For many years the Chinese have restricted the number of children their marrieds can have in the interest of curbing their population growth. I've always been quietly proud that we have not had to live with such an edict, but lately I've given thought to another form of child-limitation laws.
For most people in the U.S.A. there is a limit on how many children any couple can have. In practical terms it is eight. In even more practical terms it is four. But for most people, the limit is three.
So, you say, "There's no law like that in our country!" Yup, there is. It's one of those pesky "unintended consequences" that my hubby is always warning about.
Every child under the age of four (I think that's the age, but I may be wrong) has to sit in an approved child restraint seat. Every other person in the auto has to be seatbelted. So, count the seatbelts in an ordinary car. The answer is _______, (making the limit 2 adults and three children).
If you have four children, your vehicle must seat ____, which means you have to own a minivan.
The upper limit, unless you want to drive a school bus or take two cars everywhere, is eight, and you have to buy, maintain, and gas up a full-sized van.
I'm not proposing that we change any safety law. Goodness knows seatbelts and child restraint seats have saved countless lives and prevented a myriad of injuries. But, when we're criticizing China for their limiting law, we must also recognize that we live with some limitations ourselves.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Profanity 101
I remember when I decided I was old enough to swear. I’d spent 16 years using only darn and heck, and shortly after I turned 16 I allowed myself to say damn and hell. It was such a major step toward what I considered to be maturity. I watched my adult family smoke, but never considered smoking a badge of maturity. Swearing was something else again.
The adults in my family honed their swear-word vocabulary and used the power words and phrases liberally. Hardly any of them could or would complete a sentence without a g-damn or sob (they didn’t abbreviate them, of course). The words wafted around the dinner tables, casual conversations, political arguments, anecdotes, jokes, and so forth. It seemed to me that grownups had this separate and unequal language that was reserved for them….and I kind of wanted to be mature like that.
I was too much of a “good girl” to use such language, however. At 16 it was time to stretch out. I don’t recall exactly when I first used a damn in the presence of my mother, but bless her heart, she didn’t bat an eye. Damn and hell became okay words, and I reveled in being able to use them.
I think it was several years later when I added ---- (chit, as cousin Joy says in print). I have always thought it a vulgar word, and regret that I ever started using it. But some of the funniest lines extant are those that use this useful if despicable word. I was always careful to reserve the word to private conversations. I remember one time at a church dinner one of the girls spilled a whole glass of milk on the table. I said, “Oh shoot!” Our minister was impressed. He said that not many people would have been able to resist the obvious swear word to fit the occasion.
Using profanity at home was usual. I didn’t realize how ubiquitous it was, until the day my 3-year old son and I stepped out the side door, and caught sight of a blooming plant. He said, “I wonder what the hell kind of plant that is?” Ooops! Time to clean up the family language, and I did.
Almost everyone remembers the first time their offspring correctly used profanity. Three year old grandson Robbie was trying to pull up a beet, and his mother heard him say to himself, “How the hell do you get this damn fing outa here!”
And now those swear words that gave me such pleasure have been eclipsed by “the queen mother of all swear words.” And the power of that all-purpose word has been diluted until its as common as the word “the.” It’s a word I’ve never learned to use freely, and I think I’ll keep it that way. I reserve it for really serious situations where I need the most powerful of profane words to express or release the tension. But I guess I’m old-fashioned.
The adults in my family honed their swear-word vocabulary and used the power words and phrases liberally. Hardly any of them could or would complete a sentence without a g-damn or sob (they didn’t abbreviate them, of course). The words wafted around the dinner tables, casual conversations, political arguments, anecdotes, jokes, and so forth. It seemed to me that grownups had this separate and unequal language that was reserved for them….and I kind of wanted to be mature like that.
I was too much of a “good girl” to use such language, however. At 16 it was time to stretch out. I don’t recall exactly when I first used a damn in the presence of my mother, but bless her heart, she didn’t bat an eye. Damn and hell became okay words, and I reveled in being able to use them.
