© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, technology, computers, instructions, astronaut, Sesame Street, Salt Palace, Provo, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Technology befuddles me. I think that's a gal thing—meaning women are genetically predisposed to never understand technological instructions. Case in point, how long did it take before we had a woman astronaut? It took centuries. And when we finally did get one, she went off her rocker, drove across the country and tried to kill someone. Was she really crazy, or just befuddled by technology?
Most gals instinctively grasp the important things in life—like how to shave their underarms with a dull, albeit pink-colored razor and not end up wearing Band-Aids on their armpits for the next month. We understand how much fuzz we can let build up in the dryer’s lint trap before it sets the house on fire. We even know how to lick chocolate frosting off a sharp steak knife.
Okay, I take that last one back. Licking anything off a sharp knife generally gives you a forked tongue. Which is fine if you want to resemble a boa constrictor, but otherwise …
What some of us (meaning me) don’t understand is a page of written instructions that makes no sense, and then when we finally figure them out, they still don’t work. It’s not the logic in the instructions that’s the problem. It’s the lack of it. Face it, most manuals are written by men. The same men who would rather drive around Provo for hours, looking for the gun show at the Salt Palace, than to stop and ask for directions.
Not long ago, I wanted to post a picture online. According to knowledgeable sources—that would be either Paul Harvey or Sesame Street; I can’t remember which—it’s a good idea for writers to have a photo of themselves on their website.
I found a picture of me and my dog, Corky Porky Pie. It took hours to get it ready for public viewing, though. After all, I had to skinny it, airbrush it and remove several years worth of facial wrinkles. Corky is very particular about how he looks out on the ‘Net.
I followed the site’s instructions to upload the photo. That took about 10 seconds. When I clicked the button to save it, nothing happened. There wasn’t even the normal clicking sound, so I turned up the speakers. Removing my glasses, I rubbed my eyes and tried to reason through the problem. Maybe I hadn’t clicked hard enough. I looked back at the monitor’s screen. Maybe the computer had caught a virus, because now the screen was fuzzy. Oh wait, that’s because I took off my glasses. Glasses … glasses … where had I put my glasses?
After searching the piles of papers and left-over Twinkie wrappers on my desk, I gave up and went back to the task of uploading the photo. I must have clicked the wrong button the first time. Leaning forward, with my nose pressed against the computer screen, I tried to read the blurry words. The button read, “Click here to upload photo.” Or maybe, “Win a free trip to China.” I wasn’t sure which. I clicked anyway.
Trumpets blared from the speakers. Let me assure you that when the volume is turned to high, and your ears are two inches away, you don’t stay in your chair. For one brief second, I knew how the Wright Brothers felt on their first flight, because I catapulted into the air almost as high as they flew.
A second later, I knew how it felt when they landed, too. I lay on the floor, rubbing my bruised posterior and listening to a voice jabbering from the speakers in Chinese. Then it switched to English and said, “So sorry. You not win trip. Try again next time.”
I gave up. With a sigh, I hoisted myself up from the floor and went into the kitchen. I just knew that somewhere in there was a can of frosting and a sharp knife.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is STILL mush from hunting for a new home!
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Parable of the Watermelon ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, parable, watermelon, fruit garden, vineyard, weeds, tiller, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Russ meandered into the garage, looking for something constructive to do.
Meanwhile, in the garden, Cindy stepped over to the dark green vine, gently moving the big leaves this way and that. “Ah-ha! I actually have a watermelon growing.” Leaning down, she brushed the dust off the green-striped, four-inch melon. A far-away look entered her eyes. “It’s been a lot of work; I’ve tried for years to grow melons. I’ve digged and pruned and dunged my vine. I’ve trimmed out the wild branches and grafted in the tame. And now, one has finally made it.”
The mistress of the vineyard was pleased. She reached down and patted the melon as if it were a well-loved toddler. “Keep on growing.” Then she walked to the car, got in, and drove away to run errands.
In the garage, Russ looked around. Like a typical husband, he wanted something loud, heavy, and manly with which to work. He spotted the Mega-Tiller. Its green hulk took up half the floor space, and when started, its roar equaled a nuclear blast. Russ’s eyes gleamed with excitement and he could almost smell the musky scent of oil, gasoline and plowed earth.
“I’ll go till the weeds in the garden.” With an iron grip, he caught the handle and in one smooth move pulled the rope starter. The Mega-Tiller roared to life, flames shooting from its bowels.
Well … okay, there weren’t really any flames, but it makes for a good story.
With a clunk, Russ threw the machine into gear. He walked the motorized beast across the lawn and to the vegetable patch.
The weeds trembled in fear. Or maybe it was from the wind that the Mega-Tiller created as it churned the earth. Then again, it could have been from the heavy breathing Russ was doing while muscling that two-ton machine around.
Grasses bowed their heads in defeat and morning glories cursed as they were chopped to pieces. Of course, they would just take root wherever they were chopped and there’d be even more of them in two weeks, but Russ and the Mega-Tiller ignored that.
Finally, after the bulk of the weeds were ripped from their mortal existence, Russ eyed the watermelon vine. The melon knew that look and it rolled, trying its best to move to the center of the plant.
The engine on the Mega-Tiller idled with a loud purr as Russ walked around the leafy vine. He scuffed at the weeds growing near the plant. With a nod to the machine he said, “It would be a pain to pull these weeds by hand. If I’m really careful, I could just run the tiller around the outside perimeter of the plant and they’d be gone in a tenth of the time.”
The Mega-Tiller hiccupped in agreement and then roared with delight as Russ threw it into gear. Straddling the freshly tilled mounds of earth, Russ held fast to the machine as it rumbled its way toward the trembling melon.
Closer. Closer. With an unplanned lurch, the Mega-Tiller of Death flung its metal tines against the melon and sliced it in half.
“Oops,” said Russ.
The next day, Cindy walked outside in anticipation, wondering how much the melon had grown through the night. She could almost smell the sweet scent of ripe watermelon. Could almost taste the cool sweetness of the fruit in her mouth, the icy tingle of the juice as it slid down her throat on a hot summer’s eve.
She stopped. The garden looked freshly tilled. It was so nice of Russ to rid it of weeds. The mistress of the vineyard walked to her plant. Bending down, she looked for the fruit. “Russ,” she called out. “Did you pick my melon?”
Then she saw it. Exposed to the sun, its red flesh had tightened and dried. Ragged edges hung from the split sides and dirt caked the bottom of the now deceased melon.
And the mistress of the vineyard was vexed … and Russ was sore afraid. And he vowed to her that he would never till again without her there to stand guard.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is mush from hunting for a new home!
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, parable, watermelon, fruit garden, vineyard, weeds, tiller, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Russ meandered into the garage, looking for something constructive to do.
Meanwhile, in the garden, Cindy stepped over to the dark green vine, gently moving the big leaves this way and that. “Ah-ha! I actually have a watermelon growing.” Leaning down, she brushed the dust off the green-striped, four-inch melon. A far-away look entered her eyes. “It’s been a lot of work; I’ve tried for years to grow melons. I’ve digged and pruned and dunged my vine. I’ve trimmed out the wild branches and grafted in the tame. And now, one has finally made it.”
The mistress of the vineyard was pleased. She reached down and patted the melon as if it were a well-loved toddler. “Keep on growing.” Then she walked to the car, got in, and drove away to run errands.
In the garage, Russ looked around. Like a typical husband, he wanted something loud, heavy, and manly with which to work. He spotted the Mega-Tiller. Its green hulk took up half the floor space, and when started, its roar equaled a nuclear blast. Russ’s eyes gleamed with excitement and he could almost smell the musky scent of oil, gasoline and plowed earth.
“I’ll go till the weeds in the garden.” With an iron grip, he caught the handle and in one smooth move pulled the rope starter. The Mega-Tiller roared to life, flames shooting from its bowels.
Well … okay, there weren’t really any flames, but it makes for a good story.
With a clunk, Russ threw the machine into gear. He walked the motorized beast across the lawn and to the vegetable patch.
The weeds trembled in fear. Or maybe it was from the wind that the Mega-Tiller created as it churned the earth. Then again, it could have been from the heavy breathing Russ was doing while muscling that two-ton machine around.
Grasses bowed their heads in defeat and morning glories cursed as they were chopped to pieces. Of course, they would just take root wherever they were chopped and there’d be even more of them in two weeks, but Russ and the Mega-Tiller ignored that.
Finally, after the bulk of the weeds were ripped from their mortal existence, Russ eyed the watermelon vine. The melon knew that look and it rolled, trying its best to move to the center of the plant.
The engine on the Mega-Tiller idled with a loud purr as Russ walked around the leafy vine. He scuffed at the weeds growing near the plant. With a nod to the machine he said, “It would be a pain to pull these weeds by hand. If I’m really careful, I could just run the tiller around the outside perimeter of the plant and they’d be gone in a tenth of the time.”
The Mega-Tiller hiccupped in agreement and then roared with delight as Russ threw it into gear. Straddling the freshly tilled mounds of earth, Russ held fast to the machine as it rumbled its way toward the trembling melon.
Closer. Closer. With an unplanned lurch, the Mega-Tiller of Death flung its metal tines against the melon and sliced it in half.
“Oops,” said Russ.
The next day, Cindy walked outside in anticipation, wondering how much the melon had grown through the night. She could almost smell the sweet scent of ripe watermelon. Could almost taste the cool sweetness of the fruit in her mouth, the icy tingle of the juice as it slid down her throat on a hot summer’s eve.
She stopped. The garden looked freshly tilled. It was so nice of Russ to rid it of weeds. The mistress of the vineyard walked to her plant. Bending down, she looked for the fruit. “Russ,” she called out. “Did you pick my melon?”
Then she saw it. Exposed to the sun, its red flesh had tightened and dried. Ragged edges hung from the split sides and dirt caked the bottom of the now deceased melon.
And the mistress of the vineyard was vexed … and Russ was sore afraid. And he vowed to her that he would never till again without her there to stand guard.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My brain is mush from hunting for a new home!
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A Twisted Fairy Tale ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, science fiction, symposium, LTUE, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, fairy tale, Star Trek, Wookie, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com))
Several months ago, I attended a science fiction symposium called “Life, the Universe, and Everything.” I can almost hear you asking yourself why a woman whose life already resembles a sci-fi movie would consider going to a symposium on the subject. I don’t know, maybe because it presented a learning opportunity. Writers need continual growth to improve their craft. Or maybe because big name authors, like Orson Scott Card (“Ender’s Game”) and Gail Carson Levine (“Ella Enchanted”), were teaching.
Naw. It’s because the symposium was free.
Let me state for the record, I am not a big sci-fi fan. Okay, wait. Under threat of being forced to watch re-runs of the “X-Files,” I’ll secretly admit that as a kid I had a crush on Captain James T. Kirk, of the starship, Enterprise. But, “Star Trek” doesn’t count as science fiction. Everyone knows it rates up there with the works of Hemingway.
Before I registered for the sci-fi conference, doubts plagued me. I wondered ... if I attended, would I come out with the arms of an octopus and the head of a Wookie? Would bizarre people wearing Star Wars and/or Scooby Doo costumes moderate the discussions? And whereas, before attending the symposium my mailing address read “Any Town, USA,” afterward would it read, “Space, the Final Frontier?”
I'm pleased to say, after sitting through long, but enthralling hours on a chair designed to test the fortitude of a Klingon warrior, that many people there were normal authors.
Normal authors—hmm, I'm thinking that's an oxymoron. Or an insult. I'm not sure which.
As it turned out, most of the sessions covered topics applicable to a number of genres, and the attendees wore jeans and sweatshirts. Well, I take that back, I did see some guy in a long, flowing cape and gave him a wide berth—until I realized it was my husband, Russ, with a blanket around his shoulders. I'm thinking he brought his blankie along in case he got bored during the panel discussions.
On the last day, an interesting session called, “Twisting Fairytales," caught my attention. What, fairytales aren't twisted enough already? We have to make them worse?
Take "Little Red Riding Hood" for example. In it, a wolf—one that can talk, mind you—poses as Red Riding Hood's grandmother. Whom he has just eaten. Ahhh, cannibalism—that's a great topic for kids.
He lies in bed, wearing Granny’s hat and shawl. Now we have a cross-dressing cannibal—an even better theme for impressionable children.
Into the room skips little Red Riding Hood, all dressed in a flaming red cloak with a pointed hood. One that could have been worn by the Emperor from “Star Wars,” if the cloak had been a little longer and in that figure flattering color, black.
Just wait, it gets better. Have you ever asked yourself what little Ms. Hood was carrying in that basket on her arm? Mushrooms she gathers in the woods. Probably the kind that cause hallucinations.
The wolf and the girl are having a polite conversation about body parts—"Grandma, what big eyes you have"—when the wolf leaps out of bed and chases the Little Red Emperor ... er ... I mean Riding Hood out the door. In the meantime, a woodsman with a sharp hatchet dangling from his belt—no wait, maybe it's the dwarf, Sneezy, with an axe tied to his head—kills the hairy Beast and throws Beauty into the fires of Mordor.
Next, Sneezy slides the glass slipper onto the pro-feminist Ms. Hood's dainty foot, and they ride off into the sunset. Or maybe into the ocean, where she grows a mermaid's tail and Sneezy becomes a singing lobster.
I'm not sure which.
