As you will read when you click the following link: http://allthesuz.wordpress.com/, the Suz is a duntz and needs a cyber-life jacket when it comes to simple, random acts of technological kindness. So rather than wait for a mouse-clicking savant to rescue me, I'm a-gonna put up this link the old-fashioned way.
So...please pardon the clunkiness and redirect yourself to the all new, yet fully-clothed All the Suz on WordPress. Maybe this time I'll get it right.
Cheerio!
Suz
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Susan J. M. Fritz moves to California and promptly...well...you'll see.
Important author's note: the following uber-random post was composed and auto-saved about a month ago, but the author suffered a severe mental lapse and failed to follow-through with an actual posting. So, instead of letting all this randomness and self-effacement go the way of the dodo, it will be presented here in real-time archive glory fashion.
In other words, feel free to skip this and read http://www.tmz.com/ instead...
Greetings from sunny California, home of happy cows, blond highlights and fake boobs of all sizes! As some of you know, after leaving New York City in June, the topic of "where will Susan live?" has lingered in serious limbo. Since I have spent the greater part of the past 12 years on the east coast, there was always a distinct possibility that after my hiatus in Oregon (or sabbatical, which I prefer because it makes it seem as if I have a job to go back to), I would return to New York City or some other east coast town. Considering everything I own minus what I managed to carry on the airplane bound for Oregon still resides in New Jersey AND I simply adore and worship the Big Town (NYC), it would seem to follow that I'd move back there. But I just love curve balls too much, people! Have you learned nothing about my unpredictability? Any college kids out there could write a paper on the "Predictability of Unpredictability" and just give me a little end note...I'd love to be referenced in an end note. It seems to me there's no reason to go and try to make life simple at this point. Besides, the only thing I thought about with any kind of certainty was that I'd love to live in a warm/hot place. Bingo!
So here I am at last. Mind you, I don't have a place to live or even an air mattress to sleep on when I do find that place, but they have stores here...outlet malls, even. And Target! And...Walmart.
And here I begin the "real" post.
My best good friend (whose name shall be protected for fear of the embarrassment she would inevitably suffer) knows the following 2 pieces of information about my life. "Kelly" will undoubtedly shake her head even more intensely in a few sentences, and honestly, I fear for her neck and the future chiropractic adjustment she may face. Kelly, I hope you have comprehensive insurance, because the following is lame cubed!
Piece of info #1: Shortly after purchasing my new used Ford Focus, I started the long, 13-plus hour drive from Great Falls, Montana to Cannon Beach, Oregon. Three or so hours into it, I needed a break and set out to get some grub and satisfy my Nostalgia Tooth in Missoula, MT (Go Griz!). I did that, but...I got greedy and decided to stop one extra place for some coffee. I went in, exchanged pleasantries with a North Face-outfitted college kid, got my caffeinated beverage, and walked back to my new used car. After giving myself a pat down even the TSA would approve of, I finally accepted the fact that the keys I could clearly see in the passenger's seat were the very same keys needed to unlock the car. I did not strip search myself (get your mind out of the gutter!), but I did do that thing most of us do when we lock ourselves out of anything (car, gym locker, house, etc.). I rifled through the filofax-in-my-brain of McGuyver-esque plans that would result in a magically-opened car door. "Let's see...I've got some ABC gum in my pocket...and I'm sure North Face kid would hook me up with a fork...and I do have some pretty powerful telepathic powers which, combined with the scientific properties of osmosis could potentially result in the keys passing through the passenger-side window and into my hands..." In other words, I went to that irrational place where I could and would do anything to solve this problem. But, short of going back in time, which I also contemplated (Huey Lewis, help me!), I had no choice but to call a locksmith. Luckily and thanks to the advertising prowess of Flo & Co. at Progressive, I was able to easily recall the 800 number which sent over a locksmith for free! Problem solved again...for now...
Piece of info #2 (it took a while to get here): While talking to her on my phone outside of the gym a few weeks ago, I admitted to Kelly (remember Kelly...it's still not her real name...she's in the Suzness Protection Program. I admitted to Kelly that I was waiting for my mom to deliver me my spare set of keys since I'd locked myself out of the car racing into spinning class. Yes, I was racing into the gym so I could move my legs in a circular motion and sweat a lot--on purpose. The best part of Piece of Info #2 is what happens next. So the key delivery is complete and I'm driving away a few minutes after my mom. I get a call from her: "Suz, have you passed the McDonald's yet?" As you may surmise I do not frequent Ray Crock's establishment for personal use, but have been known to "help a brother out" with a Big Mac craving once in a blue moon. "Not yet, dude", I quipped. "Whaddaya need?". She, Linda--my mom, needed some cash because in the race to leave her house to deliver the keys to a girl who'd locked herself out of her brand spanking new used car, she'd left her purse at home. Need I say more? The pomme de terre does not fall far from the tree. Indeed.
And now, the moment Kelly (not her...ok, you know) is waiting for more than any of the other tens of readers...
Piece of info #3 (aka: What Kelly Doesn't Know Might Save Her): So here I am in Los Angeles. Day 2, in fact. I've just gotten my hair cut. I'm thirsty. I require gum. I spot it in the distance. I know this place can satisfy those two needs...and for less money than someplace else...and it's just so convenient...and I promise myself it will just be this once, a quick 2-item trip. As often happens with the Suz in a giant store, I am instantly overwhelmed and my 2-item-limit censor is disarmed. Wait, don't I need shampoo...and conditioner (you can't get one without the other), and maybe a Rubik's Cube--those are back, right? Let's just say I overstayed my welcome, although not excessively so. I did just want to get the heck out of there. You see where I am going with this, I trust. Walk to car, self pat-down, disbelief, cries of "Good Grief!"
Idiocy, that cruel time-thief made me lock myself out of the new used Ford yet again. I will save you the extra reading about the locksmith to follow...rinse and repeat; ditto from the previous examples.
......Instant Karma? Um, yes. I haven't been to a Walmart in years...since my Connecticut days, I think. I mean I was thirsty and wanted gum and it was right there, but even so. Lesson learned? We shall see about that. Third time's a charm? All I can say is the Wrigley's Polar Ice gum had a bitter, bitter taste as the sun set upon the City of Angels and Mega-Store Demons.
P.S. While I did get a haircut today, I did not get blond highlights. I also have no immediate plans to resize my boobs, although I may purchase a push-up bra...not that it's any of your business!
Addendum, written March 1, 2010:
As of this posting, I do have a place to live, minus the air mattress. I'm not there yet, but in two shakes of a lamb's tail (remember my vow to supply an endless stream of old-fashioned phrases?), the Suz will return to once again fight the good fight in her new used Ford Focus...and with a current addition to All the Suz!
In other words, feel free to skip this and read http://www.tmz.com/ instead...
Greetings from sunny California, home of happy cows, blond highlights and fake boobs of all sizes! As some of you know, after leaving New York City in June, the topic of "where will Susan live?" has lingered in serious limbo. Since I have spent the greater part of the past 12 years on the east coast, there was always a distinct possibility that after my hiatus in Oregon (or sabbatical, which I prefer because it makes it seem as if I have a job to go back to), I would return to New York City or some other east coast town. Considering everything I own minus what I managed to carry on the airplane bound for Oregon still resides in New Jersey AND I simply adore and worship the Big Town (NYC), it would seem to follow that I'd move back there. But I just love curve balls too much, people! Have you learned nothing about my unpredictability? Any college kids out there could write a paper on the "Predictability of Unpredictability" and just give me a little end note...I'd love to be referenced in an end note. It seems to me there's no reason to go and try to make life simple at this point. Besides, the only thing I thought about with any kind of certainty was that I'd love to live in a warm/hot place. Bingo!
So here I am at last. Mind you, I don't have a place to live or even an air mattress to sleep on when I do find that place, but they have stores here...outlet malls, even. And Target! And...Walmart.
And here I begin the "real" post.
My best good friend (whose name shall be protected for fear of the embarrassment she would inevitably suffer) knows the following 2 pieces of information about my life. "Kelly" will undoubtedly shake her head even more intensely in a few sentences, and honestly, I fear for her neck and the future chiropractic adjustment she may face. Kelly, I hope you have comprehensive insurance, because the following is lame cubed!