I think it was several years later when I added ---- (chit, as cousin Joy says in print). I have always thought it a vulgar word, and regret that I ever started using it. But some of the funniest lines extant are those that use this useful if despicable word. I was always careful to reserve the word to private conversations. I remember one time at a church dinner one of the girls spilled a whole glass of milk on the table. I said, “Oh shoot!” Our minister was impressed. He said that not many people would have been able to resist the obvious swear word to fit the occasion.
Using profanity at home was usual. I didn’t realize how ubiquitous it was, until the day my 3-year old son and I stepped out the side door, and caught sight of a blooming plant. He said, “I wonder what the hell kind of plant that is?” Ooops! Time to clean up the family language, and I did.
Almost everyone remembers the first time their offspring correctly used profanity. Three year old grandson Robbie was trying to pull up a beet, and his mother heard him say to himself, “How the hell do you get this damn fing outa here!”
And now those swear words that gave me such pleasure have been eclipsed by “the queen mother of all swear words.” And the power of that all-purpose word has been diluted until its as common as the word “the.” It’s a word I’ve never learned to use freely, and I think I’ll keep it that way. I reserve it for really serious situations where I need the most powerful of profane words to express or release the tension. But I guess I’m old-fashioned.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Nine Months to Learn to Knit
Feeling motherly when I discovered I was pregnant with my first baby, I decided I'd knit it a sweater (In those days we had to do things the old fashioned way, and I didn't know if "it" was a boy or a girl). I got one of those "How to Knit" books at the Ben Franklin store and a couple of hanks of light yellow baby yarn. It was slow learning, but I had nine months to do it in. I got all the pieces done, sleeves, back, fronts, but I never got it put together which is just as well, because by that time I was sick of that color of yellow.
However, by then I had the knitting bug, and for the next 5 years I knitted sweater after sweater for my kids, a girl and a boy eventually.
I even knitted a sweater for my father-in-law who said one January that no one had ever knitted him a sweater. It turns out that the sweater was too big, and I don't think he ever wore it, but he liked the idea that I had done it for him. When he died, my youngest daughter glommed on to that sweater and probably still has it.
I knit argyle socks for my father in nylon yarn. They were a blast to knit! And he WORE them! Eventually one of my daughters got those, too.
There were some flops along the way. I knitted a heather blue sweater for my mother that got into deep trouble with the cowl collar. Even she couldn't figure out how to finish that sweater, and she was an excellent knitter. A couple of years ago I set out to knit sweaters for my two- and one-year-old granddaughters. I think I got one finished, but the other one is languishing and will probably never be completed. That doesn't bother me really. The part of knitting I like is the DOING of it!
However, by then I had the knitting bug, and for the next 5 years I knitted sweater after sweater for my kids, a girl and a boy eventually.
I even knitted a sweater for my father-in-law who said one January that no one had ever knitted him a sweater. It turns out that the sweater was too big, and I don't think he ever wore it, but he liked the idea that I had done it for him. When he died, my youngest daughter glommed on to that sweater and probably still has it.
I knit argyle socks for my father in nylon yarn. They were a blast to knit! And he WORE them! Eventually one of my daughters got those, too.
There were some flops along the way. I knitted a heather blue sweater for my mother that got into deep trouble with the cowl collar. Even she couldn't figure out how to finish that sweater, and she was an excellent knitter. A couple of years ago I set out to knit sweaters for my two- and one-year-old granddaughters. I think I got one finished, but the other one is languishing and will probably never be completed. That doesn't bother me really. The part of knitting I like is the DOING of it!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
You've Got to Wonder
In the wake of the election of the Obama, the developing trend is disturbing.
You know, if anyone were trying to undermine the government of the U.S.A., what they need to do is get elected president and then appoint the very worst examples to major posts.
For example, they might start by naming John Kerry as Secretary of State. Another good choice would be the most partisan Democrat to the post of Chief of Staff. And to take a famous general and make him Secretary of Education.
It wouldn't be hard to come up with the people who would be most likely to fail, to louse things up. Looks like the good old U.S.A. has some tumultous and maybe disastrous times ahead.
I've never read The Manchurian Candidate, but maybe it's time that I did.