One thing I do know is I enjoyed the session so much, I'm going to try writing a twisted fairy tale of my own—just as soon as I figure out how to unglue my octopus arms and take off my Wookie head.
What's playing in my head: Star Trek Theme ( Composed by Alexander Courage )
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, science fiction, symposium, LTUE, Orson Scott Card, Gail Carson Levine, fairy tale, Star Trek, Wookie, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com))
Several months ago, I attended a science fiction symposium called “Life, the Universe, and Everything.” I can almost hear you asking yourself why a woman whose life already resembles a sci-fi movie would consider going to a symposium on the subject. I don’t know, maybe because it presented a learning opportunity. Writers need continual growth to improve their craft. Or maybe because big name authors, like Orson Scott Card (“Ender’s Game”) and Gail Carson Levine (“Ella Enchanted”), were teaching.
Naw. It’s because the symposium was free.
Let me state for the record, I am not a big sci-fi fan. Okay, wait. Under threat of being forced to watch re-runs of the “X-Files,” I’ll secretly admit that as a kid I had a crush on Captain James T. Kirk, of the starship, Enterprise. But, “Star Trek” doesn’t count as science fiction. Everyone knows it rates up there with the works of Hemingway.
Before I registered for the sci-fi conference, doubts plagued me. I wondered ... if I attended, would I come out with the arms of an octopus and the head of a Wookie? Would bizarre people wearing Star Wars and/or Scooby Doo costumes moderate the discussions? And whereas, before attending the symposium my mailing address read “Any Town, USA,” afterward would it read, “Space, the Final Frontier?”
I'm pleased to say, after sitting through long, but enthralling hours on a chair designed to test the fortitude of a Klingon warrior, that many people there were normal authors.
Normal authors—hmm, I'm thinking that's an oxymoron. Or an insult. I'm not sure which.
As it turned out, most of the sessions covered topics applicable to a number of genres, and the attendees wore jeans and sweatshirts. Well, I take that back, I did see some guy in a long, flowing cape and gave him a wide berth—until I realized it was my husband, Russ, with a blanket around his shoulders. I'm thinking he brought his blankie along in case he got bored during the panel discussions.
On the last day, an interesting session called, “Twisting Fairytales," caught my attention. What, fairytales aren't twisted enough already? We have to make them worse?
Take "Little Red Riding Hood" for example. In it, a wolf—one that can talk, mind you—poses as Red Riding Hood's grandmother. Whom he has just eaten. Ahhh, cannibalism—that's a great topic for kids.
He lies in bed, wearing Granny’s hat and shawl. Now we have a cross-dressing cannibal—an even better theme for impressionable children.
Into the room skips little Red Riding Hood, all dressed in a flaming red cloak with a pointed hood. One that could have been worn by the Emperor from “Star Wars,” if the cloak had been a little longer and in that figure flattering color, black.
Just wait, it gets better. Have you ever asked yourself what little Ms. Hood was carrying in that basket on her arm? Mushrooms she gathers in the woods. Probably the kind that cause hallucinations.
The wolf and the girl are having a polite conversation about body parts—"Grandma, what big eyes you have"—when the wolf leaps out of bed and chases the Little Red Emperor ... er ... I mean Riding Hood out the door. In the meantime, a woodsman with a sharp hatchet dangling from his belt—no wait, maybe it's the dwarf, Sneezy, with an axe tied to his head—kills the hairy Beast and throws Beauty into the fires of Mordor.
Next, Sneezy slides the glass slipper onto the pro-feminist Ms. Hood's dainty foot, and they ride off into the sunset. Or maybe into the ocean, where she grows a mermaid's tail and Sneezy becomes a singing lobster.
I'm not sure which.
One thing I do know is I enjoyed the session so much, I'm going to try writing a twisted fairy tale of my own—just as soon as I figure out how to unglue my octopus arms and take off my Wookie head.
What's playing in my head: Star Trek Theme ( Composed by Alexander Courage )
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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"Farworld" review & interview with J. Scott Savage
Review of Farworld
By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Farworld, Water Keep, J Scott Savage, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Thirteen-year-old Marcus Kanenas dreams of a world far away. It’s a place where magic is as common as sunshine and where animals and trees talk. His name for the place? Farworld.
Quite unexpectedly, Marcus magically travels from Earth to Farworld. There he meets Kyja, who would love to cast spells and work magic, but alas, is unable. Marcus also meets Master Therapass, a master wizard whose knowledge can change not only Marcus and Kyja’s fate, but the fate of Farworld and Earth, as well.
Enter members of the Dark Circle, whose goal is to exert evil influence, gain power, and eventually destroy all that is good, including Farworld. Marcus and Kyja must travel to Water Keep, their first leg in a journey where they hope to convince the Elementals—beings of water, land, air and fire—to join forces with them. While at Water Keep, Marcus and Kyja face the Summoners—members of the Dark Circle, who can command the living and the dead—and other dreaded creatures.
Marcus and Kyja’s journey is one of not only hardship and danger, but also one of friendship and caring. Marcus and Kyja learn the truth about themselves, the depths of their courage, and the power that each holds within.
Scott Savage does a good job of maintaining suspense and action through out the book. The characters are both charming (the good guys) and despicable (the bad guys). My favorite character was Riph Raph, a “lizard” who not only talked but had magical powers and a wicked sense of comedic timing.
Scott’s sense of humor put a smile on my face, and his artful suspense kept me turning the pages. This is a book that young adults (and old adults) would love!
Interview with J. Scott Savage:
Cindy: I’m here in virtual time and space, for an interview with author, J. Scott Savage. We’re riding on the “lizard,” Riph Raph’s tail, so it’s a little windy. Scott, why don’t you tell us what you can see and smell from this vantage point?
Scott: Well I have to say that sitting on Riph Raph’s tail, the smell is, um . . . not one to write home about. And obviously someone has shrunk us down to rather much smaller than our normal size as Riph Raph is not much larger than a typical housecat. It looks like Riph Raph is scanning for members of the Dark Circle. So maybe we can help him keep an eye out.
Cindy: Have any of your daily habits … such as how you brush your teeth, or what you eat … changed since writing Farworld? If so, how?
Scott: Well I do refer to myself in the third person now, and I occasionally asked random passers by if they know me. So far neither has proven very successful.
Cindy: If you could pick one creature or person from Farworld that you could become, which one would it be? Describe what you would look like, please.
Scott: I think that I would be the Frost Pinnois. I am roughly the size of a large school bus, made entirely of ice, with long icicle spikes on my tail, and a long blue beard. I have skin of tiny icicles and long wings. My body makes a kind of wind chime-like sound when I fly.
Cindy: I noticed in your underwater interview with Shirley Bahlmann, that bubbles kept floating up and about. Was there a fissure in the ocean floor, or was something else causing that? What do you think it was?
Scott: I can honestly say it was underwater gas. For anything more than that, you’d need to consult the Bahlmannator herself.
Cindy: It seems Riph Raph is anxious to rid himself of us, so I’ll only ask one more question. If Shandra Covington, the heroine in your mystery novels were to enter Farworld, what powers would she have?
Scott: Well clearly they would have something to do with food. I think that Shandra would have the ability to turn common rocks into deluxe double cheeseburgers and grass into hot greasy fries. Then she and Kyja would get along great. All of my female characters seem to have a thing for fires. Hmmm.
Cindy: Thanks so much for letting me interview you, Scott, and for giving me the opportunity to read Farworld. It was great and I’m sure your readers will enjoy it.
Scott: Thanks, Cindy. And thanks for the great interview.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Farworld, Water Keep, J Scott Savage, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Thirteen-year-old Marcus Kanenas dreams of a world far away. It’s a place where magic is as common as sunshine and where animals and trees talk. His name for the place? Farworld.
Quite unexpectedly, Marcus magically travels from Earth to Farworld. There he meets Kyja, who would love to cast spells and work magic, but alas, is unable. Marcus also meets Master Therapass, a master wizard whose knowledge can change not only Marcus and Kyja’s fate, but the fate of Farworld and Earth, as well.
Enter members of the Dark Circle, whose goal is to exert evil influence, gain power, and eventually destroy all that is good, including Farworld. Marcus and Kyja must travel to Water Keep, their first leg in a journey where they hope to convince the Elementals—beings of water, land, air and fire—to join forces with them. While at Water Keep, Marcus and Kyja face the Summoners—members of the Dark Circle, who can command the living and the dead—and other dreaded creatures.
Marcus and Kyja’s journey is one of not only hardship and danger, but also one of friendship and caring. Marcus and Kyja learn the truth about themselves, the depths of their courage, and the power that each holds within.
Scott Savage does a good job of maintaining suspense and action through out the book. The characters are both charming (the good guys) and despicable (the bad guys). My favorite character was Riph Raph, a “lizard” who not only talked but had magical powers and a wicked sense of comedic timing.
Scott’s sense of humor put a smile on my face, and his artful suspense kept me turning the pages. This is a book that young adults (and old adults) would love!
Interview with J. Scott Savage:
Cindy: I’m here in virtual time and space, for an interview with author, J. Scott Savage. We’re riding on the “lizard,” Riph Raph’s tail, so it’s a little windy. Scott, why don’t you tell us what you can see and smell from this vantage point?
Scott: Well I have to say that sitting on Riph Raph’s tail, the smell is, um . . . not one to write home about. And obviously someone has shrunk us down to rather much smaller than our normal size as Riph Raph is not much larger than a typical housecat. It looks like Riph Raph is scanning for members of the Dark Circle. So maybe we can help him keep an eye out.
Cindy: Have any of your daily habits … such as how you brush your teeth, or what you eat … changed since writing Farworld? If so, how?
Scott: Well I do refer to myself in the third person now, and I occasionally asked random passers by if they know me. So far neither has proven very successful.
Cindy: If you could pick one creature or person from Farworld that you could become, which one would it be? Describe what you would look like, please.
Scott: I think that I would be the Frost Pinnois. I am roughly the size of a large school bus, made entirely of ice, with long icicle spikes on my tail, and a long blue beard. I have skin of tiny icicles and long wings. My body makes a kind of wind chime-like sound when I fly.
Cindy: I noticed in your underwater interview with Shirley Bahlmann, that bubbles kept floating up and about. Was there a fissure in the ocean floor, or was something else causing that? What do you think it was?
Scott: I can honestly say it was underwater gas. For anything more than that, you’d need to consult the Bahlmannator herself.
Cindy: It seems Riph Raph is anxious to rid himself of us, so I’ll only ask one more question. If Shandra Covington, the heroine in your mystery novels were to enter Farworld, what powers would she have?
Scott: Well clearly they would have something to do with food. I think that Shandra would have the ability to turn common rocks into deluxe double cheeseburgers and grass into hot greasy fries. Then she and Kyja would get along great. All of my female characters seem to have a thing for fires. Hmmm.
Cindy: Thanks so much for letting me interview you, Scott, and for giving me the opportunity to read Farworld. It was great and I’m sure your readers will enjoy it.
Scott: Thanks, Cindy. And thanks for the great interview.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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Clickety, clackety, bing ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, nostalgia, past, poodle skirt, saddle shoes, typewriter, typing, wpm, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Is there anyone that doesn’t have moments where they long for the past? If so, please raise your hand because you win the prize of an Orange Crush and a Moonpie … but only if you’re wearing a poodle skirt, saddle shoes, and have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your shirt sleeve.
In my family, we frequently feel nostalgic for things of the past. My husband, Russ, misses his hair. My son, Dave, is thirty-two and longs for his youth. I, on the other hand, still have my hair … and my youth (well, sort of) … and what I miss is the old-fashioned typewriter.
My first machine was a portable, manual Royal. I don’t know why they called it portable. It weighed twenty pounds and was like carrying around a bowling ball in a square, hard case. Nonetheless, a good typist could set it up on a desk and punch out 50 wpm—that’s “whacks per minute”—with only two errors. No wait. It’s been so long since I’ve used one that maybe wpm stands for “words per minute”. At any rate it doesn’t matter, because I was never able to get 50 whacks or words per minute out of it. My average was 20 wpm, with 50 mistakes.
Then there was the keyboard, which came attached to the body of the typewriter. Do you know why keyboards are not arranged alphabetically, in an order that actually makes sense to the human mind? According to my vast research—ok, I’ll admit it, I don’t remember where I heard this useless bit of information, it was probably on Paul Harvey—keyboards have the letters scrambled to slow the typist.
I must confess that fact doesn’t make sense to me. If the object is to type as fast as possible, why set up the keys to slow you down? Oh yes, now I remember. With a manual typewriter, when you hit the keys too fast, they’d slam into each other and get all tangled and kinked. The typist then had to reach in and unsnarl them. You could always tell a fast typist by the black ink smudges on her fingers, the prize from untangling keys.
Let’s not forget the inked ribbon. You’d be flying along, whacking out sentences, finally getting the rhythm when the words on the paper would grow dimmer and dimmer. However, only really good typists knew that was happening, because they actually looked at the paper as they typed. The rest of us looked at the keyboard, because we couldn’t remember the scrambled letters. By the time we realized we needed to change the ribbon, we’d typed three pages of invisible words.
Despite the negative points, there was one really neat aspect to the typewriter. Its sound was mesmerizing. You’d zip along, hearing clickety-clickety, clackety-clackety, BING! The “bing” was the signal that you had reached the edge of the paper, and you needed to hit the carriage return lever to start on the next line.
