing.

And those are the ‘one’s that stand out to me.

But then, there was the one time that I got drenched because the heavens let loose and I hadn’t an umbrella and I had to get to my car.

And the one time that fruit flies took over the kitchen because I hadn’t emptied the compost bucket.

The one earring I lost.

The one earring I found.

The one guy who got under my skin in a 20 minute complain-y phone call. I can listen to people, but when you’re calling to complain, please understand that I don’t make the policies.

The one former neighbor who moved back to the area and came in to get a membership at the gym and I couldn’t place him in my mind until two hours after he left.

The one turkey reuben that “hit the spot” as my mother used to say.

The one young man from Romania who tried to teach me how to pronounce his name and I couldn’t.

The one woman from Russia who told me that the rolling hills of upstate New York remind her of home.

This could go on forever.

Must. Stop. Now.

Blather

Pas

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Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “sap/spa/asp/pas/PSA.” Use one, use them all, use them any way you’d like. Bonus points if you use them all. Enjoy!

Je ne sais pas what to write. I suppose that’s the purpose of stream of consciousness writing, right?

I kind of like that Linda included a French word in her prompt.

Please don’t assume that I know French. I took it for a year in high school and recently started learning it on Duolingo. Pas (noun) is a step. Pas (adverb) negates.

Pas — all sorts of phrases run through my head.

  • Pas de deux — a dance for two. Literally, a step of two.

    When I was in high school, one summer our school arranged some trips to Saratoga Performing Arts to watch the NYC ballet. That’s where I learned what a pas de deux was. I’m not sure I know which ballet it was, though. Was it Swan Lake?

    My best memory from all the ballets that summer was watching Edward Villella perform “Prodigal Son.” The fact that I can still remember his name and that performance says something because it was close to fifty years ago. The man had more muscles than I ever remember seeing on any human being.
  • Faux pas — literally, a false step.

    A social blunder. Saying the wrong thing, or having something come out totally wrong.
    Since I’m telling high school stories, here’s a faux pas that I still remember all too clearly. I was maybe 14. We were in high school band and discussing uniforms. Had we ordered new uniforms at that point? I don’t remember.

    When we started talking about what to wear on our feet, the band director suggested overshoes that we could put on over whatever shoes we wanted to wear. It would be cost-effective and give a uniform appearance. You know what I’m talking about, right? Galoshes, aka rubbers.
    I never liked those things. They were hard to get on and hot. I couldn’t imagine marching in them.

    I raised my hand and said, “I don’t like rubbers. I don’t like the way they feel.”

    The sniggering that ensued started small. It grew and grew until it totally surrounded me. I didn’t know what I had said wrong, but my cheeks burned with embarrassment.

    That was the day I learned that a condom’s nickname was “rubber.”
No true band uniform, no overshoes
  • Je ne sais pas — means I don’t know. It’s a useful term. There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I’m still learning.

    Je ne sais quoi — a term I like even more –is something indescribable. I love this phrase, but it captures the feeling I have when my mind is searching for the right descriptor but there isn’t one.

Now I’m off to do my Duolingo. I have an 1134 day streak going — mostly Scottish Gaelic. Today I’ll work on my French some more.