Piece of info #1: Shortly after purchasing my new used Ford Focus, I started the long, 13-plus hour drive from Great Falls, Montana to Cannon Beach, Oregon. Three or so hours into it, I needed a break and set out to get some grub and satisfy my Nostalgia Tooth in Missoula, MT (Go Griz!). I did that, but...I got greedy and decided to stop one extra place for some coffee. I went in, exchanged pleasantries with a North Face-outfitted college kid, got my caffeinated beverage, and walked back to my new used car. After giving myself a pat down even the TSA would approve of, I finally accepted the fact that the keys I could clearly see in the passenger's seat were the very same keys needed to unlock the car. I did not strip search myself (get your mind out of the gutter!), but I did do that thing most of us do when we lock ourselves out of anything (car, gym locker, house, etc.). I rifled through the filofax-in-my-brain of McGuyver-esque plans that would result in a magically-opened car door. "Let's see...I've got some ABC gum in my pocket...and I'm sure North Face kid would hook me up with a fork...and I do have some pretty powerful telepathic powers which, combined with the scientific properties of osmosis could potentially result in the keys passing through the passenger-side window and into my hands..." In other words, I went to that irrational place where I could and would do anything to solve this problem. But, short of going back in time, which I also contemplated (Huey Lewis, help me!), I had no choice but to call a locksmith. Luckily and thanks to the advertising prowess of Flo & Co. at Progressive, I was able to easily recall the 800 number which sent over a locksmith for free! Problem solved again...for now...
Piece of info #2 (it took a while to get here): While talking to her on my phone outside of the gym a few weeks ago, I admitted to Kelly (remember Kelly...it's still not her real name...she's in the Suzness Protection Program. I admitted to Kelly that I was waiting for my mom to deliver me my spare set of keys since I'd locked myself out of the car racing into spinning class. Yes, I was racing into the gym so I could move my legs in a circular motion and sweat a lot--on purpose. The best part of Piece of Info #2 is what happens next. So the key delivery is complete and I'm driving away a few minutes after my mom. I get a call from her: "Suz, have you passed the McDonald's yet?" As you may surmise I do not frequent Ray Crock's establishment for personal use, but have been known to "help a brother out" with a Big Mac craving once in a blue moon. "Not yet, dude", I quipped. "Whaddaya need?". She, Linda--my mom, needed some cash because in the race to leave her house to deliver the keys to a girl who'd locked herself out of her brand spanking new used car, she'd left her purse at home. Need I say more? The pomme de terre does not fall far from the tree. Indeed.
And now, the moment Kelly (not her...ok, you know) is waiting for more than any of the other tens of readers...
Piece of info #3 (aka: What Kelly Doesn't Know Might Save Her): So here I am in Los Angeles. Day 2, in fact. I've just gotten my hair cut. I'm thirsty. I require gum. I spot it in the distance. I know this place can satisfy those two needs...and for less money than someplace else...and it's just so convenient...and I promise myself it will just be this once, a quick 2-item trip. As often happens with the Suz in a giant store, I am instantly overwhelmed and my 2-item-limit censor is disarmed. Wait, don't I need shampoo...and conditioner (you can't get one without the other), and maybe a Rubik's Cube--those are back, right? Let's just say I overstayed my welcome, although not excessively so. I did just want to get the heck out of there. You see where I am going with this, I trust. Walk to car, self pat-down, disbelief, cries of "Good Grief!"
Idiocy, that cruel time-thief made me lock myself out of the new used Ford yet again. I will save you the extra reading about the locksmith to follow...rinse and repeat; ditto from the previous examples.
......Instant Karma? Um, yes. I haven't been to a Walmart in years...since my Connecticut days, I think. I mean I was thirsty and wanted gum and it was right there, but even so. Lesson learned? We shall see about that. Third time's a charm? All I can say is the Wrigley's Polar Ice gum had a bitter, bitter taste as the sun set upon the City of Angels and Mega-Store Demons.
P.S. While I did get a haircut today, I did not get blond highlights. I also have no immediate plans to resize my boobs, although I may purchase a push-up bra...not that it's any of your business!
Addendum, written March 1, 2010:
As of this posting, I do have a place to live, minus the air mattress. I'm not there yet, but in two shakes of a lamb's tail (remember my vow to supply an endless stream of old-fashioned phrases?), the Suz will return to once again fight the good fight in her new used Ford Focus...and with a current addition to All the Suz!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Story of X-rays in a Small Town
Welcome back, Kotter (I hear you sing). Time to hit that "refresh" button weekly if not daily...the Suz is back with a story that's been stored in my Blackberry for weeks! The "essence" of the story is true, although the names and dates have been changed to protect the identities of the dental professionals involved.
"The other day" (remember?) I went to a brand new dentist in Astoria, OR (for you 80s film aficionados, this is where much of the popular 80s motion picture The Goonies was filmed). Since I am moving again soon, this was to be a one-time visit. I just needed a wee check-up and cleaning...and, at worst, a new filling. You see, I was chewing on some tofurkey (I don't even think I'm making that part up), and I bit down on a crunchy little bugger that had the odd familiar zing of a piece of chipped filling betwixt and between my teeth. It didn't hurt, but to be on the safe side, I decided to seek out a dental professional...STAT!!! So I went a month later.
Although I hoped to avoid the whole X-ray ordeal, the chance at insurance reimbursement got the better of "Acme Dental". For those of you who haven't been to the dentist since the days of that disgusting blue gel fluoride treatment, it seems they now take over 155 million shots of incisors, bicuspids, and those big fellas who grind the tofurkey. It's like the teeth paparazzi have descended upon Dentalville.
Understand, I am not a total wimp when it comes to pain. I'm not a "Fan of Pain" on Facebook or anything, but I try to deal with it. In the dental X-ray world, this translates into holding still, using my ujayi breathing technique, and imagining the dental hygienist in her underwear (wait, that doesn't really work here, does it?).
Actually, if you'll allow for a quick tangent, I'd like to share one of my more undesirable personal qualities. At times, I am what you could call a "brown-noser" or "sycophant"...but only around people who will never, ever be able to give me a job, help me earn fame/money, or be able to return any variety of favor in life...ever. Over the years I have developed a special ability to charm Librarians, DMV employees, and Dental Hygienists, all of whom are manish-looking middle-aged women. This is not something you can fake, by the way. There are no missteps allowed whilst charming said individuals. My last trip to the dental hygienist was at Exchange Dental near the Stock Exchange. My skills were honed there. I shamelessly announced "I floss twice a day!" to the woman, and at the conclusion of my cleaning she offered the proclamation: "I have no complaints." I mean, how often does that happen?
BUT BACK TO ASTORIA
After I patiently endured the X-rays, some chump who introduced himself as "Doctor X" showed up for approximately 3 seconds. He looked at the area of complaint and declared, "Uh...well, I guess a piece of porcelain could have chipped off, but it's not a structual problem". And so, with insurance dollar signs in his eyes, he departed. And I was left to make another appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Did my brown-nosing ways pay off? Let's just say they gave me a free toothbrush and samples of floss, so, you be the judge.
"The other day" (remember?) I went to a brand new dentist in Astoria, OR (for you 80s film aficionados, this is where much of the popular 80s motion picture The Goonies was filmed). Since I am moving again soon, this was to be a one-time visit. I just needed a wee check-up and cleaning...and, at worst, a new filling. You see, I was chewing on some tofurkey (I don't even think I'm making that part up), and I bit down on a crunchy little bugger that had the odd familiar zing of a piece of chipped filling betwixt and between my teeth. It didn't hurt, but to be on the safe side, I decided to seek out a dental professional...STAT!!! So I went a month later.
Although I hoped to avoid the whole X-ray ordeal, the chance at insurance reimbursement got the better of "Acme Dental". For those of you who haven't been to the dentist since the days of that disgusting blue gel fluoride treatment, it seems they now take over 155 million shots of incisors, bicuspids, and those big fellas who grind the tofurkey. It's like the teeth paparazzi have descended upon Dentalville.
Understand, I am not a total wimp when it comes to pain. I'm not a "Fan of Pain" on Facebook or anything, but I try to deal with it. In the dental X-ray world, this translates into holding still, using my ujayi breathing technique, and imagining the dental hygienist in her underwear (wait, that doesn't really work here, does it?).
Actually, if you'll allow for a quick tangent, I'd like to share one of my more undesirable personal qualities. At times, I am what you could call a "brown-noser" or "sycophant"...but only around people who will never, ever be able to give me a job, help me earn fame/money, or be able to return any variety of favor in life...ever. Over the years I have developed a special ability to charm Librarians, DMV employees, and Dental Hygienists, all of whom are manish-looking middle-aged women. This is not something you can fake, by the way. There are no missteps allowed whilst charming said individuals. My last trip to the dental hygienist was at Exchange Dental near the Stock Exchange. My skills were honed there. I shamelessly announced "I floss twice a day!" to the woman, and at the conclusion of my cleaning she offered the proclamation: "I have no complaints." I mean, how often does that happen?
BUT BACK TO ASTORIA
After I patiently endured the X-rays, some chump who introduced himself as "Doctor X" showed up for approximately 3 seconds. He looked at the area of complaint and declared, "Uh...well, I guess a piece of porcelain could have chipped off, but it's not a structual problem". And so, with insurance dollar signs in his eyes, he departed. And I was left to make another appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Did my brown-nosing ways pay off? Let's just say they gave me a free toothbrush and samples of floss, so, you be the judge.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Me and Magnum, P.I.
Hear that theme song in your head. The electric guitar notes driving that famous red car along to the beat. Higgins and his tomfoolery and butler-esque hijinks. You know you remember. You know you watched it. Even if your mom wasn't (I should say, isn't)obsessed with all things Tom Selleck, I hope you'll appreciate the following:
As Magnum PI likes to say, "I know what you're thinking".