I loved the sound but now that I consider it, the carriage return did have its potential problems. Once, after typing half a line, I made the mistake of putting my water glass at the right-hand side of the typewriter. All went well, until I came to the edge of the paper. I’d been punching along, typing at the whopping speed of at least 15 wpm and was so engrossed in my writing that when I heard the familiar “bing”, I hit the carriage return lever without thinking. The carriage flew back to the right and slammed into my glass, flinging ice and water all over me, the desk and walls.
All right, I’ll be the first to admit it. After thinking back on the era, typewriters were interesting but computers are so much more practical. My computer has never flung a glass of water across the room. No longer do I have to untangle keys, or get my fingers smudged using carbon paper. My computer is far superior.
All the same, despite the improvements they’ve made and the fact that a computer is a souped-up, 21st century typewriter that can think at the speed of light, I sure wish they’d come up with one that goes “clickety, clackety, bing”.
What's playing in my head: Memories (by Elvis Presley)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, nostalgia, past, poodle skirt, saddle shoes, typewriter, typing, wpm, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Is there anyone that doesn’t have moments where they long for the past? If so, please raise your hand because you win the prize of an Orange Crush and a Moonpie … but only if you’re wearing a poodle skirt, saddle shoes, and have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your shirt sleeve.
In my family, we frequently feel nostalgic for things of the past. My husband, Russ, misses his hair. My son, Dave, is thirty-two and longs for his youth. I, on the other hand, still have my hair … and my youth (well, sort of) … and what I miss is the old-fashioned typewriter.
My first machine was a portable, manual Royal. I don’t know why they called it portable. It weighed twenty pounds and was like carrying around a bowling ball in a square, hard case. Nonetheless, a good typist could set it up on a desk and punch out 50 wpm—that’s “whacks per minute”—with only two errors. No wait. It’s been so long since I’ve used one that maybe wpm stands for “words per minute”. At any rate it doesn’t matter, because I was never able to get 50 whacks or words per minute out of it. My average was 20 wpm, with 50 mistakes.
Then there was the keyboard, which came attached to the body of the typewriter. Do you know why keyboards are not arranged alphabetically, in an order that actually makes sense to the human mind? According to my vast research—ok, I’ll admit it, I don’t remember where I heard this useless bit of information, it was probably on Paul Harvey—keyboards have the letters scrambled to slow the typist.
I must confess that fact doesn’t make sense to me. If the object is to type as fast as possible, why set up the keys to slow you down? Oh yes, now I remember. With a manual typewriter, when you hit the keys too fast, they’d slam into each other and get all tangled and kinked. The typist then had to reach in and unsnarl them. You could always tell a fast typist by the black ink smudges on her fingers, the prize from untangling keys.
Let’s not forget the inked ribbon. You’d be flying along, whacking out sentences, finally getting the rhythm when the words on the paper would grow dimmer and dimmer. However, only really good typists knew that was happening, because they actually looked at the paper as they typed. The rest of us looked at the keyboard, because we couldn’t remember the scrambled letters. By the time we realized we needed to change the ribbon, we’d typed three pages of invisible words.
Despite the negative points, there was one really neat aspect to the typewriter. Its sound was mesmerizing. You’d zip along, hearing clickety-clickety, clackety-clackety, BING! The “bing” was the signal that you had reached the edge of the paper, and you needed to hit the carriage return lever to start on the next line.
I loved the sound but now that I consider it, the carriage return did have its potential problems. Once, after typing half a line, I made the mistake of putting my water glass at the right-hand side of the typewriter. All went well, until I came to the edge of the paper. I’d been punching along, typing at the whopping speed of at least 15 wpm and was so engrossed in my writing that when I heard the familiar “bing”, I hit the carriage return lever without thinking. The carriage flew back to the right and slammed into my glass, flinging ice and water all over me, the desk and walls.
All right, I’ll be the first to admit it. After thinking back on the era, typewriters were interesting but computers are so much more practical. My computer has never flung a glass of water across the room. No longer do I have to untangle keys, or get my fingers smudged using carbon paper. My computer is far superior.
All the same, despite the improvements they’ve made and the fact that a computer is a souped-up, 21st century typewriter that can think at the speed of light, I sure wish they’d come up with one that goes “clickety, clackety, bing”.
What's playing in my head: Memories (by Elvis Presley)
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The Game’s Afoot ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, freeze tag, food tag, games, humor, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The game of internet tag is going around and I’m delighted to say that my husband, Russ, has declared that I’m “it." Back when I was a kid—in the age of the Velociraptor and the Tyrannosaurus Rex—tag was one of my favorite pastimes. I remember a number of variations including “food tag”. In that version, if the person who was “it” reached out to touch you, you’d squat down, name a food and you were safe.
It was such an easy game back then, but I sure couldn’t do it now. No, it’s not the food that’s the problem—my memory for food is even better than when I was younger. Face it; once you’re over fifty, you’re too old to do anything but eat. I am sure I could hold a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Snickers in the other, and still name some kind of food.
It’s the other aspects of “food tag” that have me stalled. Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that I could manage to run a few steps, the squatting would kill me. Once down, they’d have to bring in a crane to haul me back up. I think my kneecaps have gained weight from all that food I’ve been eating since I turned fifty.
Fortunately, the internet version doesn’t involve squatting. However, it does entail writing a list of things that other people don’t know about you and sending it to them. I’m not sure why—presumably to blackmail you later.
In keeping with the spirit of the game, I thought I’d write such a list—about someone other than myself—and post it as a blog.
•When my husband, Russ, was a youngster, he was always falling and bumping his head. That explains a lot right there.
•As an impressionable, young lad, he planned to become a Catholic priest—until he looked up the word, “celibate” in the dictionary.
•He attended 12 years of Catholic education without having a single religious experience. I’m thinking it wasn’t the nuns’ fault—it’s probably because his favorite classes were lunch and recess.
•After graduating from high school, he worked for the Good Humor Ice Cream Company—driving an ice cream truck, ringing a little bell. He loved ice cream. By the time he quit the job—a mere month later—he owed more for eating the ice cream than he took in selling the stuff.
•Until he was in his twenties, Russ had a full head of wavy, black hair. This, from the man whose dome now resembles a dinosaur egg.
•While still sporting that wavy black hair, he joined the Navy—because he liked their bell-bottom pants and the white, sailor’s hat.
•Russ’s current philosophy in his old age is that the tube of toothpaste should be squeezed from the bottom. My philosophy is mash it from wherever you can grab it. He has his own tube—that he refuses to share with me … or our dog, Corky Porky Pie. Sounds obsessive-compulsive to me.
As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this blackmail list, it can’t go on forever. Not that there aren’t more quirks I could write about, but because life calls. It’s time to shower, brush my teeth and … oh drat, I’m out of toothpaste. I wonder if Russ would notice if I used his. Of course, I’d have to smooth it out so he wouldn’t know I smashed it in the middle, and then follow that up with wiping it clean and turning it label side up.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just use a squirt of Corky Porky Pie’s.
What's playing in my head: Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie (by Jay and the Techniques)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, tag, freeze tag, food tag, games, humor, EFY, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The game of internet tag is going around and I’m delighted to say that my husband, Russ, has declared that I’m “it." Back when I was a kid—in the age of the Velociraptor and the Tyrannosaurus Rex—tag was one of my favorite pastimes. I remember a number of variations including “food tag”. In that version, if the person who was “it” reached out to touch you, you’d squat down, name a food and you were safe.
It was such an easy game back then, but I sure couldn’t do it now. No, it’s not the food that’s the problem—my memory for food is even better than when I was younger. Face it; once you’re over fifty, you’re too old to do anything but eat. I am sure I could hold a bag of Cheetos in one hand, a Snickers in the other, and still name some kind of food.
It’s the other aspects of “food tag” that have me stalled. Assuming—and this is a big assumption—that I could manage to run a few steps, the squatting would kill me. Once down, they’d have to bring in a crane to haul me back up. I think my kneecaps have gained weight from all that food I’ve been eating since I turned fifty.
Fortunately, the internet version doesn’t involve squatting. However, it does entail writing a list of things that other people don’t know about you and sending it to them. I’m not sure why—presumably to blackmail you later.
In keeping with the spirit of the game, I thought I’d write such a list—about someone other than myself—and post it as a blog.
•When my husband, Russ, was a youngster, he was always falling and bumping his head. That explains a lot right there.
•As an impressionable, young lad, he planned to become a Catholic priest—until he looked up the word, “celibate” in the dictionary.
•He attended 12 years of Catholic education without having a single religious experience. I’m thinking it wasn’t the nuns’ fault—it’s probably because his favorite classes were lunch and recess.
•After graduating from high school, he worked for the Good Humor Ice Cream Company—driving an ice cream truck, ringing a little bell. He loved ice cream. By the time he quit the job—a mere month later—he owed more for eating the ice cream than he took in selling the stuff.
•Until he was in his twenties, Russ had a full head of wavy, black hair. This, from the man whose dome now resembles a dinosaur egg.
•While still sporting that wavy black hair, he joined the Navy—because he liked their bell-bottom pants and the white, sailor’s hat.
•Russ’s current philosophy in his old age is that the tube of toothpaste should be squeezed from the bottom. My philosophy is mash it from wherever you can grab it. He has his own tube—that he refuses to share with me … or our dog, Corky Porky Pie. Sounds obsessive-compulsive to me.
As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this blackmail list, it can’t go on forever. Not that there aren’t more quirks I could write about, but because life calls. It’s time to shower, brush my teeth and … oh drat, I’m out of toothpaste. I wonder if Russ would notice if I used his. Of course, I’d have to smooth it out so he wouldn’t know I smashed it in the middle, and then follow that up with wiping it clean and turning it label side up.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just use a squirt of Corky Porky Pie’s.
What's playing in my head: Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie (by Jay and the Techniques)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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YourLDSneighborhood.com Wins Distribution Rights
By Cindy Beck
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, YourLDSNeighborhood.com, EFY, Especially for Youth, music, CD, Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck, Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band)
TA-DA! (Sound of trumpet blowing.)
Normally I do a humorous blog, but occasionally a "once in a lifetime" opportunity comes along and I just have to tell you about it. Okay, maybe this is a "twice in lifetime" opportunity. I'm not sure. But whichever it is, you won't want to miss it.
Here's the press release:
yourLDSneighborhood.com wins distribution rights to 2008 Especially for Youth™ music CD; The disc will be available for sale starting August 23; Popular artists include Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band
Salt Lake City, Utah (August 5, 2008) The 2008 Especially for Youth™ CD, featuring the songs of local recording artists such as Jessie Clark Funk, Daniel Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band, will be available for commercial sale beginning August 16.
yourLDSneighborhood, which was awarded distribution rights to the popular CD, announced that the disc will be sold through its web site and at retail music stores along the Wasatch Front. The CD is a compilation of songs chosen to support the theme and focus of this year’s program “Steady and Sure” and has become a vital part of the EFY™ tradition. EFY™ is a summer program sponsored by the Church Educational System of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and held in locations through the U.S. and Canada.
Gaylen Rust, president and founder of yourLDSneighborhood.com, said the commercial release edition will contain an additional track not available on the CD distributed to EFY™ participants and feature more robust instrumental accompaniments. “Music is an integral part of a young person’s life and the songs on this CD really speak to the everyday challenges and exhilarating experiences that youth encounter. It’s uplifting and inspiring but also the kind of music that’s fun to listen to anytime. It’s also a way for teens unable to attend EFY™ to catch the spirit and joy of the whole EFY™ event.”
The “Steady and Sure” CD features 12 tracks including “Steady and Sure” – the title track on the disc by Jessie Clark Funk, as well as “Amazing Grace,” by Daniel Beck, “A Woman’s Heart,” by Felicia Wolf, “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee,” by Mindy Gledhill and “Dream Big,” by Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band. Other artists include Ben Truman, Megan Flinders, Greg Simpson, Hilary Weeks, Terry White, Tim Gates, and a group song “Hurrah for Israel,” by Daniel Beck, Megan Flinders, Jessie Clark Funk and Dan Kartchner.
yourLDSneighborhood.com is a new virtual neighborhood launched in November, 2007 where a wide variety of goods and services are sold from clothing and jewelry to sports, scrapbooking, travel, and things of interest to home and family. Visitors can stroll through the neighborhood, stop and browse at retail stores, purchase merchandise, or stop at newsstands to chat with more than a dozen bloggers, read timely articles or listen to audio interviews with newsmakers and hometown heroes. At Jukebox, a new music feature in the neighborhood, visitors can listen to hundreds of new tunes and download them. A music directory lists dozens of musicians who are available for family reunions, concerts, weddings and other occasions. Besides the virtual neighborhood, yourLDSneighborhood.com produces an informative lifestyle newsletter four times a week delivering thought-provoking and inspiring ideas, and offers special marketing opportunities for artists, musicians and authors – as well as those interested in buying artistic works.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My head is filled with paint fumes 'cause I've been painting.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
(Clipart courtesy of http://www.christart.com)
---
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, YourLDSNeighborhood.com, EFY, Especially for Youth, music, CD, Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck, Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band)
TA-DA! (Sound of trumpet blowing.)
Normally I do a humorous blog, but occasionally a "once in a lifetime" opportunity comes along and I just have to tell you about it. Okay, maybe this is a "twice in lifetime" opportunity. I'm not sure. But whichever it is, you won't want to miss it.
