And Now Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Humor...

Cleaning out some old trunks on Mom's back porch tonight and I came across a treasure trove of stuff from high school, including the following essay which, sans typos, I will post verbatim. I think this is circa 1974, Dottie Davey's Creative Writing Class at Madison High School.

Hmmm... Obviously once a nut, always a nut. You will not be surprised to learn that my undergrad. major in college was anthropology.



You know, objectively speaking, the life we lead as American teenagers must be quite a strange one, if we look at it from the angle of one who hasn't been brought up in the middle of it. Let's look at it from the viewpoint of someone who's never heard the least thing about it...say, a rather educated pygmy from the African interior. Here's what he might relate to his companions when he returns to the safe quiet world of the jungle, where all one has to worry about are things like fighting off spastic baboons, whether the Lion Sleeps Tonight or if he suffers from indigestion and is particularly grumpy, and when the next crop of tse-tse flies is due in.

The life of the American Young person is a strange one indeed. Rather than sensibly going from childhood straight into adulthood as we do, they waste their time in a long and unprofitable period known as their teens. Much of this time is spent in a building which is a place of education. While I never saw any effort made to teach them the practical things which they ought to be taught, such as how to make a knife or fight off a spastic baboon, they have learned to sue a weapon which, though not often deadly, does tend to stun the victim: the spitwad. Another method of self defense --or perhaps of agitation--is concealed in the spiral notebooks the students carry --the metal spirals have ends which are capable of snagging one's sweater --or one's skin. Students are also taught chants, particularly how to inform another student of what one's mother was. These chants are often recited before lockers that refuse to open, or overly active water fountains which tend to give one a bath rather than a drink. The personage who runs this place of education must be none other than a god, because each morning his voice floats into the rooms over thin air, informing the students and teachers of what is expected of them during the day. At this time, several students are often called to this god's place of rest, known as "the Office." It must be a terrible place, because commands to report there are usually met with wide-eyed stares, and mutters of "what did I do now?"

There is one period in which the students' endurance is tested, for they are forced to consume some rather dubious looking substances in a chamber called the Cafeteria. Teachers stand guard by the door, and woe to he who gags.

Schools are also the location of a strange ritual that took place every seven days or so while I was there. These took place in the evening, in a large chamber known as the Gym, lined to the rafters with students thirsting for the sight of blood. In the center of the Gym, the warriors from two competing schools did battle in scanty uniforms. In the game called basketball, the object seemed to be how many eyes one could gouge out while attempting to distract opponents with what looked like the gallstone of an elephant. Priestesses as scantily clad as the players led the fans in chants to urge the teams on. Food and drink was sold by itinerant peddlers at stands outside the gym, and a group of people with strange instruments sat off to one side playing music with which to bring out the hunting instincts in the players. One that for some unknown reason stands out in my mind was entitled "Beat-A-Cheetah."

The courtship ritual is a long drawn out process lasting months and often years. It begins with the youth asking a girl to "the Game" (basketball, remember?). Sometimes this question differs slightly - the most unusual one was "Wanna go to my place and listen to my Yamaha?" which must be some strange exotic species of caged bird -- but the most important thing about the question is the insinuation behind it--whether the girl desires her suitor's company or not. If not, she advises him to seek someone else's attention by gently telling him "stick it in your ear." While not following her instructions to the letter, he usually takes the hint. If he does prove acceptable to her, they go off and exchange vital information about one another, such as what color socks he wears and what that funny red mark is on her neck (she usually explains that she ran into a high and vicious doorknob). They also journey to such diverse places as the Drive In, a place specially designed for what they call "necking" and "making out" with larger-than-life figures demonstrating just what to do. While I never had the opportunity to visit one of these drive ins, it is obvious that they are most awesome training places to prepare for what will be expected of them later in life. I never learned just what "making out" meant but "necking" obviously involves our brother the giraffe.

I would like to set down more, but I think I hear a spastic baboon in the distance.

So....if your daughter or granddaughter sounds like this now, in 35 years she could be me. Flee while you can.....