You're thinking, "What is this nonsense all about? Hiatus? Decaf (I hate to disappoint you, Matt...but remember, I already said it wouldn't last). And, because All the Suz are constantly asking hypothetical questions: "Wait a minute, didn't she just write on my FB wall?". Alright, so I'm a bit of an exaggerator or a person with unrealistic ideas. Nevertheless, I have turned the connection to my blackberry off for most of the day and only used it as a clock or to write down things like "put on pants today". I have my limitations! Give a Suz a break.
Maybe, dear reader, just maybe I'll sit you down someday and tell you why--why I did it. Maybe when you're older. As for this post, I'd like to discuss a very important subject of national, even international import: dental x-rays. I'm sure Jerry Seinfeld has already covered this topic (re: "dental x-rays, What's up with that? Yada, yada, etc"), but I have not. Some thoughts.
Some thoughts...next time on All the Suz Presents: Best of Hypocrisy 2010! New year, New chance to retract what you promised to yourself. (Although for the record, I haven't even HAD coffee for a few days...no joke).
Time to turn of the electronics again...Hasta!
As Magnum PI likes to say, "I know what you're thinking".
You're thinking, "What is this nonsense all about? Hiatus? Decaf (I hate to disappoint you, Matt...but remember, I already said it wouldn't last). And, because All the Suz are constantly asking hypothetical questions: "Wait a minute, didn't she just write on my FB wall?". Alright, so I'm a bit of an exaggerator or a person with unrealistic ideas. Nevertheless, I have turned the connection to my blackberry off for most of the day and only used it as a clock or to write down things like "put on pants today". I have my limitations! Give a Suz a break.
Maybe, dear reader, just maybe I'll sit you down someday and tell you why--why I did it. Maybe when you're older. As for this post, I'd like to discuss a very important subject of national, even international import: dental x-rays. I'm sure Jerry Seinfeld has already covered this topic (re: "dental x-rays, What's up with that? Yada, yada, etc"), but I have not. Some thoughts.
Some thoughts...next time on All the Suz Presents: Best of Hypocrisy 2010! New year, New chance to retract what you promised to yourself. (Although for the record, I haven't even HAD coffee for a few days...no joke).
Time to turn of the electronics again...Hasta!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Susan...go to your room!
Readers (if you're still out there...if you haven't given up on me),
My mom only uttered this phrase in the "you're grounded" sense once. I was in high school and it only lasted about 15 minutes before I did something silly and was let out of my lair. It was before the days of full-on entertainment available in one's childhood room, but nevertheless a sort of "punishment".
Well, right now I am grounding myself! Not only from this inexcusable, unintended hiatus I just took (last entry was Dec. 19th...are you kidding me?), but a real one this time. I am taking an authentic hiatus from all things electronic as a little experiment to see if I can stand it and to see if I immediately decide that the Amish life is for me. Don't worry, I'll be back and as addicted as ever I'm sure. Just like my recent switch to decaf will also admittedly be short lived (**gasps from the crowd after "Pre-coffee Coffee" article...is this chick a hypocrite or what?). Well, no, not a hypocrite, just someone who changes her mind a lot.
What is certain: when I return to the world of electronics around Jan. 20th, be ready! I will have more random stories than you can shake a didgeridoo at. And yes, I had to spell check that one. Perhaps I shall spend much of my time away from Facebook status updates reading the dictionary. Wait...I sort of already do that.
Happy New Year of 2010. My challenge for this post: come up with a slogan (preferable but not necessarily a rhyming one) for the year 2010.
For example:
Sven in O-ten!
Zen in twenty-ten
Like that, only good, please. You are all massively creative people.
Speaking of Facebook, in case you missed my big announcement, I am indeed moving to the City of Angels at the end of this month. That's LA for you trendsters...it's Los Angeles for the seasoned folk.
Hugs not drugs!
Suz
My mom only uttered this phrase in the "you're grounded" sense once. I was in high school and it only lasted about 15 minutes before I did something silly and was let out of my lair. It was before the days of full-on entertainment available in one's childhood room, but nevertheless a sort of "punishment".
Well, right now I am grounding myself! Not only from this inexcusable, unintended hiatus I just took (last entry was Dec. 19th...are you kidding me?), but a real one this time. I am taking an authentic hiatus from all things electronic as a little experiment to see if I can stand it and to see if I immediately decide that the Amish life is for me. Don't worry, I'll be back and as addicted as ever I'm sure. Just like my recent switch to decaf will also admittedly be short lived (**gasps from the crowd after "Pre-coffee Coffee" article...is this chick a hypocrite or what?). Well, no, not a hypocrite, just someone who changes her mind a lot.
What is certain: when I return to the world of electronics around Jan. 20th, be ready! I will have more random stories than you can shake a didgeridoo at. And yes, I had to spell check that one. Perhaps I shall spend much of my time away from Facebook status updates reading the dictionary. Wait...I sort of already do that.
Happy New Year of 2010. My challenge for this post: come up with a slogan (preferable but not necessarily a rhyming one) for the year 2010.
For example:
Sven in O-ten!
Zen in twenty-ten
Like that, only good, please. You are all massively creative people.
Speaking of Facebook, in case you missed my big announcement, I am indeed moving to the City of Angels at the end of this month. That's LA for you trendsters...it's Los Angeles for the seasoned folk.
Hugs not drugs!
Suz
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The answer to the question: "Which of the following Instruments did Suz play/study in her youth?"
Alright, here it is. I ("The Suz") played the following instruments throughout my illustrious "instrument-hopping" career. Living up to the motto, "better to try many things than actually stick with something and become really good at it", I dabbled in (in chronological order):
1) The piano: (from age 3 1/2...Suzuki Method for those familiar with this ear training philosophy.) The famous "hey, Suz, tellitagain" story is how I had to sit on a box in order to reach the keys to play such complex ditties as "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star".
2) The clarinet: After the piano, I started playing the clarinet and was actually pretty good at it. But because of this, and because ALL the kids were playing either the clarinet or the flute and I wanted to be different, I started playing...
3) The bassoon. Oh yeah! It 's the double-reed instrument that is sometimes mistaken for the oboe, although the oboe is a smaller than a clarinet and the bassoon was almost as tall as I was when I started playing it, which was my main motivation.
4) The cello: Again, the main motivation here was size, but also the desire to learn a stringed instrument. I also think Yo-Yo Ma was quite popular at the time. The "famous" story here is after my first lesson (again, see Suzuki Method), the instrument was leaning against a wall in my room and toppled over, splitting at its neck. It turns out it had been glued together so it was particularly vulnerable in that spot, but needless to say, I was quite upset and promptly quit the cello (or did the cello quit me..."I can't quit you!"?)
5) The drums: Oh, yeah again! Remember "Summer Music"? Did you have this program? Since I didn't grow up in a world of "sleep-away camp" like my east coast pals, we had summer music to get out of our parents' hair. I fancied myself a potential rocker, so I decided I should pursue another new instrument instead of perfecting a current one. I purchased a set of turquoise drum sticks and a drum "practice pad" and worked on loosening my wrists for the 'ol drum roll action, but it didn't get much further than me banging on the snare drum a few times in the basement band room of Paris Gibson Middle School (go Panthers!).
So that's the story of (some) of the instruments I played or attempted to play. I may or may not have left out the marimbas...and I may or may not have been a contestant in the Miss Great Falls pageant.*
*hint...may not have.
1) The piano: (from age 3 1/2...Suzuki Method for those familiar with this ear training philosophy.) The famous "hey, Suz, tellitagain" story is how I had to sit on a box in order to reach the keys to play such complex ditties as "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star".
2) The clarinet: After the piano, I started playing the clarinet and was actually pretty good at it. But because of this, and because ALL the kids were playing either the clarinet or the flute and I wanted to be different, I started playing...
3) The bassoon. Oh yeah! It 's the double-reed instrument that is sometimes mistaken for the oboe, although the oboe is a smaller than a clarinet and the bassoon was almost as tall as I was when I started playing it, which was my main motivation.
4) The cello: Again, the main motivation here was size, but also the desire to learn a stringed instrument. I also think Yo-Yo Ma was quite popular at the time. The "famous" story here is after my first lesson (again, see Suzuki Method), the instrument was leaning against a wall in my room and toppled over, splitting at its neck. It turns out it had been glued together so it was particularly vulnerable in that spot, but needless to say, I was quite upset and promptly quit the cello (or did the cello quit me..."I can't quit you!"?)
5) The drums: Oh, yeah again! Remember "Summer Music"? Did you have this program? Since I didn't grow up in a world of "sleep-away camp" like my east coast pals, we had summer music to get out of our parents' hair. I fancied myself a potential rocker, so I decided I should pursue another new instrument instead of perfecting a current one. I purchased a set of turquoise drum sticks and a drum "practice pad" and worked on loosening my wrists for the 'ol drum roll action, but it didn't get much further than me banging on the snare drum a few times in the basement band room of Paris Gibson Middle School (go Panthers!).