Here's the press release:
yourLDSneighborhood.com wins distribution rights to 2008 Especially for Youth™ music CD; The disc will be available for sale starting August 23; Popular artists include Jessie Clark Funk, Dan Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band
Salt Lake City, Utah (August 5, 2008) The 2008 Especially for Youth™ CD, featuring the songs of local recording artists such as Jessie Clark Funk, Daniel Beck and Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band, will be available for commercial sale beginning August 16.
yourLDSneighborhood, which was awarded distribution rights to the popular CD, announced that the disc will be sold through its web site and at retail music stores along the Wasatch Front. The CD is a compilation of songs chosen to support the theme and focus of this year’s program “Steady and Sure” and has become a vital part of the EFY™ tradition. EFY™ is a summer program sponsored by the Church Educational System of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and held in locations through the U.S. and Canada.
Gaylen Rust, president and founder of yourLDSneighborhood.com, said the commercial release edition will contain an additional track not available on the CD distributed to EFY™ participants and feature more robust instrumental accompaniments. “Music is an integral part of a young person’s life and the songs on this CD really speak to the everyday challenges and exhilarating experiences that youth encounter. It’s uplifting and inspiring but also the kind of music that’s fun to listen to anytime. It’s also a way for teens unable to attend EFY™ to catch the spirit and joy of the whole EFY™ event.”
The “Steady and Sure” CD features 12 tracks including “Steady and Sure” – the title track on the disc by Jessie Clark Funk, as well as “Amazing Grace,” by Daniel Beck, “A Woman’s Heart,” by Felicia Wolf, “Jesus, the Very Thought of Thee,” by Mindy Gledhill and “Dream Big,” by Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band. Other artists include Ben Truman, Megan Flinders, Greg Simpson, Hilary Weeks, Terry White, Tim Gates, and a group song “Hurrah for Israel,” by Daniel Beck, Megan Flinders, Jessie Clark Funk and Dan Kartchner.
yourLDSneighborhood.com is a new virtual neighborhood launched in November, 2007 where a wide variety of goods and services are sold from clothing and jewelry to sports, scrapbooking, travel, and things of interest to home and family. Visitors can stroll through the neighborhood, stop and browse at retail stores, purchase merchandise, or stop at newsstands to chat with more than a dozen bloggers, read timely articles or listen to audio interviews with newsmakers and hometown heroes. At Jukebox, a new music feature in the neighborhood, visitors can listen to hundreds of new tunes and download them. A music directory lists dozens of musicians who are available for family reunions, concerts, weddings and other occasions. Besides the virtual neighborhood, yourLDSneighborhood.com produces an informative lifestyle newsletter four times a week delivering thought-provoking and inspiring ideas, and offers special marketing opportunities for artists, musicians and authors – as well as those interested in buying artistic works.
What's playing in my head: Nothing. My head is filled with paint fumes 'cause I've been painting.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
(Clipart courtesy of http://www.christart.com)
---
Endearing Young Charms ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, charms, flirt, restaurant, breakfast, Titan, feminine wiles, nose pierced, leather skirt, smoking, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The remaining leaves on the trees rustled like dried bones in the wind and the clouds resembled fingers of doom. My husband, Russ, and I ignored the omen and drove to a neighboring town for breakfast. When we walked into the restaurant, we noticed very few patrons. Ahhh, another sign.
We sat in a booth without removing our jackets. “It’s cold in here,” Russ said, blowing on his fingers to stave off frostbite.
I wiggled in my seat. “It feels like I’m sitting on a snow bank in Alaska. In fact, my … um … sitter is so numb, I can’t feel it.”
Russ eyed that portion of my anatomy with a raised eyebrow and tried not to laugh.
“Should we stay?” I whispered, my elbow landing in a sticky puddle of leftover syrup.
“Yes—I need to use the men’s room,” Russ said as the waiter walked toward us. We placed our order and Russ headed to the bathroom. I sat looking over my shoulder, watching the waiter press little buttons with pictures to indicate our choices.
Have you ever wondered about that? If the waiters need little pictures of food to punch in the order, what is the chef using to cook?
Engrossed in watching our server, I didn’t realize it appeared I was staring at the guy standing between us. Hearing his voice, I refocused my attention on the very large man. His jeans seemed held up by something unusual—either a rope, or a long, frayed snake. I wanted to determine which, but staring at his pants didn’t seem like a good idea. He might get the wrong message, walk over and sit with me.
His hair stuck straight up as if he’d combed it with a blender and he looked like he’d lost his razor somewhere in Fargo, North Dakota. As he continued to speak, I decided he was a trucker. The next thing I knew, he stood beside me.
“Boy, this state is really something,” he thundered. “They’ll sell you a pack of cigarettes, but they won’t let you smoke ‘em inside.”
I felt like saying if he didn’t like Utah, he could certainly feel free to keep driving. But he was really big, so instead I said, “Yes, that’s how it is here,” and looked away.
Despite my subtle signals, he rattled on. “We ought to do what they’re doing in California. Sign a petition that we’re being discriminated against!”
This nut was latching onto me. Where was Russ when I needed him? The behemoth seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer, so in a voice that could deep-freeze a hot tamale, I replied, “Well, I’m not a smoker, so you’re not going to get much help from me.”
Did he get my understated message? No. In a voice heard in Detroit he bellowed, “There’s some stadium in Michigan that’s being built with money from smokers and the place is going to be non-smoking. Non-smoking!” And then he belched.
I threw the woolly mammoth a look that should have skewered him. What—didn’t he hear me say, “I’m not a smoker so you’ll get no help from me?”
What was taking Russ so long? Was the little boy’s room in the gas station across the street? If he didn’t return soon, the man might think we were friends and eat half my ham and eggs.
Just then, Russ walked in, and though the Titan was a large man, he was fleet of foot. He scurried back to his table and never looked at me again.
“Where have you been?” I hissed. “That big guy over there wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Russ grinned. “He must have been attracted to your endearing young charms.”
Endearing young charms? Those disappeared ages ago. In fact, only two guys had flirted with me in the past decade—the rope-tied behemoth and an inmate at the state mental hospital who thought I was a fellow patient.
Things like that are hard on a gal’s ego. I’m not sure how to resurrect my feminine wiles, but I suppose I really should try.
Maybe I’ll get my nose pierced and buy a leather skirt. That should help.
What's playing in my head: Convoy (by C.W. McCall)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, charms, flirt, restaurant, breakfast, Titan, feminine wiles, nose pierced, leather skirt, smoking, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
The remaining leaves on the trees rustled like dried bones in the wind and the clouds resembled fingers of doom. My husband, Russ, and I ignored the omen and drove to a neighboring town for breakfast. When we walked into the restaurant, we noticed very few patrons. Ahhh, another sign.
We sat in a booth without removing our jackets. “It’s cold in here,” Russ said, blowing on his fingers to stave off frostbite.
I wiggled in my seat. “It feels like I’m sitting on a snow bank in Alaska. In fact, my … um … sitter is so numb, I can’t feel it.”
Russ eyed that portion of my anatomy with a raised eyebrow and tried not to laugh.
“Should we stay?” I whispered, my elbow landing in a sticky puddle of leftover syrup.
“Yes—I need to use the men’s room,” Russ said as the waiter walked toward us. We placed our order and Russ headed to the bathroom. I sat looking over my shoulder, watching the waiter press little buttons with pictures to indicate our choices.
Have you ever wondered about that? If the waiters need little pictures of food to punch in the order, what is the chef using to cook?
Engrossed in watching our server, I didn’t realize it appeared I was staring at the guy standing between us. Hearing his voice, I refocused my attention on the very large man. His jeans seemed held up by something unusual—either a rope, or a long, frayed snake. I wanted to determine which, but staring at his pants didn’t seem like a good idea. He might get the wrong message, walk over and sit with me.
His hair stuck straight up as if he’d combed it with a blender and he looked like he’d lost his razor somewhere in Fargo, North Dakota. As he continued to speak, I decided he was a trucker. The next thing I knew, he stood beside me.
“Boy, this state is really something,” he thundered. “They’ll sell you a pack of cigarettes, but they won’t let you smoke ‘em inside.”
I felt like saying if he didn’t like Utah, he could certainly feel free to keep driving. But he was really big, so instead I said, “Yes, that’s how it is here,” and looked away.
Despite my subtle signals, he rattled on. “We ought to do what they’re doing in California. Sign a petition that we’re being discriminated against!”
This nut was latching onto me. Where was Russ when I needed him? The behemoth seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer, so in a voice that could deep-freeze a hot tamale, I replied, “Well, I’m not a smoker, so you’re not going to get much help from me.”
Did he get my understated message? No. In a voice heard in Detroit he bellowed, “There’s some stadium in Michigan that’s being built with money from smokers and the place is going to be non-smoking. Non-smoking!” And then he belched.
I threw the woolly mammoth a look that should have skewered him. What—didn’t he hear me say, “I’m not a smoker so you’ll get no help from me?”
What was taking Russ so long? Was the little boy’s room in the gas station across the street? If he didn’t return soon, the man might think we were friends and eat half my ham and eggs.
Just then, Russ walked in, and though the Titan was a large man, he was fleet of foot. He scurried back to his table and never looked at me again.
“Where have you been?” I hissed. “That big guy over there wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Russ grinned. “He must have been attracted to your endearing young charms.”
Endearing young charms? Those disappeared ages ago. In fact, only two guys had flirted with me in the past decade—the rope-tied behemoth and an inmate at the state mental hospital who thought I was a fellow patient.
Things like that are hard on a gal’s ego. I’m not sure how to resurrect my feminine wiles, but I suppose I really should try.
Maybe I’ll get my nose pierced and buy a leather skirt. That should help.
What's playing in my head: Convoy (by C.W. McCall)
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy.
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Milk of Amnesia ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, colonoscopy, medicine, doctor, amnesia, milk of amnesia, song, sing, Lola, Stuck in the Middle with You, inhibitions, surgery, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Like many of you, I’ve had a few medical procedures done. You might wonder why someone who wouldn’t normally tell her best friend that she even has a hangnail would tell the entire LDS community about her surgeries. I think that must be one of the side effects of inhibition-erasing drugs being injected into your veins. Doctors say the medication in the I.V. is to relax you, but we all know the truth. They don’t call it the “milk of amnesia” for nothing. You can bet no one is going to wear the hospital gown with the natural air conditioning in the back unless there’s a way to keep you from remembering that you paraded around and mooned everyone.
There’s no doubt in my mind why the doctor requests that you bring someone with you to the hospital, either. It’s not to drive you home. It’s so there’s a witness who can tell you the crazy things you did that you don’t remember.
For example, I had a colonoscopy a couple of years ago. I vaguely remember humming a tune that popped into my mind as I was getting dressed to go home. To hear my husband, Russ, tell it, I was singing the words to “Lola” at the top of my lungs. They could hear me all the way out to the parking lot.
“Lola” is a rather strange song to have stuck in my mind, and certainly not something I would sing to just anyone—even under normal circumstances. The lyrics aren’t obscene, but they are about a questionable subject … cross-dressers. It’s not a topic I’m particularly well-versed on, and admittedly, I should have been singing “I Am a Child of God.” But you can’t blame me; I was only singing what the I.V. dictated.
I did much better on the next colonoscopy. I kept reminding myself not to sing. You’ll be glad to know I accomplished the task. Not because I didn’t feel like singing, but when I offered to burst into song, everyone remembered my last rendition and refused to encourage me.
Did that deter me from trying to embarrass myself in some other venue? Not at all. Instead of singing, I spent my recovery time explaining—to everyone I passed in the halls—exactly which of my various, lower-body parts were working correctly. By the time we left the hospital, half the people in the hospital and twenty inmates from the prison knew that my bowels were in good, working order.
When my final surgery rolled around a month later, I was prepared. Not only did I remind myself not to sing but also not to talk about body parts. Instead, I concentrated on the whiteness of the hospital walls, the cheerfulness of the nurses and the kindness of the anesthesiologist as he explained that I wouldn’t remember a thing in just a few minutes.
This time I was sure I had it under control. And then a song popped into my head. That’s when I realized I must have a subconscious longing to perform karaoke, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Even so, I’m sure things would have been fine if only Russ hadn’t told the anesthesiologist about my previous experiences. The doctor smiled down at me and said, “So, the anesthesia makes you sing, huh? What song is in your mind right now?”
Well, what can you do when your doctor asks a question? You answer, right? I looked up at him and in my high-as-a-kite, drug-induced-haze replied, “Stuck in the Middle with You.” Considering the less-than-complimentary title of the song, I’m glad the doctor didn’t have a scalpel in his hand.
You can bet Russ has enjoyed mentioning my “milk of amnesia” experiences to all our friends in the ward—but I’ve found a way to keep him quiet. I just remind him of what he tried to do after his last visit to the hospital.
I’ve seen men run out in their underwear to move the lawn sprinkler. But until Russ’s surgery, I’d never seen a man try to walk, buck-naked, to the mailbox.
What's playing in my head: Stuck in the Middle with You (by Stealers Wheel)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, colonoscopy, medicine, doctor, amnesia, milk of amnesia, song, sing, Lola, Stuck in the Middle with You, inhibitions, surgery, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Like many of you, I’ve had a few medical procedures done. You might wonder why someone who wouldn’t normally tell her best friend that she even has a hangnail would tell the entire LDS community about her surgeries. I think that must be one of the side effects of inhibition-erasing drugs being injected into your veins. Doctors say the medication in the I.V. is to relax you, but we all know the truth. They don’t call it the “milk of amnesia” for nothing. You can bet no one is going to wear the hospital gown with the natural air conditioning in the back unless there’s a way to keep you from remembering that you paraded around and mooned everyone.