You know, if anyone were trying to undermine the government of the U.S.A., what they need to do is get elected president and then appoint the very worst examples to major posts.
For example, they might start by naming John Kerry as Secretary of State. Another good choice would be the most partisan Democrat to the post of Chief of Staff. And to take a famous general and make him Secretary of Education.
It wouldn't be hard to come up with the people who would be most likely to fail, to louse things up. Looks like the good old U.S.A. has some tumultous and maybe disastrous times ahead.
I've never read The Manchurian Candidate, but maybe it's time that I did.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Bur Battle
I thought I knew every bur-bearing plant there was. When I was a kid living on the sandy bluff known as New Boston, IL., I steered clear of sandburs. Those little devils really hurt when you’re bare-footed, and it even hurts to pull them off of your skin. Then there were “stick tights,” tiny black sticks with a bunch of quills sticking out of one end. They were aptly named.
When I moved to Eureka, I was introduced to cockleburs. I think their only redeeming feature is that the guy who invented Velcro got his idea from cockleburs. Oh yes, I guess the Japanese eat the plant some way or other. ---A neighbor told me that there was a cocklebur plant growing in front of her house. A Japanese college student was walking by and exclaimed “A bur plant!” (She said it in Japanese, however) She was all excited and took part of the plant back to her room to cook it.--- I’ve learned that cockleburs are VERY disease, insect, and Round-up resistant. The latter just beads up on the leaves, and it’s almost totally ineffective. You never see damage to a leaf that means some insect is dining or living on it. Digging out the roots is a hard job, even when the plant is young.
A couple of years ago I discovered “bedstraw.” How it got that name, I don’t know. It’s a fragile-looking, pretty plant with pretty little leaves, and sticks like glue! I first found it in my cats’ fur. They walked under the plant and it latched on. I’ve grubbed it out of my yard and yank it out of the neighbors’ yard whenever I see it.
And now I have found “bursage.” It’s a kind of ragweed. I was pulling bindweed from the bushes and redbud tree in front of the house, and suddenly I was COVERED with tiny green burs! I looked closer and discovered this innocent-looking plant with 4-inch, limber twigs with little green globs on it. By the time I saw the darned thing, I was covered with those burs. Those who know me know that I wear an elastic sleeve to control my lymphodema. There must have been 200 little burs stuck to that sleeve! And another 300 stuck to my shirt! And another 100 or so stuck to my pants! And another 50 stuck to my shoe laces! I started pulling them off and discovered that it is nearly impossible to get all of the stickery things off. I’d pull off a bur, and there would be one or two 1/8 inch, “limbs” that were left stuck into the fibers of my clothing, and every one of those teeny limbs could stick to anything that came near. The sleeve was a total loss, and those things cost $75 a piece! My shirt was a loss. Fortunately it was an old one. I worked long and hard on the pants and finally got it bur-free, ditto my shoes.
When I moved to Eureka, I was introduced to cockleburs. I think their only redeeming feature is that the guy who invented Velcro got his idea from cockleburs. Oh yes, I guess the Japanese eat the plant some way or other. ---A neighbor told me that there was a cocklebur plant growing in front of her house. A Japanese college student was walking by and exclaimed “A bur plant!” (She said it in Japanese, however) She was all excited and took part of the plant back to her room to cook it.--- I’ve learned that cockleburs are VERY disease, insect, and Round-up resistant. The latter just beads up on the leaves, and it’s almost totally ineffective. You never see damage to a leaf that means some insect is dining or living on it. Digging out the roots is a hard job, even when the plant is young.
A couple of years ago I discovered “bedstraw.” How it got that name, I don’t know. It’s a fragile-looking, pretty plant with pretty little leaves, and sticks like glue! I first found it in my cats’ fur. They walked under the plant and it latched on. I’ve grubbed it out of my yard and yank it out of the neighbors’ yard whenever I see it.