So that's the story of (some) of the instruments I played or attempted to play. I may or may not have left out the marimbas...and I may or may not have been a contestant in the Miss Great Falls pageant.*
*hint...may not have.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Sock Orphan Chronicles, Episode 1
Episode 1 will explain the genesis of the "sock orphan" and why you should care.
What, pray tell, is a "sock orphan"?
I'm glad you asked. A Sock Orphan is an article of clothing--in this case, a sock, that has lost it's mate or what is also called its "match".
What happened? Why is it lost? Too much Sartre?
First, the sock is not "lost" in terms of an Existential or identity crisis, but rather, physically lost. This loss is to a variety of circumstances, but the most common cause is Laundry Annihilation or what is known as Devouring Laundry Syndrome (DLS). Although only some of the stories circulating are substantiated, many people believe that the so-called "Sock Monster" is actually responsible for the loss of untold millions of socks. It is true that the Sock Monster is one of the key players--possibly even the #1 culprit in this war (think of him as the Osama Bin Laden of the War Against the Terrorization of Socks), he is merely a figurehead representing a much more significant problem.*
What can I do right now to help end Sock Orphandom?
The answer may surprise you: vow to keep a better eye on your own pairs of socks by ensuring that sock mates are folded or balled up (to each his own method) each and every time you complete a load of laundry.
I have extra money lying around. I'd like to donate to a charitable organization so I can impress my friends and also get a tax deduction. I am passionate about helping disaffected socks. What organizations do you recommend?
You can donate to organizations that help disaffected, refugee socks, such as the United Sock Refugee Camps of America, or the international organization Knitters for Ukniting Socks, a delightful group started by a retired children's librarian in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Is Sally Struthers involved in any reputable Sock Orphan Rescue organizations?
No. At present, Sock Orphan Rescue is an underrepresented, underfunded cause with no celebrity endorsements. My hope is that the awareness raised on high-traffic, totally free and unadvertised blog sites such as "All the Suz That's Fit to Print" will play a significant role in encouraging this grass roots effort to blossom.
So no Sally Struthers then, huh? Who else do you know? I'm not donating to an unknown hack.
Alright, enough! I know a guy who's cousin used to be friends with a guy who once delivered some flowers to the agent's assistant of Martha Plimpton, ok? I will work on it.
I am an aspiring stand-up comedian. Can I use the information you provide here in my new routine?
Everyone has their own stand-up routine based on missing articles of clothing--especially socks--but my guess is few have taken these routines to a public forum such as an Open Mic Night or even a full-on comedy set, so yes, go ahead and use whatever material you deem useful for future endeavors. Good luck!
*This "larger problem" will be discussed at length in forthcoming episodes of The Sock Orphan Chronicles.
Samantha Jones-McClaughlin has the week off.
What, pray tell, is a "sock orphan"?
I'm glad you asked. A Sock Orphan is an article of clothing--in this case, a sock, that has lost it's mate or what is also called its "match".
What happened? Why is it lost? Too much Sartre?
First, the sock is not "lost" in terms of an Existential or identity crisis, but rather, physically lost. This loss is to a variety of circumstances, but the most common cause is Laundry Annihilation or what is known as Devouring Laundry Syndrome (DLS). Although only some of the stories circulating are substantiated, many people believe that the so-called "Sock Monster" is actually responsible for the loss of untold millions of socks. It is true that the Sock Monster is one of the key players--possibly even the #1 culprit in this war (think of him as the Osama Bin Laden of the War Against the Terrorization of Socks), he is merely a figurehead representing a much more significant problem.*
What can I do right now to help end Sock Orphandom?
The answer may surprise you: vow to keep a better eye on your own pairs of socks by ensuring that sock mates are folded or balled up (to each his own method) each and every time you complete a load of laundry.
I have extra money lying around. I'd like to donate to a charitable organization so I can impress my friends and also get a tax deduction. I am passionate about helping disaffected socks. What organizations do you recommend?
You can donate to organizations that help disaffected, refugee socks, such as the United Sock Refugee Camps of America, or the international organization Knitters for Ukniting Socks, a delightful group started by a retired children's librarian in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Is Sally Struthers involved in any reputable Sock Orphan Rescue organizations?
No. At present, Sock Orphan Rescue is an underrepresented, underfunded cause with no celebrity endorsements. My hope is that the awareness raised on high-traffic, totally free and unadvertised blog sites such as "All the Suz That's Fit to Print" will play a significant role in encouraging this grass roots effort to blossom.
So no Sally Struthers then, huh? Who else do you know? I'm not donating to an unknown hack.
Alright, enough! I know a guy who's cousin used to be friends with a guy who once delivered some flowers to the agent's assistant of Martha Plimpton, ok? I will work on it.
I am an aspiring stand-up comedian. Can I use the information you provide here in my new routine?
Everyone has their own stand-up routine based on missing articles of clothing--especially socks--but my guess is few have taken these routines to a public forum such as an Open Mic Night or even a full-on comedy set, so yes, go ahead and use whatever material you deem useful for future endeavors. Good luck!
*This "larger problem" will be discussed at length in forthcoming episodes of The Sock Orphan Chronicles.
Samantha Jones-McClaughlin has the week off.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Pre-coffee Coffee
Those of you who know me at all may be shocked, stunned, and otherwise befuddled by the following deep, dark secret that lurks in my family history. You know Harry Potter, right? Young Harry lived in the cupboard and ate triscuits and Kraft American cheese slices until he was found and rescued by a mechanical owl and...well, you read it; I don't need to review the book for you, do I? Anywho, if you think Harry's tale is sad, you ain't seen nuthin' like the neglect suffered by the Suz.
Alright, already...I only made it through the first HP book (it was okay, ok?) so I realise I made most of that up, but it was meant to serve as a point of comparison to the historically factual stain upon my otherwise idyllic childhood*
You see, I grew up a wide-eyed and perfectly behaved Suz in the semi-wilds of Montana. Mother sewed our frocks and father harvested wheat 'down the way' for the hearty, life-sustaining breads which made me grow tall. Like I mentioned, however, (pay attention!!!) there was a stain. A stain! A stain on my family name.
We were a family of non-coffee drinkers.
There was no coffee in my house...well, there was some Sanka for when a guest or two showed up, but that's INSTANT DECAF, which is as coffee as watercolor paint water. At any rate, neither my mom nor my dad drink/drank/drunk the stuff. They didn't even consume tea, for crying in a pot (of coffee)! Needless to say, it has taken years of olfactory therapy to repair my neglected smelling sense, restoring it to it's natural state...one in which the luxurious smell of this caffeinated delicacy entertains these cells on a daily basis. Got it? I was deprived and abused, but I will not sue. I will instead Suz.
Now to the point of the article (and you see the pattern continuing here, no? The one where it takes several paragraphs to get to any kind of point. Maybe just "a few"...how many is "a few" again? It has to be more than two since two is "a couple"...) As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, "Pre-coffee Coffee". Luckily for me I have made a few friends who understand this concept. I have also kept my other friends (you LDS folk know who you are and I apologise for demonising your childhoods as well...it's nothing personal, ok?). Pre-coffee Coffee is not a requirement every day, but when it is, it's the coffee a person such as me requires in order to be able to sufficiently function in order to determine when and where to get real Coffee...that is, the Coffee that counts. This means that "pre-coffee" can be crappy and made by just about anyone. It means it can be weak or strong or Colombian or Folgers or Sumatra. It just needs to contain caffeine. "But Suz", you then ask, "Pepsi/Coke/Tab/Jolt/RC Cola/America's Choice cola/etc.etc.etc. contains caffeine." True. Not the same. "What about tea?" you insist.
No.
Ladies and germs, there's just something about coffee. The smell. The ritual. The color. It is irreplaceable. When you are the kind of a person who understands the (albeit sick) concept of "pre-coffee Coffee", you also understand Coffee cannot exist within the realm of terms such as "like" or "dislike". It dwells on a planet all its own: Requirement. If you happen to live on the Planet Non-Requirement, there are days when I envy either your self-discipline or disinterestedness...
But this is before I've had my (wait for it) pre-coffee Coffee!
*For the record, the word "idyllic" is used loosely here--again, to emphasize the larger horror described in the same paragraph.
Source of pride in this article #1: I spelled "triscuit" correctly the first time, although I did look it up in Google as it was not included in Spell Check.
***Stay tuned for the transcript of Suz's upcoming interview with her mom, Linda Lee Johnson Myhr.***
Alright, already...I only made it through the first HP book (it was okay, ok?) so I realise I made most of that up, but it was meant to serve as a point of comparison to the historically factual stain upon my otherwise idyllic childhood*
You see, I grew up a wide-eyed and perfectly behaved Suz in the semi-wilds of Montana. Mother sewed our frocks and father harvested wheat 'down the way' for the hearty, life-sustaining breads which made me grow tall. Like I mentioned, however, (pay attention!!!) there was a stain. A stain! A stain on my family name.