There’s no doubt in my mind why the doctor requests that you bring someone with you to the hospital, either. It’s not to drive you home. It’s so there’s a witness who can tell you the crazy things you did that you don’t remember.
For example, I had a colonoscopy a couple of years ago. I vaguely remember humming a tune that popped into my mind as I was getting dressed to go home. To hear my husband, Russ, tell it, I was singing the words to “Lola” at the top of my lungs. They could hear me all the way out to the parking lot.
“Lola” is a rather strange song to have stuck in my mind, and certainly not something I would sing to just anyone—even under normal circumstances. The lyrics aren’t obscene, but they are about a questionable subject … cross-dressers. It’s not a topic I’m particularly well-versed on, and admittedly, I should have been singing “I Am a Child of God.” But you can’t blame me; I was only singing what the I.V. dictated.
I did much better on the next colonoscopy. I kept reminding myself not to sing. You’ll be glad to know I accomplished the task. Not because I didn’t feel like singing, but when I offered to burst into song, everyone remembered my last rendition and refused to encourage me.
Did that deter me from trying to embarrass myself in some other venue? Not at all. Instead of singing, I spent my recovery time explaining—to everyone I passed in the halls—exactly which of my various, lower-body parts were working correctly. By the time we left the hospital, half the people in the hospital and twenty inmates from the prison knew that my bowels were in good, working order.
When my final surgery rolled around a month later, I was prepared. Not only did I remind myself not to sing but also not to talk about body parts. Instead, I concentrated on the whiteness of the hospital walls, the cheerfulness of the nurses and the kindness of the anesthesiologist as he explained that I wouldn’t remember a thing in just a few minutes.
This time I was sure I had it under control. And then a song popped into my head. That’s when I realized I must have a subconscious longing to perform karaoke, but it was too late to do anything about it.
Even so, I’m sure things would have been fine if only Russ hadn’t told the anesthesiologist about my previous experiences. The doctor smiled down at me and said, “So, the anesthesia makes you sing, huh? What song is in your mind right now?”
Well, what can you do when your doctor asks a question? You answer, right? I looked up at him and in my high-as-a-kite, drug-induced-haze replied, “Stuck in the Middle with You.” Considering the less-than-complimentary title of the song, I’m glad the doctor didn’t have a scalpel in his hand.
You can bet Russ has enjoyed mentioning my “milk of amnesia” experiences to all our friends in the ward—but I’ve found a way to keep him quiet. I just remind him of what he tried to do after his last visit to the hospital.
I’ve seen men run out in their underwear to move the lawn sprinkler. But until Russ’s surgery, I’d never seen a man try to walk, buck-naked, to the mailbox.
What's playing in my head: Stuck in the Middle with You (by Stealers Wheel)
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Definitely NOT the Colonel's chicken ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, pigs, pied piper, pork chop, ham hock, bacon, whistle, Wynken, Blynken, Nod, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. If you missed out and would like to read them, you'll find them at Not the Colonel's Chicken and Not the Colonel's Chicken, Part II.
It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
********** “What shall we call them?” I asked, watching our new little pigs in their pen.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him. He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we'll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
What's playing in my head: This Little Piggy Went to Market (A Mother Goose Nursery rhyme)
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, pigs, pied piper, pork chop, ham hock, bacon, whistle, Wynken, Blynken, Nod, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Lately I’ve related two anecdotes from my exceptionally brilliant career as a chicken farmer. If you missed out and would like to read them, you'll find them at Not the Colonel's Chicken and Not the Colonel's Chicken, Part II.
It was during that hen-filled stint that some bright person gave the suggestion we should also raise pigs. The idea was so enticing that I talked my husband, Russ, into trying it.
Russ grinned mischievously. “How about naming them Pork-Chop, Ham-Hock, and Bacon?”
I grimaced, covered the ears of our three-year-old and whispered to Russ, “Be careful what you say; Davey doesn’t know we’re going to eat them eventually.”
Russ whispered back, “When were you planning on telling him—as Pork-Chop was sitting on his plate?”
“Obviously before that,” I said, releasing our squirming son.
We watched the oinkers rooting around. Snorts of discovery echoed through the barn. Davey spoke, “We could call them the Three Little Pigs.”
I smoothed the blonde cowlick on his head and said, “That’s a story, Sweetie. It’s not really a name.”
The silence stretched between us as we pondered other ideas. Russ fidgeted, apparently tired of taxing his brain with pig names. “I still think that Pork-Ch—“
“—How about Winken, Blinken and Nod? That’s cute,” I said.
Davey nodded his agreement. Russ raised his eyebrows and stated, “That’s a bedtime story about kids going to sleep.”
“Pigs have to sleep, too, you know.” I harrumphed, waiting for a better suggestion.
Silence reigned. A mouse stuck its nose from under the water trough and then dashed for the feeder. Winken—or maybe it was Blinken; it’s very hard to tell three pink pigs apart—scrambled over, snatched the mouse and gulped it down before I could cover Davey’s eyes.
“Look, Mommy, the pig ate a mouse,” he said.
“Uggg,” I said.
“Cool,” Russ said.
“Cool,” Davey echoed.
And to think I was worried about his tender sensibilities.
My pig manual stated the animals were as smart as dogs. It was true. It didn’t take the porkers long to realize that when we picked up the trough, mice scrambled from beneath. The pigs dashed about, snorting and slurping down rodents. Hearing the ruckus, the cat slunk in. Apparently, oinkers have the ability to extrapolate information. They eyed the cat hungrily. From then on we kept the cat out of the barn.
One day an idea hit. “Why don’t we teach them to come to a whistle?”
Russ shook his head in disbelief. “You fed the chickens oatmeal and hotdogs. And tried to herd grasshoppers to them.”
“You told Daddy about herding the hoppers,” I accused, looking at Davey. He shrugged and grinned.
Russ continued, “The neighbors already think our grain elevator doesn’t go to the top. Now you want to train pigs to a whistle?”
“It might come in handy.”
“I’m sure. Maybe we could use them as substitute hunting dogs, too.” Russ replied.
Months later, we got a phone call. “Your pigs are loose.”
We hopped in the car and sped down the road to the next farmhouse. On arrival, we bailed out. There stood Winken, Blinken and Nod, munching ripe strawberries from the patch.
“Here piggies, nice piggies,” I called. They ignored me.
“Here piggies, stupid piggies,” Russ said. For obvious reasons, they ignored him. He watched the pigs with their berry-red lips and dirt-blackened snouts. “How’re we going to get them home?”
“Herd them,” I suggested.
Russ replied, “That’ll work about as well as a grasshopper roundup.”
Then it came to me. I gave their food whistle and all three turned with a grunt. They waddled over and stuck their snouts in the air, sniffing for scraps. Probably oatmeal or hot dogs.
Russ said, “Walk back with them and we'll follow in the car.”
I nodded and started down the road, whistling. Three one-hundred-pound pigs trooped behind in a line, snuffling and snorting all the way home. It was my agricultural moment of triumph.
I’ll freely admit to everyone—except Russ—that when it came to chickens, I was no Colonel Sanders. But hey … when it came to pigs, I was the best pied piper in the county.
What's playing in my head: This Little Piggy Went to Market (A Mother Goose Nursery rhyme)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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Not the Colonel’s Chicken, Part II, by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, visit "Not the Colonel's Chicken" in the archives for this site.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
**********
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leaped into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hot dogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with left-over hot dogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hot dogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hot dogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hot dogs into round, one inch pieces.
We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hot dog,” he said, peering intently at the birds. The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hot dogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hot dogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hot dog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hot dogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
What's playing in my head: The Oscar Mayer Wiener Song (Written by Richard D. Trentlage)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, grasshoppers, oatmeal, hot dogs, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
Not long ago, I related an anecdote from my exceptionally short career as a chicken farmer. If you missed it, visit "Not the Colonel's Chicken" in the archives for this site.
For those who’ve already read it, you’ll remember I had the brilliant idea to feed our flock of chickens left-over, cooked oatmeal. Waste not; want not—that’s my motto. The hens pecked at the glop, which collected into sticky wads that enlarged as the birds tried to clean their beaks in the dirt. From that experience, I learned poultry have the IQ of a grasshopper—which coincidentally, is how the next event occurred.
“Hey look,” I said to my three-year-old son, Davey. “Chickens eat grasshoppers.” We watched the hens flapping their bronze-red wings as they zeroed in and fought over the helpless bug that had mistakenly leaped into the pen.
It gave me an idea. “We could herd grasshoppers to them,” I said with enthusiasm.
We walked into the weeds 20 feet away and waved our arms, trying to drive the long-legged hoppers into the pen. It was like trying to herd minnows. When we were done, we’d managed to shoo two beetles and a mosquito into a pen of 50 chickens. You can imagine the fight that ensued.
Giving up, Davey and I started back to the house to fix lunch. “Don’t tell Daddy we tried to herd grasshoppers,” I said.
“Why?” he asked, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.
“Because Daddy has this silly notion that Mommy comes up with crazy schemes.”
“Schemes? What’s a ‘schemes’?” he asked.
“The nutball ideas that Daddy thinks up,” I explained.
Lunch was hot dogs—not my favorite. We ended up with a few left on the plate. “What can we do with left-over hot dogs?” I asked Davey.
He replied, “Eat them for supper.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed them to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. Somehow, it felt like déjà vu.
I consulted my chicken manual. It didn’t say anything about feeding hot dogs to chickens—I don’t know why. Probably a lack of real-world education on the part of the author. But if the birds liked grasshoppers, hot dogs had to be fine.
Remembering the oatmeal fiasco—and opting not to give 50 chickens CPR because they were choking on whole wieners—I sliced the hot dogs into round, one inch pieces.
We marched to the coop, pieces of meat in hand and flung them into the pen. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Definitely déjà vu.
My husband, Russ, and I raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, flapping their wings.
“They must be sick,” I said, watching them shake their heads as if they had palsy.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got something stuck on their beaks.”
“That’s weird.” I replied, wondering if I could beat him back to the house before he figured it out.
“It looks like … like they’ve speared pieces of hot dog,” he said, peering intently at the birds. The hens “ba-wahked” softly as if trying to give him a clue. I turned and stepped toward the house, but before I had a chance to expand my talents as a sprinter, Russ grabbed my hand and said, “What have you tried now?”
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Chickens eat grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are meat. Hot dogs are meat. Therefore, chickens eat hot dogs.”
“Yes, in small bits. Instead, you gave them a bulls-eye to peck.”
I looked at the hens, their beaks held fast by a ring of hot dog. “You know, I don’t think your suggestion of raising poultry was such a good one,” I said.
“My suggestion?” Russ dropped my hand in surprise.
I waved in the direction of the hens, which were still preoccupied with getting hot dogs off their beaks. “Yes, we’re not cut out to be chicken farmers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Russ replied.
“So the next time an idea like this comes up—” I stepped out of reach and flashed him a wicked grin, “—let’s raise pigs!”
What's playing in my head: The Oscar Mayer Wiener Song (Written by Richard D. Trentlage)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
Book review/interview with author Shirley Bahlmann
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Shirley Bahlmann, The Pioneers A Course in Miracles, pioneer stories, book review, author interview, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
All right, I heard those groans. You were looking for a little humor and when you read this is a book review and an author interview, you considered clicking elsewhere.
Just wait. Take your finger off that mouse and give this a chance. Shirley Bahlmann is a bubbly, vivacious, LDS author and you'll find an interview with her below the book review.
Talk about a sense of humor ... as Shirley tells her writing class, "I've always got a party going on in my head!"
Cindy: I’m standing here in virtual time, for an interview with author, Shirley Bahlmann, at the famous Days of ’47 parade.
Thanks for joining me, Shirley, on this blistering hot day in Salt Lake City. I know that you love the stories of the pioneers and have written a number of books about them. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a few questions about your books, and then see if we can get a glimpse into the personality that’s Shirley Bahlmann.
Cindy: Why did you choose to write pioneer tales and how many pioneer books have you written?
Shirley: It’s funny, I always thought I was a children’s picture book writer until my sister begged me to be on the committee when she was president of the Sanpete Community Theater. Only later did I find out that everyone on the committee had to chair a fundraising event. So I wrote skits to perform during the Mormon Miracle Pageant, and what better subject than pioneers? When I quit doing skits, I couldn’t stand the thought of those stories lying dormant and forgotten on the empty stage floor, so I wrote them into a book so anyone could read and enjoy them at any time. I have now published seven volumes of true pioneer stories. They portray settlers from long ago just as well as those people out there in the parade tripping over their skirts and scratching their beards, because the pioneers were real people with faults, foibles, and feelings, too.
Cindy: Have you written any other types of books?
Shirley: Sure, everything from picture books to fantasy to an epic thwarted-romance/adventure of over 100,000 words. Oh. Did you mean published books? Those include a woman’s near death experience, two adventure novels, and “Life is Like Riding A Unicycle” which includes not only my adventures of teaching myself to ride on one wheel at the ripe old age of 47, but also tells other oldie-but-goodie people’s stories of following their dreams regardless of age. Oh, yeah. And I have a self-published chicken book. You can even roll your own chicken. That one’s called, “When the chicken crossed the road.” People who know the story always smile when they talk about it. They should. It’s really funny. Hey, why aren’t there any chickens in the parade?