And now I have found “bursage.” It’s a kind of ragweed. I was pulling bindweed from the bushes and redbud tree in front of the house, and suddenly I was COVERED with tiny green burs! I looked closer and discovered this innocent-looking plant with 4-inch, limber twigs with little green globs on it. By the time I saw the darned thing, I was covered with those burs. Those who know me know that I wear an elastic sleeve to control my lymphodema. There must have been 200 little burs stuck to that sleeve! And another 300 stuck to my shirt! And another 100 or so stuck to my pants! And another 50 stuck to my shoe laces! I started pulling them off and discovered that it is nearly impossible to get all of the stickery things off. I’d pull off a bur, and there would be one or two 1/8 inch, “limbs” that were left stuck into the fibers of my clothing, and every one of those teeny limbs could stick to anything that came near. The sleeve was a total loss, and those things cost $75 a piece! My shirt was a loss. Fortunately it was an old one. I worked long and hard on the pants and finally got it bur-free, ditto my shoes.
I went online and think I’ve identified the wicked plant as “bursage,” a low-growing relative of ragweed. The sites I was on didn’t give me a really good chance to identify the plant, however, and I don’t know where my ‘plant key” is from my college botany course.
I was hard put to figure a way to get rid of that bunch of plants (a grouping about 3 ft. in diameter). Last night as I was trying to go to sleep I decided to encase myself in plastic bags, pull the stuff up and seal it in a plastic garbage bag. This morning Jim helped me tape a plastic grocery bag to my sleeved arm, and a black plastic garbage bag as a skirt. I went out and carefully pulled the offending weed up and stuffed it into another bag. I was doing pretty well until a skinnier branch flang back on me and nailed my shirt, an old one that I could do without if things went bad. I got all 50 burs out of my shirt and the 10 or so that were on my shoe laces. Now I have to make a note in my datebook for next spring to be sure to use Round-up on any plant in that area that doesn’t look familiar. I’m already on patrol for stinging nettles. Now I’ve added bursage to my battle list. (I should have had Jim take a picture of me in my bur battle dress.)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
When I Retire...
I remember the year I decided to retire. I had been working for seven years so we would have insurance. Good enough reason, eh? But age 65 was approaching and I thought, “Hey, I don’t need to work for insurance anymore. I think I’ll retire!” And I did. Sort of.
I didn’t go in to work any longer. I had every day, all day to do as I wanted…and I got a pay check anyway. What a hoot!
I was all set to enjoy the retired life. And then I found out that it isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. First off I found that instead of my husband and I doing things separately, we began to do them together. Have an appointment to see a doctor in Peoria? We go together. Need to go to Barnes and Noble? We go together. Volunteering to help some group out? We do it together. So instead of two people doing two different things, there were two people doing one thing.
Next eye opener was that I was available for babysitting. Now, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my grandchildren! And I’m willing to babysit* anytime I’m asked. If it weren’t for babysitting, I would hardly know those wonderful little people. We’ve become friends, and that’s downright precious. But it did cut into my “free” time.
Then there was a personality problem. I am absolutely incapable of belonging to a group and not DOING something! I can’t keep my mouth shut. I can’t keep my hand down. I can’t say “no.” So pretty soon I was up to my neck in volunteerism.** I’ve had to make some hard choices, and one of them is to simply not go to any new meetings. I know that if I do, I’ll be right in the midst of running them, and life’s too short for that. I’ve had to choose a couple that I really like, and say no to all the rest. It sounds like I have that all under control, but not so. I’m still in too many organizations and over-volunteered.
I’ve made a big decision. I’m going to retire! I’m going to do what I want to do when I want to do it! Yeah, right.
* In yesterday’s blog I talked about spell-check. My mighty computer doesn’t like my spelling of “babysit.” It wants to put in a hyphen. It doesn’t even know that “blog” exists! I guess it’s not so smart after all.
** My mighty computer DID know “volunteerism”, however. You gotta be impressed!
I didn’t go in to work any longer. I had every day, all day to do as I wanted…and I got a pay check anyway. What a hoot!
I was all set to enjoy the retired life. And then I found out that it isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. First off I found that instead of my husband and I doing things separately, we began to do them together. Have an appointment to see a doctor in Peoria? We go together. Need to go to Barnes and Noble? We go together. Volunteering to help some group out? We do it together. So instead of two people doing two different things, there were two people doing one thing.