We were a family of non-coffee drinkers.
There was no coffee in my house...well, there was some Sanka for when a guest or two showed up, but that's INSTANT DECAF, which is as coffee as watercolor paint water. At any rate, neither my mom nor my dad drink/drank/drunk the stuff. They didn't even consume tea, for crying in a pot (of coffee)! Needless to say, it has taken years of olfactory therapy to repair my neglected smelling sense, restoring it to it's natural state...one in which the luxurious smell of this caffeinated delicacy entertains these cells on a daily basis. Got it? I was deprived and abused, but I will not sue. I will instead Suz.
Now to the point of the article (and you see the pattern continuing here, no? The one where it takes several paragraphs to get to any kind of point. Maybe just "a few"...how many is "a few" again? It has to be more than two since two is "a couple"...) As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, "Pre-coffee Coffee". Luckily for me I have made a few friends who understand this concept. I have also kept my other friends (you LDS folk know who you are and I apologise for demonising your childhoods as well...it's nothing personal, ok?). Pre-coffee Coffee is not a requirement every day, but when it is, it's the coffee a person such as me requires in order to be able to sufficiently function in order to determine when and where to get real Coffee...that is, the Coffee that counts. This means that "pre-coffee" can be crappy and made by just about anyone. It means it can be weak or strong or Colombian or Folgers or Sumatra. It just needs to contain caffeine. "But Suz", you then ask, "Pepsi/Coke/Tab/Jolt/RC Cola/America's Choice cola/etc.etc.etc. contains caffeine." True. Not the same. "What about tea?" you insist.
No.
Ladies and germs, there's just something about coffee. The smell. The ritual. The color. It is irreplaceable. When you are the kind of a person who understands the (albeit sick) concept of "pre-coffee Coffee", you also understand Coffee cannot exist within the realm of terms such as "like" or "dislike". It dwells on a planet all its own: Requirement. If you happen to live on the Planet Non-Requirement, there are days when I envy either your self-discipline or disinterestedness...
But this is before I've had my (wait for it) pre-coffee Coffee!
*For the record, the word "idyllic" is used loosely here--again, to emphasize the larger horror described in the same paragraph.
Source of pride in this article #1: I spelled "triscuit" correctly the first time, although I did look it up in Google as it was not included in Spell Check.
***Stay tuned for the transcript of Suz's upcoming interview with her mom, Linda Lee Johnson Myhr.***
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Another Tofurkey Under my Wing
This phrase doesn't get old to me like it might to you, so "Happy Tofurkey Day!". I do not use this pun to rub it in your face that you eat turkey and I do not. I couldn't care less about your eating habits (and hopefully the feeling is mutual). I simply love punny, funny phrases. For example, I just saw the 3-D version of A Christmas Carol and was momentarily confused when Jim Carrey (Scrooge) and that ghost went to his old boss Fezziwig's party. Fezziwig? I was so certain it was Fozziwig since I'd seen the Muppet version so many times and, since I'm practically illiterate, there's no way I would have read the actual Dickens classic...that kind of play-on-words stuff.
But back to the designated National Day of Giving Thanks on a Thursday. There are a lot of "rulebooks" we all wish we could follow--the "____-for Dummies" variety, diet books, "how-to-become-a-millionaire-in-one-easy-step" books, travel guidebooks, dating advice books...the list goes on but I will cut myself off. I am no Bubba and this ain't All the Forrest Gump That's Fit to Print here. If any one of you has purchased one of these books, followed its steps, and seen the result said book predicted, I will eat my hat! I mean, there is a reason these books appear year after year, decade after decade. The packaging and phrasology may be different, but the basic content is usually the same. We--most of us--humans are constantly on the lookout for the easy way to a predictable end. And us WASPs are especially concerned with the "right" way to get there...anywhere. If we could only see the steps written down and then follow them, then all would be right with the universe again.
"What is she getting at?" you are asking yourself. "It's Thanksgiving (on the west coast still, at least)...for crying in a bucket! Stay on topic here, Suz!" If you're waiting for continuity or some linearality (again, new word for a new world), get in line and bring your chair and Snuggie 'cause it's gonna be a while and winter is approaching. What I'm getting at has to do with my Thanksgiving in particular and the way I chose to live it today. Since I am a total admitted Facebook status update junkie, I was especially interested today to read the "I'm thankful for..." variety of updates today. They varied from one friend who was planning his Uncle's funeral to another who was enjoying wine and food with family to another who was upset that her favorite Thanksgiving food was missing this year. Every person was living his or her life in his or her world, which is how it should be--how it must be. Some stepped out of themselves and thanked our military and asked us to remember those brave men and women. Some even spent the week being thankful for something each day. Like a lot of things in life, though, it is much easier to be thankful on paper (cyber paper) than to feel it in your heart and act on it...but like I learned a while ago, sometimes you've gotta fake it 'till you make it.
Today I subscribed to this showbiz-esque motto. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a total fraud all day. For me it was more like a "decide not to deride". I woke up and realized that my Widow Behavior Handbook was still missing...or, rather, had never been written, and that I was going to have to wing it again! In no way am I trying to appear glib here. There's nothing funny to write about this stuff. There is simply useful and not useful, and it's all trial-and-error work, which means maybe I should start writing a series of "Trial-and-Error___for Dummies".
My trial today included decisions about how I was going to behave when I woke up. #1: I decided I would try to laugh and not cry. #2: I decided to cook with my sister and mom and not sit in a corner thinking about where I was last year (I think about it anyway...see above about "faking it"). #3: I chose to be thankful for what was in front of my face and the possibilities for my future. It would be been too easy to fall into the past, which is different to me than remembering and honoring the past. Was the result an error? Hey, The Suz is not concerned with results, here...she practices yoga, remember.
And, thankfully for this Thanksgiving Day, that is All the Suz that's Fit to Gobble.
But back to the designated National Day of Giving Thanks on a Thursday. There are a lot of "rulebooks" we all wish we could follow--the "____-for Dummies" variety, diet books, "how-to-become-a-millionaire-in-one-easy-step" books, travel guidebooks, dating advice books...the list goes on but I will cut myself off. I am no Bubba and this ain't All the Forrest Gump That's Fit to Print here. If any one of you has purchased one of these books, followed its steps, and seen the result said book predicted, I will eat my hat! I mean, there is a reason these books appear year after year, decade after decade. The packaging and phrasology may be different, but the basic content is usually the same. We--most of us--humans are constantly on the lookout for the easy way to a predictable end. And us WASPs are especially concerned with the "right" way to get there...anywhere. If we could only see the steps written down and then follow them, then all would be right with the universe again.
"What is she getting at?" you are asking yourself. "It's Thanksgiving (on the west coast still, at least)...for crying in a bucket! Stay on topic here, Suz!" If you're waiting for continuity or some linearality (again, new word for a new world), get in line and bring your chair and Snuggie 'cause it's gonna be a while and winter is approaching. What I'm getting at has to do with my Thanksgiving in particular and the way I chose to live it today. Since I am a total admitted Facebook status update junkie, I was especially interested today to read the "I'm thankful for..." variety of updates today. They varied from one friend who was planning his Uncle's funeral to another who was enjoying wine and food with family to another who was upset that her favorite Thanksgiving food was missing this year. Every person was living his or her life in his or her world, which is how it should be--how it must be. Some stepped out of themselves and thanked our military and asked us to remember those brave men and women. Some even spent the week being thankful for something each day. Like a lot of things in life, though, it is much easier to be thankful on paper (cyber paper) than to feel it in your heart and act on it...but like I learned a while ago, sometimes you've gotta fake it 'till you make it.
Today I subscribed to this showbiz-esque motto. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a total fraud all day. For me it was more like a "decide not to deride". I woke up and realized that my Widow Behavior Handbook was still missing...or, rather, had never been written, and that I was going to have to wing it again! In no way am I trying to appear glib here. There's nothing funny to write about this stuff. There is simply useful and not useful, and it's all trial-and-error work, which means maybe I should start writing a series of "Trial-and-Error___for Dummies".
My trial today included decisions about how I was going to behave when I woke up. #1: I decided I would try to laugh and not cry. #2: I decided to cook with my sister and mom and not sit in a corner thinking about where I was last year (I think about it anyway...see above about "faking it"). #3: I chose to be thankful for what was in front of my face and the possibilities for my future. It would be been too easy to fall into the past, which is different to me than remembering and honoring the past. Was the result an error? Hey, The Suz is not concerned with results, here...she practices yoga, remember.
And, thankfully for this Thanksgiving Day, that is All the Suz that's Fit to Gobble.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Live! Nude! Poll Answer!
A darling and dear follower of this blog (hit refresh...NOW!) reminded me that the answer to the first ever All the Suz That's Fit to Print poll never made an appearance. Here it is now.