Cindy: What’s your favorite short story in your latest book, The Pioneers, A Course in Miracles, and why is it a favorite?
Shirley: I really like the one where the dad who’s on a church mission finds a warm loaf of bread that came from his wife’s kitchen hundreds of miles away. I’d heard rumors of that story before I met a descendant who gave me the low-down, as well as a photo of the old family homestead. I got chills when I spoke to her, and felt really good about the boost of faith that this miraculous story could give to readers.
Cindy: The Days of ’47 Parade is half over. Describe for us, please, what we’re looking at right now, and tell us your favorite part of the parade.
Shirley: Oh, look! Chickens! Hurry! Grab the loose feathers! Come on, get them before they blow away! We can make matching feather boas! You’re not hurrying… hurry… they’re getting away! Humpf. The chickens are gone, Cindy, and you don’t have enough feathers for a whole entire boa. You’ll just have to pin those in your hair, you know. You need to take feather picking lessons, girl. I like the funny parade parts. And the American flag part. And the time my father-in-law drove a WWII jeep because that was the most beautiful thing he saw rolling into Rotterdam, Holland, to free his native Holland from the Germans.
Cindy: I see that you’re wearing cowgirl boots, a safari print dress, glow in the dark earrings and you’re carrying an eggbeater. What’s the eggbeater for?
Shirley: Whipped cream. You can never have too much whipped cream. You forgot to mention my banana net that I’m going to use to catch a banana when they throw them out to the crowds. There is too a banana float. Haven’t you been watching the parade? You brought the ice cream, right?
Cindy: Oops, look out! You almost stepped in something. What is that?
Shirley: Oh, sure, change the subject. You still owe me ice cream. And that leggy thing on the ground, dear Cindy, is an evil spider that wants to crawl up your leg and nest in the hollow of your knee. Do you want me to aim better this time when I put my foot down?
Cindy: I’ve noticed there’s a certain smell in the air. Is that your perfume, and if so, what’s it called? If not, what is it that we smell?
Shirley: If you must know, I have it on good authority that my perfume smells like snowmobile fuel. Stop laughing. This is a true story. A boy at high school told me last year, and he’s an avid snowmobiler. Who am I to argue? I’ve never been on a snowmobile in my life. But… (sniff, sniff…) do you know what? It could be that “Nephite Delight” perfume that my boys and I joke about every time we smell a skunk. We made up a whole story to go along with it, but I didn’t write it down. Ow! Quit slapping my hand or I’ll blend your feathers with my eggbeater!
Cindy: Well, it’s about time to wrap this up and go get a frosty mug of sarsaparilla soda. One more question, though ...
Shirley: Make mine with ice. And I get the big glass, because I’m bigger than you. Uh-huh… uh-huh… uh-huh… oh, is that [your husband] Russ who told us to quit arguing? No, it’s the commentator. They were picking our voices up on their main microphone. So keep it down, willya? Sheesh. Behave yourself.
Cindy: Last year you were learning to ride a unicycle and wrote a book about it called, Life is Like Riding a Unicycle. What was the most interesting incident during your attempts to ride it?
Shirley: Well, it could have been when my 7-year-old asked me what was wrong with my legs because they were all polka-dotted with bruises, but personally I think it was when I desperately wanted to let go and ride, so I sent silent prayer heavenward that if my deceased father was not too busy, perhaps he could give me a push. That’s the first time I landed flat on my back with all the air knocked out of me. As I lay alone and unmoving on the cement basketball court in the darkening evening, I murmured, “Dad, you didn’t have to push so hard.”
Cindy: Thank you for your time, Shirley, and for allowing me to interview you. It’s been fun. Visiting with you is always a treat because you have a great imagination and the ability to help others see the world around you in a unique way. Thanks so much for writing The Pioneers, A Course in Miracles. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and heartily recommend it to others.
Shirley: Thanks, Cindy. Well, looky, there goes the last horse’s tail swishing down the road. What say we go get that ice cream now? We’ll let Russ pay.
You can order Shirley Bahlmann’s book online at Amazon.com or by visiting her website at http://www.shirleybahlmann.com/.
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, humor, Shirley Bahlmann, The Pioneers A Course in Miracles, pioneer stories, book review, author interview, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
All right, I heard those groans. You were looking for a little humor and when you read this is a book review and an author interview, you considered clicking elsewhere.
Just wait. Take your finger off that mouse and give this a chance. Shirley Bahlmann is a bubbly, vivacious, LDS author and you'll find an interview with her below the book review.Talk about a sense of humor ... as Shirley tells her writing class, "I've always got a party going on in my head!"
And she ain't just a kidding!
----------------------------
----------------------------
Book Review of The Pioneers, A Course in Miracles:
“I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure if rolling my little sister up in fencing wire is what nearly killed her. It wasn’t the wire or the rolling up that almost did her in, at least not right away.”
So starts the opening in Shirley Bahlmann’s, The Pioneers, a Course in Miracles. And what an opening! It grabs your attention and pulls you into the story of two bored little girls and their cousins, who start out looking for fun and almost end up with a funeral. This book is another in Shirley’s line of true pioneer stories and is so entertaining and interesting that you will probably find yourself finishing it in one sitting. However, if your reading time is limited, you can zip through one story at a time, in five or ten minute segments, and enjoy the book just as much that way.
The collection of fifteen short stories runs the gamut from true miracles to adventure stories. My two favorites were “Windmill,” the story of the two little girls and the fencing wire, and “Blessed Buffalo,” a heartwarming, tear-jerking story about the rescue of the Willie Handcart Company.
The pioneer tales that Shirley has written contain a wide range of characters that appeal universally across the boundaries of age and gender. They’ll have you laughing one minute and crying the next. As the author, Rachel Nunes, says of Shirley’s books, “My children and I have been fans of Bahlmann’s Odd series for years. We love snuggling together to read entertaining stories based on true pioneer experiences.”
I’ve read a number of Shirley’s books, and have found them not only well written, but heartwarming reading. The Pioneers, a Course in Miracles is destined to become—and remain—one of my favorites.
“I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure if rolling my little sister up in fencing wire is what nearly killed her. It wasn’t the wire or the rolling up that almost did her in, at least not right away.”
So starts the opening in Shirley Bahlmann’s, The Pioneers, a Course in Miracles. And what an opening! It grabs your attention and pulls you into the story of two bored little girls and their cousins, who start out looking for fun and almost end up with a funeral. This book is another in Shirley’s line of true pioneer stories and is so entertaining and interesting that you will probably find yourself finishing it in one sitting. However, if your reading time is limited, you can zip through one story at a time, in five or ten minute segments, and enjoy the book just as much that way.
The collection of fifteen short stories runs the gamut from true miracles to adventure stories. My two favorites were “Windmill,” the story of the two little girls and the fencing wire, and “Blessed Buffalo,” a heartwarming, tear-jerking story about the rescue of the Willie Handcart Company.
The pioneer tales that Shirley has written contain a wide range of characters that appeal universally across the boundaries of age and gender. They’ll have you laughing one minute and crying the next. As the author, Rachel Nunes, says of Shirley’s books, “My children and I have been fans of Bahlmann’s Odd series for years. We love snuggling together to read entertaining stories based on true pioneer experiences.”
I’ve read a number of Shirley’s books, and have found them not only well written, but heartwarming reading. The Pioneers, a Course in Miracles is destined to become—and remain—one of my favorites.
------
Interview with LDS author, Shirley Bahlmann:
Cindy: I’m standing here in virtual time, for an interview with author, Shirley Bahlmann, at the famous Days of ’47 parade.
Thanks for joining me, Shirley, on this blistering hot day in Salt Lake City. I know that you love the stories of the pioneers and have written a number of books about them. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a few questions about your books, and then see if we can get a glimpse into the personality that’s Shirley Bahlmann.
Cindy: Why did you choose to write pioneer tales and how many pioneer books have you written?
Shirley: It’s funny, I always thought I was a children’s picture book writer until my sister begged me to be on the committee when she was president of the Sanpete Community Theater. Only later did I find out that everyone on the committee had to chair a fundraising event. So I wrote skits to perform during the Mormon Miracle Pageant, and what better subject than pioneers? When I quit doing skits, I couldn’t stand the thought of those stories lying dormant and forgotten on the empty stage floor, so I wrote them into a book so anyone could read and enjoy them at any time. I have now published seven volumes of true pioneer stories. They portray settlers from long ago just as well as those people out there in the parade tripping over their skirts and scratching their beards, because the pioneers were real people with faults, foibles, and feelings, too.
Cindy: Have you written any other types of books?
Shirley: Sure, everything from picture books to fantasy to an epic thwarted-romance/adventure of over 100,000 words. Oh. Did you mean published books? Those include a woman’s near death experience, two adventure novels, and “Life is Like Riding A Unicycle” which includes not only my adventures of teaching myself to ride on one wheel at the ripe old age of 47, but also tells other oldie-but-goodie people’s stories of following their dreams regardless of age. Oh, yeah. And I have a self-published chicken book. You can even roll your own chicken. That one’s called, “When the chicken crossed the road.” People who know the story always smile when they talk about it. They should. It’s really funny. Hey, why aren’t there any chickens in the parade?
Cindy: What’s your favorite short story in your latest book, The Pioneers, A Course in Miracles, and why is it a favorite?
Shirley: I really like the one where the dad who’s on a church mission finds a warm loaf of bread that came from his wife’s kitchen hundreds of miles away. I’d heard rumors of that story before I met a descendant who gave me the low-down, as well as a photo of the old family homestead. I got chills when I spoke to her, and felt really good about the boost of faith that this miraculous story could give to readers.
Cindy: The Days of ’47 Parade is half over. Describe for us, please, what we’re looking at right now, and tell us your favorite part of the parade.
Shirley: Oh, look! Chickens! Hurry! Grab the loose feathers! Come on, get them before they blow away! We can make matching feather boas! You’re not hurrying… hurry… they’re getting away! Humpf. The chickens are gone, Cindy, and you don’t have enough feathers for a whole entire boa. You’ll just have to pin those in your hair, you know. You need to take feather picking lessons, girl. I like the funny parade parts. And the American flag part. And the time my father-in-law drove a WWII jeep because that was the most beautiful thing he saw rolling into Rotterdam, Holland, to free his native Holland from the Germans.
Cindy: I see that you’re wearing cowgirl boots, a safari print dress, glow in the dark earrings and you’re carrying an eggbeater. What’s the eggbeater for?
Shirley: Whipped cream. You can never have too much whipped cream. You forgot to mention my banana net that I’m going to use to catch a banana when they throw them out to the crowds. There is too a banana float. Haven’t you been watching the parade? You brought the ice cream, right?
Cindy: Oops, look out! You almost stepped in something. What is that?
Shirley: Oh, sure, change the subject. You still owe me ice cream. And that leggy thing on the ground, dear Cindy, is an evil spider that wants to crawl up your leg and nest in the hollow of your knee. Do you want me to aim better this time when I put my foot down?
Cindy: I’ve noticed there’s a certain smell in the air. Is that your perfume, and if so, what’s it called? If not, what is it that we smell?
Shirley: If you must know, I have it on good authority that my perfume smells like snowmobile fuel. Stop laughing. This is a true story. A boy at high school told me last year, and he’s an avid snowmobiler. Who am I to argue? I’ve never been on a snowmobile in my life. But… (sniff, sniff…) do you know what? It could be that “Nephite Delight” perfume that my boys and I joke about every time we smell a skunk. We made up a whole story to go along with it, but I didn’t write it down. Ow! Quit slapping my hand or I’ll blend your feathers with my eggbeater!
Cindy: Well, it’s about time to wrap this up and go get a frosty mug of sarsaparilla soda. One more question, though ...
Shirley: Make mine with ice. And I get the big glass, because I’m bigger than you. Uh-huh… uh-huh… uh-huh… oh, is that [your husband] Russ who told us to quit arguing? No, it’s the commentator. They were picking our voices up on their main microphone. So keep it down, willya? Sheesh. Behave yourself.
Cindy: Last year you were learning to ride a unicycle and wrote a book about it called, Life is Like Riding a Unicycle. What was the most interesting incident during your attempts to ride it?
Shirley: Well, it could have been when my 7-year-old asked me what was wrong with my legs because they were all polka-dotted with bruises, but personally I think it was when I desperately wanted to let go and ride, so I sent silent prayer heavenward that if my deceased father was not too busy, perhaps he could give me a push. That’s the first time I landed flat on my back with all the air knocked out of me. As I lay alone and unmoving on the cement basketball court in the darkening evening, I murmured, “Dad, you didn’t have to push so hard.”
Cindy: Thank you for your time, Shirley, and for allowing me to interview you. It’s been fun. Visiting with you is always a treat because you have a great imagination and the ability to help others see the world around you in a unique way. Thanks so much for writing The Pioneers, A Course in Miracles. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it, and heartily recommend it to others.
Shirley: Thanks, Cindy. Well, looky, there goes the last horse’s tail swishing down the road. What say we go get that ice cream now? We’ll let Russ pay.
You can order Shirley Bahlmann’s book online at Amazon.com or by visiting her website at http://www.shirleybahlmann.com/.