Next eye opener was that I was available for babysitting. Now, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my grandchildren! And I’m willing to babysit* anytime I’m asked. If it weren’t for babysitting, I would hardly know those wonderful little people. We’ve become friends, and that’s downright precious. But it did cut into my “free” time.
Then there was a personality problem. I am absolutely incapable of belonging to a group and not DOING something! I can’t keep my mouth shut. I can’t keep my hand down. I can’t say “no.” So pretty soon I was up to my neck in volunteerism.** I’ve had to make some hard choices, and one of them is to simply not go to any new meetings. I know that if I do, I’ll be right in the midst of running them, and life’s too short for that. I’ve had to choose a couple that I really like, and say no to all the rest. It sounds like I have that all under control, but not so. I’m still in too many organizations and over-volunteered.
I’ve made a big decision. I’m going to retire! I’m going to do what I want to do when I want to do it! Yeah, right.
* In yesterday’s blog I talked about spell-check. My mighty computer doesn’t like my spelling of “babysit.” It wants to put in a hyphen. It doesn’t even know that “blog” exists! I guess it’s not so smart after all.
** My mighty computer DID know “volunteerism”, however. You gotta be impressed!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Smart Computers and Me
I know my computer is really smart. It thinks, you see. When I do something wrong, it immediately tells me about it. Smart little booger. It’s especially fond of little wiggly red lines that it sprinkles across everything I type. Now, of course, it’s gotten even smarter, and it puts little squiggly green lines under words here and there. Sometimes I can even figure out what it thinks I have done wrong.
There is a problem though. It sometimes does things I don’t want it to do! And I’m not smart enough to figure out how to stop it. For example, if I type something like “No. 1” it thinks, “Ah ha! My person is making a list!” and it immediately indents the stuff I’ve just typed and adds a “2”. Fine and dandy, but I didn’t WANT a 2! I didn’t want it indented either. I know how to slap it’s hand and change things to the way I want them, but I get really tired of doing it over and over.
Then there’s the little box that flashes up at the end of a name when I’m making an index. It wants to do some formatting all on its own, and I don’t want it that way. The other day I finally got around to experimenting, and I found the place where I could turn off the automatic formatting. I still haven’t found out whether or not I have to change that setting on every new document.
Then there’s automatic spell checking. Last week Jim was typing up a story about the Eureka Reagan Fest. Our two new-car dealers had their new cars downtown on a side street. Jim typed in that “Leman Chevrolet” was in attendance. I was watching over his shoulder, and I said, “Leman Shovelers?” Turns out that his intelligent computer didn’t know what Chevrolet was, and it substituted its closest alternate. Shovelers???
Now, MY computer doesn’t know what “shovelers” is. I know because there’s this little red squiggly line under it.
There is a problem though. It sometimes does things I don’t want it to do! And I’m not smart enough to figure out how to stop it. For example, if I type something like “No. 1” it thinks, “Ah ha! My person is making a list!” and it immediately indents the stuff I’ve just typed and adds a “2”. Fine and dandy, but I didn’t WANT a 2! I didn’t want it indented either. I know how to slap it’s hand and change things to the way I want them, but I get really tired of doing it over and over.
Then there’s the little box that flashes up at the end of a name when I’m making an index. It wants to do some formatting all on its own, and I don’t want it that way. The other day I finally got around to experimenting, and I found the place where I could turn off the automatic formatting. I still haven’t found out whether or not I have to change that setting on every new document.
Then there’s automatic spell checking. Last week Jim was typing up a story about the Eureka Reagan Fest. Our two new-car dealers had their new cars downtown on a side street. Jim typed in that “Leman Chevrolet” was in attendance. I was watching over his shoulder, and I said, “Leman Shovelers?” Turns out that his intelligent computer didn’t know what Chevrolet was, and it substituted its closest alternate. Shovelers???
Now, MY computer doesn’t know what “shovelers” is. I know because there’s this little red squiggly line under it.
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