...And the answer to the question: "Which of the following basic household needs did Susan's mom regain today after 2 years living without?" is...
HOT WATER!!!
The disclaimer here is that the hot water still takes about 5 minutes to manifest, but it's better than nutin', honey.
...And the answer to the question: "Which of the following basic household needs did Susan's mom regain today after 2 years living without?" is...
HOT WATER!!!
The disclaimer here is that the hot water still takes about 5 minutes to manifest, but it's better than nutin', honey.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Whaddaya Know?
"The other day" (*see explanation in the paragraph to follow regarding the potential meaning or meanings of this dubious phrase), I caught myself doing something a lot of us do, but for some reason I noticed it and it made me lol. No, not Lallygag Outside Louisiana; not Languish Over Legumes; not even Love Over Lycopene. Nary a one of those things! I must admit, it simply caused me to Laugh Out Loud.
As I'm wont to do, I bought a new kind of sparkling beverage "the other day" (for those of you from populated parts of the country, that phrase includes a range of dates from yesterday to last year). I bought it less because I was thirsting for a bubbly beverage, but more because I am a cheap sonnuvusuz and it was on sale...better still (or worse depending on your level of snobbery), this friendly beverage was a generic store brand item on sale. Better still (or worse depending on your outrage at copy-cat brands and/or your passion for defending the Perrier brand), the flavor of this sugar-free, naturally-flavored-with-other-natural-flavors, clear-sparkling-water-beverage--I say, the flavor was Raspberry Acai. To add one last insult to this injurious drink, it was "enhanced with vitamins B3, B5, and B12...and not a B-vitamin more! Good day, sir! One can only assume that such B-vitamin bigotry resulted from limited space in the 33.8 fl ounces allotted, but I could be wrong. It's happened before (me being wrong, that is).
Where was I? How in Hades would you, dear reader, know, since that's my job as your humble escort down the River Suz. I was talking about how I regarded said frosty libation with an alien curiosity...I gave it the 'ol one-eyed gaze worthy of the best third-grade staring contest. It was like looking into the belly of an unknown inanimate beast. But wait...I mean, I've drunk water, right? Every day, in fact. I've also whetted my whistle with the odd diet Coke, Sprite, or even Tab in my day. I could do this naming of drinks I've drunk for hours! So could you if given half a chance.
The point is, I picked up this bottle--a bottle not unlike the bottles of yesteryear--opened it carefully (so as not to encourage a bubble explosion), took a small swig to test it, and then gazed at it with what could have only have been interpreted as a confounded look. Stay with me and you'll recognize this behavior as your own. When we (Gen X and beyond) were kids it was the cereal box; now it's any bottle. What am I, a cave woman; a Neandersuz? Have I never seen a plastic bottle? Perhaps my gaze is tainted with twinges of confoundment (hey, it's a word now) because, after all, "how many years WILL it take for this plastic to return to Mother Earth?". No one really knows...just like no one ever understood what all the fuss was about Mikey (to delve into another sore childhood subject). Why not me? Wasn't I good enough to appear on the cover of a cereal box? OK, so maybe Wheaties was and should have been reserved for Olympic athletes such as Mary Lou Retton and basketball greats such as Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan, but Life cereal?
I'm over it, I'm over it. Rinse and repeat. Pick up, gaze, gander, and drink.
Following in the footsteps of Alice in her Wonderland...I remain faithfully nonsensical, however sensible, yours truly...Suz.
As I'm wont to do, I bought a new kind of sparkling beverage "the other day" (for those of you from populated parts of the country, that phrase includes a range of dates from yesterday to last year). I bought it less because I was thirsting for a bubbly beverage, but more because I am a cheap sonnuvusuz and it was on sale...better still (or worse depending on your level of snobbery), this friendly beverage was a generic store brand item on sale. Better still (or worse depending on your outrage at copy-cat brands and/or your passion for defending the Perrier brand), the flavor of this sugar-free, naturally-flavored-with-other-natural-flavors, clear-sparkling-water-beverage--I say, the flavor was Raspberry Acai. To add one last insult to this injurious drink, it was "enhanced with vitamins B3, B5, and B12...and not a B-vitamin more! Good day, sir! One can only assume that such B-vitamin bigotry resulted from limited space in the 33.8 fl ounces allotted, but I could be wrong. It's happened before (me being wrong, that is).
Where was I? How in Hades would you, dear reader, know, since that's my job as your humble escort down the River Suz. I was talking about how I regarded said frosty libation with an alien curiosity...I gave it the 'ol one-eyed gaze worthy of the best third-grade staring contest. It was like looking into the belly of an unknown inanimate beast. But wait...I mean, I've drunk water, right? Every day, in fact. I've also whetted my whistle with the odd diet Coke, Sprite, or even Tab in my day. I could do this naming of drinks I've drunk for hours! So could you if given half a chance.
The point is, I picked up this bottle--a bottle not unlike the bottles of yesteryear--opened it carefully (so as not to encourage a bubble explosion), took a small swig to test it, and then gazed at it with what could have only have been interpreted as a confounded look. Stay with me and you'll recognize this behavior as your own. When we (Gen X and beyond) were kids it was the cereal box; now it's any bottle. What am I, a cave woman; a Neandersuz? Have I never seen a plastic bottle? Perhaps my gaze is tainted with twinges of confoundment (hey, it's a word now) because, after all, "how many years WILL it take for this plastic to return to Mother Earth?". No one really knows...just like no one ever understood what all the fuss was about Mikey (to delve into another sore childhood subject). Why not me? Wasn't I good enough to appear on the cover of a cereal box? OK, so maybe Wheaties was and should have been reserved for Olympic athletes such as Mary Lou Retton and basketball greats such as Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan, but Life cereal?
I'm over it, I'm over it. Rinse and repeat. Pick up, gaze, gander, and drink.
Following in the footsteps of Alice in her Wonderland...I remain faithfully nonsensical, however sensible, yours truly...Suz.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Susan Myhr Fritz became a Fan of Free Stuff
Ok, so again it's been longer than excusable since the Suz has written, but trust me (or don't...I can't direct the trajectory your Life Coach wishes to take you), I have SO many topics written in my Crackberry right now...and there's potential in each and every one. Oh, yes! Your pupils will indeed dilate from the quantity of Suz to come. And your senses will continue to squirm with the liberties I take with punctuation!
But for now (as I am sleepy but made a publishing promise to myself), I am stuck on the Facebook theme. I can't seem to control my mind's tendency to think in Status Updates. In fact, I woke up at 4 in the AM last night and had a series of them, but who the heck wants to know about how I'm awake in the middle of the night or, in the case of the east coast, just pretty early E.S.T.? It's creepy, ok? I mean, I have a life, right? It's not like I spend my afternoons pulling Ivy from a wall...(*see Facebook reference, and hence, hypocrytic comment).
So here's my "free stuff" story du jour: after being awake for a few hours and then falling into a reasonable sleep, my alarm went off telling me that it was time to drive to the next town to take the Saturday morning Spin Class. Terrific! Even though it was pouring (surprise! It's a rain forest!), I knew I would feel better if I got up and went to the class. So I did. It was an hour and fifteen minutes, and there was a new instructor. She was German, and I liked her, but she did some different things (including stuff that involves weights and push-ups...which I still can't do to save my life), but the folks in class were not having any of it, and that made me laugh. As a (somewhat) former yoga instructor, I know how tough it can be to deal with a new crowd, so I am actually the person you want in your class if YOU are new. I will laugh at your nervous jokes; I will go with your new exercises; I will generally try to make you feel like you're not an idiot. Not so with the old timers, and that fascinates me.
But the point is...there are always free samples at this small local gym. Most of the time they are Advil or Alieve, and there are often apples and bananas for the taking...but today there were samples of Yogi Digestive Health Granola!!! And, so, as a person addicted to free samples, I took me some 2 of them and marched back into the rain to the car.
P.S. Can I also mention I'm watching Brokeback Mountain on Bravo TV as I write this? Wow...I'll understand if you just lost the small thread of respect you retained for All the Suz That's Fit to Print.
But for now (as I am sleepy but made a publishing promise to myself), I am stuck on the Facebook theme. I can't seem to control my mind's tendency to think in Status Updates. In fact, I woke up at 4 in the AM last night and had a series of them, but who the heck wants to know about how I'm awake in the middle of the night or, in the case of the east coast, just pretty early E.S.T.? It's creepy, ok? I mean, I have a life, right? It's not like I spend my afternoons pulling Ivy from a wall...(*see Facebook reference, and hence, hypocrytic comment).
So here's my "free stuff" story du jour: after being awake for a few hours and then falling into a reasonable sleep, my alarm went off telling me that it was time to drive to the next town to take the Saturday morning Spin Class. Terrific! Even though it was pouring (surprise! It's a rain forest!), I knew I would feel better if I got up and went to the class. So I did. It was an hour and fifteen minutes, and there was a new instructor. She was German, and I liked her, but she did some different things (including stuff that involves weights and push-ups...which I still can't do to save my life), but the folks in class were not having any of it, and that made me laugh. As a (somewhat) former yoga instructor, I know how tough it can be to deal with a new crowd, so I am actually the person you want in your class if YOU are new. I will laugh at your nervous jokes; I will go with your new exercises; I will generally try to make you feel like you're not an idiot. Not so with the old timers, and that fascinates me.