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
Not the Colonel’s chicken ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
Keywords: Cindy Beck, Colonel Sanders, chicken, chicks, birds, peep, Rhode Island Reds, oatmeal, YourLDS Neighborhood.com
Several years ago, my husband, Russ, and I had an interesting experience. It was so interesting that it sticks out in my mind like it was just … well … several years ago.
**********
“You should have been at the post office today,” I said to Russ.
“Why’s that?”
“One of the boxes of mail-order chicks broke open and yellow babies were peeping and running all over the place.”
I paused. “What would you think about raising poultry?”
Russ looked dubious. Who can say why? It’s not like my schemes ever backfired or anything.
“We don’t know how,” he said.
“I’ll find a chicken manual,” I replied. “If an old guy like Colonel Sanders can handle them, so can we.”
“Where would we put them?” Russ asked.
“We’d keep them on the porch in a box under a heat lamp. Then when the weather warms, we’ll put them in that old coop in the back.” I had an answer for every objection.
The next day we ordered fifty Rhode Island Reds. And became chicken farmers.
Only things didn’t go quite as planned.
When the chicks came in, we brought them home and opened their box. “Gee, they sound a lot louder in here than I expected,” I said to Russ, as he put pillows over both ears to block the noise.
Then the cat showed up. The birds fled the box and scattered to the four corners of the porch.
The cat thought it was great fun. I thought it was a minor setback. Russ thought it was an omen.
The chicks ate and ate and grew into …well … big chickens. There they were, 50 birds nesting and roosting in our screened porch. And squawking at the break of day. Every day.
Russ moved them to the hen house.
One morning while cleaning up after breakfast, I realized I’d fixed too much cereal. “What can we do with cold, left-over oatmeal?” I asked my son, Davey.
He replied, “Eat it for lunch.” Obviously, a three-year-old is clueless about what constitutes a good meal.
I scratched my head. “Maybe we can feed it to the chickens.”
Davey nodded in agreement. That’s what I love about toddlers—they’ll agree with anything.
I consulted my chicken manual. Everything seemed to indicate it was fine. We marched to the coop, pot and spoon in hand, and ladled the lumpy oatmeal into the feeder. The hens gathered and clucked their excitement at something new.
No sooner was I back in the house when I heard Davey yell, “Mommy, Daddy, something’s wrong with the chickens!”
Oh no. Had one of the cats gotten them?
We raced to the hen house. The birds milled about, their heads low to the ground, none of them clucking.
“They must be sick,” I said to Russ, watching the poor things stagger around and fall over.
Russ looked puzzled. “They’ve got a big wad of something on their beaks.”
“A big wad of something? That’s weird.” I shook my head and tried to think of all the chicken diseases I’d read about that might fit the description.
“It looks like cooked oatmeal,” Russ said. “Where would they get that?” He turned to me with his, “What have you tried now?” look.
“It’s perfectly logical,” I said. “Oatmeal is made from oats. Oats are a grain. Chickens eat grain. It said so in my manual.”
“Yes, but not cooked and in a big, sticky lump,” Russ said.
We watched a few minutes more. The chickens kept rubbing their beaks, trying to get off the goopy cereal. The more they rubbed, the more dirt they picked up in their wads of oatmeal. Pretty soon, some of them had lumps the size of golf balls surrounding their beaks, throwing the poor birds off balance and onto the ground.
“You know what you have to do,” Russ said, opening the gate to the birds’ fenced area and ushering me inside.
“What?” I asked.
“Give 50 chickens a bath.”
Well, all I had to say was those chickens had better taste pretty good once they were on the table. I was sure the Colonel had never gone to this much trouble.
What's playing in my head: Oats, Peas, Beans, and Barley Grow (unknown author)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
Rebel with a cause ... by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, rebel, TSA, security, dangerous, Star Spangled Banner, revolution, guard, tea, Boston Tea Party, YourLDS Neighborhood.com)
The Transportation and Safety Administration (TSA) guard at airport security looked at us sternly, opened our carry-on suitcase and rummaged around. “You’ve got something in here that could be a problem,” she said.
There we stood in our stocking feet, feeling vulnerable and wondering what we’d done wrong. We were on vacation, and I’d given myself a two-inch streak of gray hair trying to make sure I’d packed correctly. I knew there weren’t any pipe bombs in there, because I’d used my last one the week before. I’d left my dynamite at home, along with our machete. And all my really dangerous chemicals—hair gel, hair spray and toothpaste—were in a Ziploc baggie that had already been cleared by security.
“Ah-ha,” the guard declared. She pulled out two, one ounce, sealed jars of honey—mementos from a restaurant in Hawaii.
What insidious, terrorist plot did she think I’d contrived? Pour the honey on the passengers and stick them together? Throw it in the eyes of the pilot and take over the plane? I’m not admitting I’ve ever done this, but anyone who’s tried to throw honey knows it’s not exactly easy.
I watched as she confiscated the jars, and was certain she was thinking of tomorrow morning’s English muffin—with my honey on it.
The guard groped around in my suitcase again and a grin spread across her face. She pulled out two jars of macadamia nut-caramel popcorn.
Aack! Not my popcorn! I had visions of it growing wings and flying away. I gritted my teeth and gathered courage. History lessons about the Boston Tea Party came to mind—sort of. I couldn’t remember if the rebellion was about confiscation, taxation without representation, or a shortage of Lipton teabags, but I felt a kinship with the early American colonists. No longer would I put up with an infringement on my rights. This popcorn was not being seized without a fight. I could hear the Star-Spangled Banner ringing in my ears and the sound of fife and drums as I prepared my battle plan.
“Russ, you’ve got to save my popcorn,” I whispered.
My husband raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the gun on the guard’s hip. It had a barrel the size of a cannon. Okay, maybe I exaggerate slightly. But she did have a gun. And a deep voice. And a rather flat … um … chest.
Just as I opened my mouth to insist that Russ tell her caramel popcorn was not on the list of items forbidden in carry-on luggage, she smiled at us and said, “I could use these.” She held the two round, 12-ounce jars in front of her chest and said, “If I were to stuff these under my shirt, people would quit thinking I’m a man.”
She didn’t want to eat my popcorn? She wanted to stick the jars in her … ah … underclothing? Visions of a dark-skinned, Hawaiian TSA guard with a chest like Dolly Parton and a voice like Cookie Monster flashed through my head.
The guard said, “Don’t worry, I’m teasing. These can go through just fine,” and put them back into the suitcase.
I laughed. I’m certain it wasn’t hysterically. We picked up our belongings and headed toward the boarding gate. “That was quite the experience,” I said. “But at least all we lost was the honey.”
Then I pulled my ticket out to see when the plane was leaving and the words were blurred. Unreadable. That’s when I realized the honey wasn’t the only thing we’d lost. My glasses were back there, in that tangle of security. Maybe sitting on some guard’s nose.
I could hear the Star-Spangled Banner again, ringing in my ears. I prepared my battle plan.
"Russ, you’ve got to go back and get my glasses.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re crazy. I’m not going through all that again. You can buy another $3 pair from Wal-Mart when we get home.”
Some revolutionary he was.
I’ve got news for the TSA, though. I’m a rebel with a cause. And the next time I go through airport security, I’m not bothering with contraband like honey. I’m bringing along some Lipton tea.
What's playing in my head: Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree written by Georgia Bello
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, rebel, TSA, security, dangerous, Star Spangled Banner, revolution, guard, tea, Boston Tea Party, YourLDS Neighborhood.com)
The Transportation and Safety Administration (TSA) guard at airport security looked at us sternly, opened our carry-on suitcase and rummaged around. “You’ve got something in here that could be a problem,” she said.
There we stood in our stocking feet, feeling vulnerable and wondering what we’d done wrong. We were on vacation, and I’d given myself a two-inch streak of gray hair trying to make sure I’d packed correctly. I knew there weren’t any pipe bombs in there, because I’d used my last one the week before. I’d left my dynamite at home, along with our machete. And all my really dangerous chemicals—hair gel, hair spray and toothpaste—were in a Ziploc baggie that had already been cleared by security.
“Ah-ha,” the guard declared. She pulled out two, one ounce, sealed jars of honey—mementos from a restaurant in Hawaii.
What insidious, terrorist plot did she think I’d contrived? Pour the honey on the passengers and stick them together? Throw it in the eyes of the pilot and take over the plane? I’m not admitting I’ve ever done this, but anyone who’s tried to throw honey knows it’s not exactly easy.
I watched as she confiscated the jars, and was certain she was thinking of tomorrow morning’s English muffin—with my honey on it.
The guard groped around in my suitcase again and a grin spread across her face. She pulled out two jars of macadamia nut-caramel popcorn.
Aack! Not my popcorn! I had visions of it growing wings and flying away. I gritted my teeth and gathered courage. History lessons about the Boston Tea Party came to mind—sort of. I couldn’t remember if the rebellion was about confiscation, taxation without representation, or a shortage of Lipton teabags, but I felt a kinship with the early American colonists. No longer would I put up with an infringement on my rights. This popcorn was not being seized without a fight. I could hear the Star-Spangled Banner ringing in my ears and the sound of fife and drums as I prepared my battle plan.
“Russ, you’ve got to save my popcorn,” I whispered.
My husband raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the gun on the guard’s hip. It had a barrel the size of a cannon. Okay, maybe I exaggerate slightly. But she did have a gun. And a deep voice. And a rather flat … um … chest.
Just as I opened my mouth to insist that Russ tell her caramel popcorn was not on the list of items forbidden in carry-on luggage, she smiled at us and said, “I could use these.” She held the two round, 12-ounce jars in front of her chest and said, “If I were to stuff these under my shirt, people would quit thinking I’m a man.”
She didn’t want to eat my popcorn? She wanted to stick the jars in her … ah … underclothing? Visions of a dark-skinned, Hawaiian TSA guard with a chest like Dolly Parton and a voice like Cookie Monster flashed through my head.
The guard said, “Don’t worry, I’m teasing. These can go through just fine,” and put them back into the suitcase.
I laughed. I’m certain it wasn’t hysterically. We picked up our belongings and headed toward the boarding gate. “That was quite the experience,” I said. “But at least all we lost was the honey.”
Then I pulled my ticket out to see when the plane was leaving and the words were blurred. Unreadable. That’s when I realized the honey wasn’t the only thing we’d lost. My glasses were back there, in that tangle of security. Maybe sitting on some guard’s nose.
I could hear the Star-Spangled Banner again, ringing in my ears. I prepared my battle plan.
"Russ, you’ve got to go back and get my glasses.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re crazy. I’m not going through all that again. You can buy another $3 pair from Wal-Mart when we get home.”
Some revolutionary he was.
I’ve got news for the TSA, though. I’m a rebel with a cause. And the next time I go through airport security, I’m not bothering with contraband like honey. I’m bringing along some Lipton tea.
What's playing in my head: Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree written by Georgia Bello
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
And the winner is ... by Cindy Beck
© 2008, by Cindy Beck
(Keywords: prize, winner, license plate, contest, Quackers, Corky Porky Pie, rubber ducky, rubber duckie)
The winner of the license plate frame slogan contest is ... ta da ... that Queen of the Clan, Danyelle Ferguson. Danyelle's winning slogan was: This Is My Dream Van . . .Where Are The Dream Gas Prices?
So sad, but so true.
Congratulations to Danyelle. Her official prize of a never-before-used-in-a-bathtub rubber ducky is on its way. Well ... as soon as she sends me her address.
Please note the winning entry was chosen by Quackers, the rubber ducky, and Corky Porky Pie, the dog, who are experts in the field. I don't know in what field, but they're experts.
What's playing in my head: Rubber Duckie, by Ernie the Muppet
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(Keywords: prize, winner, license plate, contest, Quackers, Corky Porky Pie, rubber ducky, rubber duckie)
The winner of the license plate frame slogan contest is ... ta da ... that Queen of the Clan, Danyelle Ferguson. Danyelle's winning slogan was: This Is My Dream Van . . .Where Are The Dream Gas Prices?
So sad, but so true.
Congratulations to Danyelle. Her official prize of a never-before-used-in-a-bathtub rubber ducky is on its way. Well ... as soon as she sends me her address.
Please note the winning entry was chosen by Quackers, the rubber ducky, and Corky Porky Pie, the dog, who are experts in the field. I don't know in what field, but they're experts.
What's playing in my head: Rubber Duckie, by Ernie the Muppet
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Send Someone Up with a Shoe by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, C.L. Beck, shoe, cockroach, antennae, entomologist, bug, Mother Nature, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It was six inches long, with wiggly antennae. We were on vacation, in a hotel. My husband, Russ, was asleep with a cold, and I was in a stand-off with Mother Nature.
“Russ, get up. There’s a giant bug.” You’d think an entomologist would say something more precise than, “a giant bug.” I should have mentioned the order and species. But when you’re faced with a bug that’s big enough to consider you dinner, you don’t think rationally.
“Just squash it,” Russ mumbled.
Squash it? Its itty-bitty eyes were tracking my every move!
“We’re in a five-star hotel. I shouldn’t have to squish anything.” Then my scientific nature kicked in. “What kind of bug is that?”
I squinted, trying to focus. The bug would have to have been the size of the Empire State building for me to identify it without my glasses. But if I could get a little closer, that might help.
It was a nutty thing to do, but I crept forward. “Aack!” I screamed, realizing what it was and leaping back.