What Happened Last Weekend: The Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop

Last week I was lucky enough, due to someone else’s cancellation (thanks, Anna!) to attend the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop at the University of Dayton. I sat through some wonderful, encouraging and challenging presentations on everything from finding an agent to finding your “voice” as a writer and using humor as a means to address heartbreak. The host of this last seminar was Wade Rouse, who read excerpts from his memoirs about growing up – and coming out - gay in the Midwest; after some discussion we were given a 20 minute challenge to write in a humorous manner about something that we feared. I was happy with what resulted from my own frantic scribblings so I polished it up a bit and posted it on this blog on the evening of the day I had written it. So far, so good.

The conference was exhilarating, inspiring and best of all FUN – I enjoyed meeting so many people interested in the craft of writing. I collected a stack of cards with email addresses, websites, and blogs. Everyone was excited to talk about publishing successes they’d had, and willing to share their work experiences. The spirit was great, the camaraderie was amazing. I felt encouraged. I was charged up and ready to write more. What a great experience.

So as you may imagine I was surprised to get home on Saturday evening and read the following comment someone posted after the blog entry about my Mom that was the result of Mr. Rouse’s writing exercise:

Didn't read your blog -- but love how you've managed to mention it in every Erma Bombeck session I've been in. Kudos and congrats on your blatant self-promotion. It's impressive. Again, props to you!

I was crushed. Completely shot down. Almost terminally embarrassed. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Had I been that obnoxious? Had I made a complete fool of myself? One person evidently thought so, and that was enough to shake my hard-won confidence. I’ve worked for years to be less socially backward, stupid, nerdy and geeky than I always thought I was, tried diligently to maintain conversations without the benefit of a dog or cat between myself and the person I was addressing – and here I’d unwittingly blown a cardinal rule of conference etiquette and some good person, evidently thinking to perform a service for the masses, took it upon themselves to let me know. Overnight my anxiety reached epic proportions and by about 3 a.m. I was considering moving overseas and setting up shop in a hut in Madagascar, only the volcano in Iceland was already messing up travel schedules.

Let me explain. We were invited to introduce ourselves when we stood up to ask presenters a question. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. But on the three occasions when I did, and also mentioned the name of my blog, it was because the presenter had spoken of his or her pets – evidently a favorite subject for many writers - and I hoped if possible to strike a chord which might motivate some like-minded to folks to read the things I had written. Besides, we were invited to tell what we had done, what we had published. I wasn’t the only one. I was hoping for some constructive criticism. I did not expect vitriol. I did not bargain for anonymous, waspish snide remarks made by someone who lacked the courage to simply come up to me at the conference and say “wouldya shut the hell up, already?”

Analytical (and please note the very apropos first four letters of that word!) worry wart that I am, I can’t just let it go without a fight. Therefore, I find it necessary to pick this little bit of cyberspace excrement to pieces and give it the slow death it deserves.

According to my blog, the comment is from “M2.” M2? That’s not a name. That sounds like a pseudonym from some vintage cold war spy thriller. I can just picture “M2” sitting in front of ancient rickety table, pounding out smudged letters on crackling onionskin paper using a manual typewriter with broken keys in a cold little room somewhere on the east side of London, the room illuminated only by a single uncovered lightbulb flickering and buzzing at the end of a frayed wire. The haze from half a dozen stubbed-out cigarettes hovers in a cloud over this unhappy individual’s head as people on the other side of the wall rattle the plaster with an argument or loud sex, or maybe both. M2, indeed.

“I haven’t read your blog” – M2’s loss. Wrong thing to announce, since I’d give the complaint more credence if he/she had read it.

“Blatent self-promotion” – Hello? Speakers were promoting their books or website services. Aspiring writers were passing out cards, authors in the crowd were waving around their self-published books, everyone was asking everyone “what do you write?” “What have you published?” There was LOTS of self promotion going on, in case M2 didn’t notice (maybe no one chose to speak to M2?) M2, if you don’t believe in yourself enough to get your name out there, no one else is going to do it for you. Furthermore, to swipe a snippet of dialog from Pirates of the Caribbean – Jack Sparrow is being held by the soldiers, one of whom says “you’re the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of,” and Jack, undaunted as ever snaps back “but you HAVE heard of me!” M2 DID remember my blog.