But the point is...there are always free samples at this small local gym. Most of the time they are Advil or Alieve, and there are often apples and bananas for the taking...but today there were samples of Yogi Digestive Health Granola!!! And, so, as a person addicted to free samples, I took me some 2 of them and marched back into the rain to the car.
P.S. Can I also mention I'm watching Brokeback Mountain on Bravo TV as I write this? Wow...I'll understand if you just lost the small thread of respect you retained for All the Suz That's Fit to Print.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Ain't No Party Like a Wii Fit Party
...'Cause a Wii Fit party eventually ends....and thank goodness since, like most everything else, a thing is fun until it's not. Go ahead, try this concept on for size. Think of any "fun" activity. Heck--it can even be "Phun" if you like. Like grandma used to say, "It's your world...". Actually, that's what I have been saying lately. But I am distressin' my digressin'.
I'll give you an example: Person A asks: "Could I really put Nutella on my cheese sandwich?", to which I reply: "Why not? It's your world". This response is at once encouraging and non-committal, which makes everyone feel at ease. But back to the Wii. My dad and his wife were in town and so as people often do when it's raining cats and frogs, we decided to play a game. Now I'm notoriously opposed to card games and most board games (it's a childhood demon...don't ask...alright, maybe I'll tell you later). But the Wii...well, the Wii is a bit more active and it actually brings people together in an amazingly interactive way. I, like, totally approve of it, ok? In small doses. It takes a minute to warm up to--especially if you are still searching for the 'A' button, but after that it's fun for the whole blended family. Miraculous Wii! An hour passes...maybe two. Still fine. Everyone is sharing remotes, people are increasing their character's skills. My Wii bangs are going strong. But all of a sudden, and without warning, the Wii Witching Hour rears its ugly head--a time when a person is totally off his or her game and ceases to care...
This is a critical moment and, once ignored or disregarded, can make or break Blended Family Phun Night. In this case, I think we missed the bull's eye moment by a little, which is why, much to my dismay, I played the "yawn-gee-I'm-so-sleepy-and-I'd-hate-to-contract-the-H1N1-virus-because-of-lack-of-sleep" card. It's a rare card to pull...much like the Joker in a full deck of cards. Not to mention that it's totally topical and will this become irrelevant at the next BFPhN. Not to worry. As long as you keep up with your Sudoku and reading the sound advice offered in All the Suz, another great excuse will emerge from your sharp mind.
So since I told you I might tell you later, I will tell you now that my reasons for disliking most games originate in almost always losing to my sister Karen, a.k.a. "Boss". Short of cheating (difficult to get away with in her presence), there was and is almost no way to beat my sister at a board or card game. She is the ultimate shark. My mom loves to tell the story of playing that old standby children's game, Memory, with Karen at the tender age of 3. Legitimately try as she might, my mom lost almost every time. There was no "wouldn't it be cute to let the kid win" going on. Boss is just that good.
Moral of the story: only play games with small children if you are guarenteed to win.
What is your Ghandi quote du jour? Why, it's the Ghandi quote of the day!
And here it is: "I got over my dislike for bread, forswore my compassion for the goats, and became a relisher of meat-dishes, if not of meat itself. This went on for about a year."
I'll give you an example: Person A asks: "Could I really put Nutella on my cheese sandwich?", to which I reply: "Why not? It's your world". This response is at once encouraging and non-committal, which makes everyone feel at ease. But back to the Wii. My dad and his wife were in town and so as people often do when it's raining cats and frogs, we decided to play a game. Now I'm notoriously opposed to card games and most board games (it's a childhood demon...don't ask...alright, maybe I'll tell you later). But the Wii...well, the Wii is a bit more active and it actually brings people together in an amazingly interactive way. I, like, totally approve of it, ok? In small doses. It takes a minute to warm up to--especially if you are still searching for the 'A' button, but after that it's fun for the whole blended family. Miraculous Wii! An hour passes...maybe two. Still fine. Everyone is sharing remotes, people are increasing their character's skills. My Wii bangs are going strong. But all of a sudden, and without warning, the Wii Witching Hour rears its ugly head--a time when a person is totally off his or her game and ceases to care...
This is a critical moment and, once ignored or disregarded, can make or break Blended Family Phun Night. In this case, I think we missed the bull's eye moment by a little, which is why, much to my dismay, I played the "yawn-gee-I'm-so-sleepy-and-I'd-hate-to-contract-the-H1N1-virus-because-of-lack-of-sleep" card. It's a rare card to pull...much like the Joker in a full deck of cards. Not to mention that it's totally topical and will this become irrelevant at the next BFPhN. Not to worry. As long as you keep up with your Sudoku and reading the sound advice offered in All the Suz, another great excuse will emerge from your sharp mind.
So since I told you I might tell you later, I will tell you now that my reasons for disliking most games originate in almost always losing to my sister Karen, a.k.a. "Boss". Short of cheating (difficult to get away with in her presence), there was and is almost no way to beat my sister at a board or card game. She is the ultimate shark. My mom loves to tell the story of playing that old standby children's game, Memory, with Karen at the tender age of 3. Legitimately try as she might, my mom lost almost every time. There was no "wouldn't it be cute to let the kid win" going on. Boss is just that good.
Moral of the story: only play games with small children if you are guarenteed to win.
What is your Ghandi quote du jour? Why, it's the Ghandi quote of the day!
And here it is: "I got over my dislike for bread, forswore my compassion for the goats, and became a relisher of meat-dishes, if not of meat itself. This went on for about a year."
Friday, October 23, 2009
One of my favorite pictures of our Cannon Beach, Oregon, wedding. I think my friend Jill told Dan not to peek as I snuck up the stairs for some pre-nuptial primping. My sister, Karen, is keeping the train clean...I shocked a few of the guests by wearing a "Barbie's Dream-House-esque" dress. I think they expected me to show up wearing orange!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wooden Objects
*Warning: for those of you accustomed to my mostly sarcastic, humorous tone. This post will be serious.
Today, October 23rd, would have been my 5th wedding anniversary. Actually, it still is. And since I sometimes have a bit of trouble sleeping, I was looking up what the traditional gift is for 5 years of marriage. Apparently it's wood. Interesting. They have all sorts of suggestions on what a person should give his or her wife or husband, but my mind immediately went to one of Dan's favorite things...a globe. In this case, a wooden globe. I even know the exact store that carries it--Metsker Maps of Seattle.
I did not think I would want to write anything on this day, but it is here and it will pass and I will feel sad and that's ok. In all honesty, though, I will spend as much of the day distracting myself as possible.
I know that no one escapes life without tragedies, sadness, and heartbreak. I also know that not everyone is as lucky as I have been to have spent 11-plus years with a person like Dan. I have tried, and failed to describe him before. He is indescribable. He defies identification.
He stole my heart and keeps it still.
Thank you for your support and encouragement. And don't worry...the jokes will return. They are my lifelong coping mechanism and other love.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I Ain't Sayin' He's a Gold Panner...
As promised, today's ruminations surround the all too oft ignored pastime:
I can sense you are ready to experience this "prospective" hobby for yourself. A word on logistics: consult our friends at Wikipedia, a source that contains really great tips on everything from what to wear (pants!), what to bring (shovel, insect repellent), and even how to fulfil your inner MacGyver (waterproof wrist watch). Most importantly, you will uncover how NOT to get arrested (you need a permit, silly). This is, of course, assuming you've got the basic gear needed for the gold panning itself. It'll cost ya, but once again, can you really quantify adventure through the human invention of money? After all, as that wise Cree Indian proverb goes,
Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realise we cannot eat money.
We have yet to find a palatable recipe for Gold brownies, either, but there's still time. Perhaps it can become...Jerry's new New Hobby.
*Gold was first discovered in Montana in 1852, but mining did not begin until 1862, when gold placers were discovered at Bannack, Montana in 1862. The resulting gold rush resulted in more placer discoveries, including those at Virginia City in 1863, and at Helena and Butte in 1864.
Gold Panning! 
In true pioneer fashion, unwittingly aligned with his native Montanan-ness, my dad, Jerry,
recently discovered himself a new hobby: GOLD PANNING...because "There's gold in them hills...GOLD!" Well, at any rate, there might be...just...a little? Alright, alright, so a person is more likely to unearth gold from a bottle of Goldschlager than the barren hills and mountains of a once semi-gold-laden western paradise*, but shoot, it's worth a try!
To give this topic some much needed context, it's fun to note that Jerry has a history of highly successful hobbies. In no way, shape, or form is he all talk (unlike me with my gibber-jabber musings of "Oh, I'm totally going to start gardening herbs [pronounced "Hurb"], and "Hey, I'm going to lick this Sudoku yet!" Actually, for the record neither of these activities interests me in the least (my only "hobby" is drinking coffee a lot), but they could.