My scream didn’t scare it, but the movement did. It took off and ran under the hide-a-bed sofa. It certainly knew its way around. How long had it been living here? I knew, from personal experience, that you could suck a bug up with the vacuum cleaner. Why hadn’t housekeeping done that?
Russ snored and I realized a man who was sick enough to sleep through my screaming really needed his rest.
“Russ, wake up. It’s a huge, disgusting cockroach,” I said with a shiver. “What should we do about it?”
I was thinking along the lines of calling the bomb squad to roust the bug. Russ opened his blurry eyes and said, “Ignore it and go to sleep.”
“Who in their right mind can sleep with a monster cockroach in their room?”
“I can,” Russ said. He rolled over and started snoring. What had happened to the man who promised—at the alter—to love, cherish, and defend me from killer bugs?
In all my years of schooling, I learned many things about cockroaches. Things a person should never have to know and that I won’t repeat because they’ll just freak you out. But the most important piece of knowledge was gained living in an apartment in Maryland.
If you turn out the lights, cockroaches creep from their hiding places. When the lights are turned back on, some of them fly at you.
Standing in the dark, waiting for a cockroach to come out rates right up there with going through airport security. If the dumb thing ran across my bare feet or flew in my face, I was going to go out, buy a gun and shoot it.
I flicked off the light. When I flipped it back on there was the bug on the floor, staring at me, daring me to eliminate it. That was all it took. It would never do for an entomologist, turned mom, turned writer, to be outwitted by a bug.
Grabbing a sandal, I shrieked and chased it around the room. It scuttled behind the sofa, along the wall, behind the drapes, but I kept chasing. I threw another shoe in front to block it, and it stopped next to our bed.
“Die, you lousy bug!” I yelled, as I brought the sandal down.
Russ leaned up on one elbow, coughed and in a sleep-muffled voice said, “Did you get it?”
I had no clue. Either it was under my shoe or under our bed. And if it was under my shoe, was it dead? I tilted the shoe. The bug waved its antennae at me. I pushed down hard and it made a sound that can only be described as …
Well, you don’t want to know what it sounded like, but let me say it was now dead.
The next morning, I suggested we call the management and inform them of the cockroach. Russ waved the hotel information card. “This says we’re in a tropical area and so we might see tropical bugs. If we do, we’re supposed to call the front desk and they’ll be happy to take care of the problem.”
The management wasn’t fooling me. I knew what that meant. They’d send someone up with a shoe.
What's playing in my head: La Cucaracha (Unknown authorship)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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(Keywords: Cindy Beck, C.L. Beck, shoe, cockroach, antennae, entomologist, bug, Mother Nature, YourLDSNeighborhood.com)
It was six inches long, with wiggly antennae. We were on vacation, in a hotel. My husband, Russ, was asleep with a cold, and I was in a stand-off with Mother Nature.
“Russ, get up. There’s a giant bug.” You’d think an entomologist would say something more precise than, “a giant bug.” I should have mentioned the order and species. But when you’re faced with a bug that’s big enough to consider you dinner, you don’t think rationally.
“Just squash it,” Russ mumbled.
Squash it? Its itty-bitty eyes were tracking my every move!
“We’re in a five-star hotel. I shouldn’t have to squish anything.” Then my scientific nature kicked in. “What kind of bug is that?”
I squinted, trying to focus. The bug would have to have been the size of the Empire State building for me to identify it without my glasses. But if I could get a little closer, that might help.
It was a nutty thing to do, but I crept forward. “Aack!” I screamed, realizing what it was and leaping back.
My scream didn’t scare it, but the movement did. It took off and ran under the hide-a-bed sofa. It certainly knew its way around. How long had it been living here? I knew, from personal experience, that you could suck a bug up with the vacuum cleaner. Why hadn’t housekeeping done that?
Russ snored and I realized a man who was sick enough to sleep through my screaming really needed his rest.
“Russ, wake up. It’s a huge, disgusting cockroach,” I said with a shiver. “What should we do about it?”
I was thinking along the lines of calling the bomb squad to roust the bug. Russ opened his blurry eyes and said, “Ignore it and go to sleep.”
“Who in their right mind can sleep with a monster cockroach in their room?”
“I can,” Russ said. He rolled over and started snoring. What had happened to the man who promised—at the alter—to love, cherish, and defend me from killer bugs?
In all my years of schooling, I learned many things about cockroaches. Things a person should never have to know and that I won’t repeat because they’ll just freak you out. But the most important piece of knowledge was gained living in an apartment in Maryland.
If you turn out the lights, cockroaches creep from their hiding places. When the lights are turned back on, some of them fly at you.
Standing in the dark, waiting for a cockroach to come out rates right up there with going through airport security. If the dumb thing ran across my bare feet or flew in my face, I was going to go out, buy a gun and shoot it.
I flicked off the light. When I flipped it back on there was the bug on the floor, staring at me, daring me to eliminate it. That was all it took. It would never do for an entomologist, turned mom, turned writer, to be outwitted by a bug.
Grabbing a sandal, I shrieked and chased it around the room. It scuttled behind the sofa, along the wall, behind the drapes, but I kept chasing. I threw another shoe in front to block it, and it stopped next to our bed.
“Die, you lousy bug!” I yelled, as I brought the sandal down.
Russ leaned up on one elbow, coughed and in a sleep-muffled voice said, “Did you get it?”
I had no clue. Either it was under my shoe or under our bed. And if it was under my shoe, was it dead? I tilted the shoe. The bug waved its antennae at me. I pushed down hard and it made a sound that can only be described as …
Well, you don’t want to know what it sounded like, but let me say it was now dead.
The next morning, I suggested we call the management and inform them of the cockroach. Russ waved the hotel information card. “This says we’re in a tropical area and so we might see tropical bugs. If we do, we’re supposed to call the front desk and they’ll be happy to take care of the problem.”
The management wasn’t fooling me. I knew what that meant. They’d send someone up with a shoe.
What's playing in my head: La Cucaracha (Unknown authorship)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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Then There was Lunch by Cindy Beck
© Cindy Beck, 2008
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, C.L. Beck, cat, hummingbird, KitKat, spiders, pets, dogs, rabbits)
When people ask where I get my inspiration for writing, I laugh and look pointedly at my husband, Russ.
Considering that his escapades always show up in my musings—a fact he’s most patient about—I’m giving him a break. Today’s article won’t include any mention of him.
While searching the internet for an alternate topic, I discovered a tabloid article about a man who kept snakes, termites, and poisonous arachnids as pets. It turns out one of his black widow spiders thought he would make a tasty treat and tried him for lunch. Then the other creatures finished him for dessert.
It’s my firm opinion that pets should have certain qualifications. Fur is always nice. So are feathers. And two or four legs are a good idea.
House pets should definitely have two eyes with a single lens in each. No more, no less. Any critter that you’re tempted to name “Compound-Eyed Igor” probably belongs in Frankenstein’s laboratory and not in a ventilated Mason jar under your bed.
My choices for pets are cats, dogs, and Russ. Oh, wait. I said I wasn’t going to bring him into this. Okay, so it’s cats, dogs, and rabbits. They’re affectionate without being overbearing. More importantly, none of them have ever wrapped a web around me and saved me for a snack.
Not too long ago, I was outside enjoying the hummingbirds. Although they fit my qualifications for a pet, I don’t think of them as such. They’re more like teenage children. I feed them and clean up after them—in return, they buzz past me on their way to something more important.
The hummies were feeding heavily, about 50 at a time, and it seemed like the right moment to put my finger on their perch. When they’re in a feeding frenzy, they’ll ignore you—also like teenagers—and land on your finger while sucking nectar.
I pulled a chair under the feeder and climbed up. Standing on tippy-toe, I stretched up as far as possible. My finger just barely touched the perch and my weight was off-balance, but I used the feeder to steady me.
Then the thing tilted. Sugar syrup ran out the little holes and onto my hand.
It was a matter of small consequence. I was determined to have a hummingbird land on my finger.
KitKat showed up. He’s a wonderful pet—furry, fat and loving. Too loving. At that very moment he wasn’t content with me murmuring, “Nice kitty. Sweet KitKat.”
He wanted to be petted. He wanted to assure me of his love. I wanted to assure him he was headed for that great litter box in the sky if he came any closer.
In one bound, his round, orange body was on the chair. “Shoo! Go away!” I nudged him with one foot. The chair wobbled and syrup ran to my elbow as the feeder leaned at a precarious angle.
Just then, 15 hummingbirds decided they wanted to eat… but not with me. They darted at my head using their beaks as swords in an attempt to give me multiple nose and eyebrow piercings—and to chase me off. I bobbed and weaved, the chair rocked, and sticky syrup dripped to my armpit.
Then it happened.
KitKat took a flying leap up my pant leg, purring like a chainsaw. “Cat, get off me!” I yelled, wibble-wobbling back and forth, and shaking my leg wildly.
The hummers took off as if they’d been blitzed. KitKat, on the other hand, was oblivious to the catastrophe and continued to rumble his affection as he whipped around in every direction, still attached to my leg.
By now the feeder was empty—syrup had dripped to my waist. My jeans were shredded from cat claws. I disentangled the still purring feline, dropped him to the ground, and climbed off the chair.
KitKat entwined around my ankles as I made my way to the door. Tripping over him, I fell inside. Safe at last.
So much for affectionate pets; that cat practically killed me with love. But then again, I figure I can count myself lucky … at least he didn’t eat me for lunch.
What's playing in my head: The Eensy Weensy Spider (Unknown authorship)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
--
(Keywords: Cindy Beck, C.L. Beck, cat, hummingbird, KitKat, spiders, pets, dogs, rabbits)
When people ask where I get my inspiration for writing, I laugh and look pointedly at my husband, Russ.
Considering that his escapades always show up in my musings—a fact he’s most patient about—I’m giving him a break. Today’s article won’t include any mention of him.
While searching the internet for an alternate topic, I discovered a tabloid article about a man who kept snakes, termites, and poisonous arachnids as pets. It turns out one of his black widow spiders thought he would make a tasty treat and tried him for lunch. Then the other creatures finished him for dessert.
It’s my firm opinion that pets should have certain qualifications. Fur is always nice. So are feathers. And two or four legs are a good idea.
House pets should definitely have two eyes with a single lens in each. No more, no less. Any critter that you’re tempted to name “Compound-Eyed Igor” probably belongs in Frankenstein’s laboratory and not in a ventilated Mason jar under your bed.
My choices for pets are cats, dogs, and Russ. Oh, wait. I said I wasn’t going to bring him into this. Okay, so it’s cats, dogs, and rabbits. They’re affectionate without being overbearing. More importantly, none of them have ever wrapped a web around me and saved me for a snack.
Not too long ago, I was outside enjoying the hummingbirds. Although they fit my qualifications for a pet, I don’t think of them as such. They’re more like teenage children. I feed them and clean up after them—in return, they buzz past me on their way to something more important.
The hummies were feeding heavily, about 50 at a time, and it seemed like the right moment to put my finger on their perch. When they’re in a feeding frenzy, they’ll ignore you—also like teenagers—and land on your finger while sucking nectar.
I pulled a chair under the feeder and climbed up. Standing on tippy-toe, I stretched up as far as possible. My finger just barely touched the perch and my weight was off-balance, but I used the feeder to steady me.
Then the thing tilted. Sugar syrup ran out the little holes and onto my hand.
It was a matter of small consequence. I was determined to have a hummingbird land on my finger.
He wanted to be petted. He wanted to assure me of his love. I wanted to assure him he was headed for that great litter box in the sky if he came any closer.
In one bound, his round, orange body was on the chair. “Shoo! Go away!” I nudged him with one foot. The chair wobbled and syrup ran to my elbow as the feeder leaned at a precarious angle.
Just then, 15 hummingbirds decided they wanted to eat… but not with me. They darted at my head using their beaks as swords in an attempt to give me multiple nose and eyebrow piercings—and to chase me off. I bobbed and weaved, the chair rocked, and sticky syrup dripped to my armpit.
Then it happened.
KitKat took a flying leap up my pant leg, purring like a chainsaw. “Cat, get off me!” I yelled, wibble-wobbling back and forth, and shaking my leg wildly.
The hummers took off as if they’d been blitzed. KitKat, on the other hand, was oblivious to the catastrophe and continued to rumble his affection as he whipped around in every direction, still attached to my leg.
By now the feeder was empty—syrup had dripped to my waist. My jeans were shredded from cat claws. I disentangled the still purring feline, dropped him to the ground, and climbed off the chair.
KitKat entwined around my ankles as I made my way to the door. Tripping over him, I fell inside. Safe at last.
So much for affectionate pets; that cat practically killed me with love. But then again, I figure I can count myself lucky … at least he didn’t eat me for lunch.
What's playing in my head: The Eensy Weensy Spider (Unknown authorship)
Join the Neighborhood Newsletter . . . Subscriptions are free and joining is easy. Just by signing up and maintaining your subscription to receive the YourLDSneighborhood.com newsletter, you become eligible for our "Thank You" prizes. Our dozens of giveaways range from a trip for two to China, to iPods® (each with a $50 gift certificate for LDS music), cruises, and more.
Learn about our amazing monthly, quarterly, and annual giveaways by clicking here.
This blog sponsored by YourLDSNeighborhood.com. Please show your appreciation by returning to and browsing through the Neighborhood!
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