In a wonderful seminar called Making Them Laugh On a Wednesday Morning, USA Today columnist Craig Wilson said someone once came up to him in the supermarket and announced “you’re a jerk!” and then walked away. If Craig Wilson can take it, I can.

So M2, if your plan was to hurt my feelings, you temporarily succeeded. But only temporarily. I stepped back into my normal persona on Sunday (or at least what passes for “normal” around here!); with my husband’s encouragement I climbed back into the saddle and brought home the first blue horse show ribbon of the season. In a phone call, a client whose dog had gone through a sudden illness that ended in euthanasia despite our best efforts waved aside my sympathetic wish that I could have done more to help and said “don’t worry, we’ll be seeing you again.” They had not lost faith in me. And a sixteen year old girl whom I’ve been mentoring, - a new mother with a passel of odds stacked against her – called me, excited that she’d been the only one to volunteer to dissect a cat in science class, and said “I figured I’d better do it now, if I wanted to be a vet like you.”

I don’t have to “lift up mine eyes to the hills” for my help – it’s all around me. What a blessing!

And as you see…I am still writing. Climbed back into THAT saddle, too.

By the way, M2 – what have YOU written?

Writers' Conference Challenge

The speaker: Author Wade Rouse. The Subject: Humor, heartbreak and finding your voice as a writer. The challenge: Write about something you're afraid of. You have 20 minutes.


So...here's a slightly edited and cleaned up version of what resulted, in my notebook at least.



I am a veterinarian. In the course of my work, I've drawn blood from unhappy horses (and no horse is happy to donate blood); castrated calves restrained by two burly - and rather nervous - convicts at an Ohio correctional facility; wrestled reluctant Rottweilers and even managed to coerce belligerent clients to pay their bills. All in a day's work.

Despite resolving any number of virtually unimaginable messes and being covered at one time or another by most forms of yitz, gunk and spoo that animals are capable of producing, I'm ashamed to admit that I'm still grossed out by sick people.

The smells, sights and sounds of hospitals and nursing homes make my skin crawl. A client once raised her shirt in my clinic to ask my advice on whether or not her ten-day post-op mastectomy scars looked "normal" and I felt my innards backflip and try to force their way out my left nostril. My husband complains of an upset stomach and I shove two dog nausea pills and a cold washcloth through a crack in the bathroom door and whisper "call me if you need me," hoping desperately that he won't. And being childless, I have managed to sidestep the rivers of snot and midnight projectile vomiting episodes that I am told Moms are privileged to behold. And I haven't missed it a bit.

But as I am an only child living next door to a 90-year-old mother I've known for a long time that the day was coming when I'd have to square my shoulders, hike up my riding breeches and perform one of those corporal works of mercy the nuns told us we'd have to do in order to gain admission to our happily-ever-afterlife.

It happened just the other day, in fact. My fragile but feisty 90 year old mother shit her drawers.

She'd taken a laxitive, you see, and realized - too late - that she lacked the speed and strength with which to make it to the bathroom in a timely manner.

Fortunately for her, I was sitting on her living room couch, so when her response to my query "are you all right?" was a faint "no, I'm really sick," I shot off the couch, mentally bracing myself to face the inevitable, and hustled to her rescue.

I helped her to the bed and washed her off, then brought her clean clothes and tidied up the bathroom. Although grateful, she was also understandibly embarassed by this (hopefully temporarily) loss of dignity, and I think we both realized this was somehow a watershed moment - the first such unfortunate occurrence but not likely to be the last. But neither of us is overtly emotional, and so on impulse I brushed aside her quiet apologies and tried to lighten the moment with the dry sarcasm that's part of her legacy to me.

"Well, geez, Mom, " I said as I gently wiped her soft, papery thin skin, "I've had my arm up to the shoulder in a cow's ass. You'll have to admit this sort of pales by comparison!"

And then we both laughed and I realized that whatever comes, I'll manage to handle it.