On the contrary, Jerry's hobbies, although perhaps atypical and underrepresented amongst my east coast city-dwelling friends, are commonplace and conventional Montanan activities.
Boating, fishing, skiing, hunting, wood carving...the list goes on (maybe later).
Even as a kid my dad enjoyed hobbies. From what he describes, foremost amongst these hobbies was hunting for Native American arrowheads with his dad. They scoured hillsides digging for these once common treasures and found a fair amount. I have a clear memory of a framed picture with some of the findings--a pattern of arrowheads in arrowhead form that hung in his room. Do you see what I'm talking about here? Can you dig (pan for) the gravity and import of what I am describing?
But back to gold panning, or prospecting, if you like. In point of fact, the Gold Prospectors Association of America, continues to ensure the prevalence of gold panning ("prospecting") via its stellar publication, Gold Prospector. However, if magazines aren't your cup of tea (or as they say in the trade, "pan of gold"), I recommend the following publication; it is excellent: The New Gold Panning Is Easy (Treasure Hunting Text) by Roy Lagal, available on Amazon for $9.95. When you return from your very first prospecting expedition, you will have already made at least 25 cents in profit, and thus will be well on your way to recovering your costs, although I think you would agree, dear reader, that one cannot put a price on adventure.
In true pioneer fashion, unwittingly aligned with his native Montanan-ness, my dad, Jerry,
recently discovered himself a new hobby: GOLD PANNING...because "There's gold in them hills...GOLD!" Well, at any rate, there might be...just...a little? Alright, alright, so a person is more likely to unearth gold from a bottle of Goldschlager than the barren hills and mountains of a once semi-gold-laden western paradise*, but shoot, it's worth a try!
To give this topic some much needed context, it's fun to note that Jerry has a history of highly successful hobbies. In no way, shape, or form is he all talk (unlike me with my gibber-jabber musings of "Oh, I'm totally going to start gardening herbs [pronounced "Hurb"], and "Hey, I'm going to lick this Sudoku yet!" Actually, for the record neither of these activities interests me in the least (my only "hobby" is drinking coffee a lot), but they could.
On the contrary, Jerry's hobbies, although perhaps atypical and underrepresented amongst my east coast city-dwelling friends, are commonplace and conventional Montanan activities.
Boating, fishing, skiing, hunting, wood carving...the list goes on (maybe later).
Even as a kid my dad enjoyed hobbies. From what he describes, foremost amongst these hobbies was hunting for Native American arrowheads with his dad. They scoured hillsides digging for these once common treasures and found a fair amount. I have a clear memory of a framed picture with some of the findings--a pattern of arrowheads in arrowhead form that hung in his room. Do you see what I'm talking about here? Can you dig (pan for) the gravity and import of what I am describing?
But back to gold panning, or prospecting, if you like. In point of fact, the Gold Prospectors Association of America, continues to ensure the prevalence of gold panning ("prospecting") via its stellar publication, Gold Prospector. However, if magazines aren't your cup of tea (or as they say in the trade, "pan of gold"), I recommend the following publication; it is excellent: The New Gold Panning Is Easy (Treasure Hunting Text) by Roy Lagal, available on Amazon for $9.95. When you return from your very first prospecting expedition, you will have already made at least 25 cents in profit, and thus will be well on your way to recovering your costs, although I think you would agree, dear reader, that one cannot put a price on adventure.
I can sense you are ready to experience this "prospective" hobby for yourself. A word on logistics: consult our friends at Wikipedia, a source that contains really great tips on everything from what to wear (pants!), what to bring (shovel, insect repellent), and even how to fulfil your inner MacGyver (waterproof wrist watch). Most importantly, you will uncover how NOT to get arrested (you need a permit, silly). This is, of course, assuming you've got the basic gear needed for the gold panning itself. It'll cost ya, but once again, can you really quantify adventure through the human invention of money? After all, as that wise Cree Indian proverb goes,
Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realise we cannot eat money.
We have yet to find a palatable recipe for Gold brownies, either, but there's still time. Perhaps it can become...Jerry's new New Hobby.
*Gold was first discovered in Montana in 1852, but mining did not begin until 1862, when gold placers were discovered at Bannack, Montana in 1862. The resulting gold rush resulted in more placer discoveries, including those at Virginia City in 1863, and at Helena and Butte in 1864.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Quiz Answer
The moment like, 7 of you have been waiting for has arrived, and only 1 of you picked the correct answer. Your prize is on the Fed Ex truck right now! And the official answer to the first official "All the Suz That's Fit to Print" Official Quiz is...
Hot Water!
It's a long story (like most, I suppose), but my mom lives in a residence that is in the middle of six Smurf Village "cottages" known as the Hidden Villa Cottages (http://www.hiddenvillacottages.com/). The place is over 50 years old and the heat and hot water basically imploded over 2 years ago. Even though she is a descendant of Jacob Astor and Aunt to Bill Gates, Linda prefers not to flaunt her wealth by living simply. In a recent interview, I asked Linda what she did about activities like washing dishes or her hands for that matter. Her answer was quite candid. "Well, Suz", she said, "I boil water once in a while and pour it into the sink to wash the dishes...but truthfully, I just avoid using dishes as much as possible and rarely cook." As for the hand washing? "Well, I am a firm believer in the power of germs to toughen a person up, so although I wash my hands with soap in the cold water, I believe that any lingering germs are my friends and deserve to lead a full, long, life like the rest of us."
Oh, Linda. Que Linda! (She hates it when I say that...but when your mom is akin to being an animist, a person has to call it as she sees it.)
And for now, October 12th, 2009 at 9:46 EST, that's All the Suz That's Fit to Print!
Keep your eyes open for my newest post on "Jerry's New Hobby: I Ain't Sayin' He's a Gold Panner..."
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Holy Crap, I'm Still Awake
I will make this brief. You see, I had such high hopes for this one...I had the notes in my blackberry all written in the most insightful manner and everything! After all, one is her most articulate whilst driving in the car stopped at a light, writing down thoughts into a tiny phone machine.
But now...it is late again, and after a weekend of actually going to bed before the witching hour, as the days grow closer to Halloween I find myself engaged in that most fruitless of habits--staying up late! You see, I am not in school anymore. I am not a worker of the graveyard shift--no, I am not even a late-night Cannon Beach party girl at the moment (and, by they way, if I were, the party would have ended at 9). I am merely a simple maker of beds; a yoga pose-ster; a dreamer-of-dreams. If I didn't know better, I would proclaim myself an insomniac, but I do know better, so I won't.
I will simply leave you with this tidbit written by Walt Whitman (A.K.A. "Uncle Walt"):
"If I had gone directly to the people, read my poems, faced the crowds, got into immediate touch with Tom, Dick, and Harry instead of waiting to be interpreted, I'd have had my audience at once."
J'ai fatigue,
Suzzzzzzzzz
But now...it is late again, and after a weekend of actually going to bed before the witching hour, as the days grow closer to Halloween I find myself engaged in that most fruitless of habits--staying up late! You see, I am not in school anymore. I am not a worker of the graveyard shift--no, I am not even a late-night Cannon Beach party girl at the moment (and, by they way, if I were, the party would have ended at 9). I am merely a simple maker of beds; a yoga pose-ster; a dreamer-of-dreams. If I didn't know better, I would proclaim myself an insomniac, but I do know better, so I won't.
I will simply leave you with this tidbit written by Walt Whitman (A.K.A. "Uncle Walt"):
"If I had gone directly to the people, read my poems, faced the crowds, got into immediate touch with Tom, Dick, and Harry instead of waiting to be interpreted, I'd have had my audience at once."
J'ai fatigue,
Suzzzzzzzzz
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I Try Not to Get too Obsessed With...
I try not to be the kind of gal who gets too obsessed with the "I'm getting older" trip, but sometimes the observations of young vs. old are simply too fascinating, not to mention like, totally in your face, ok? To see oneself as in days bygone (b'george!) is one thing, but I'm interested in taking the idea a step further. Here's an example from my evening to illustrate the thought.
But first, in keeping with the spirit of my verbal stories (re: disastrous!), I will first go on a tangent.
*Ok, so the gym I was going to in Cannon Beach closed in August because the place was way "in the red" as they say, so I didn't mope for more than a minute, but I also started to go nuts getting creative with trail runs and beach jaunts and yoga in a cottage with a ceiling so short I touch it with my upstretched arms. But...I totally sprained my left big toe back in March and it never healed properly so I've been going to a physical therapist (yes, for my toe...and he doesn't even make fun of me!) who said I should lay off the back-and-forth motions with said toe, which means I shouldn't really be pounding the 'ol toe on an uneven trail for a few weeks. So...I broke down and got a one-month membership to the gym in Seaside, the town one over from Cannon Beach; the town I refer to as Meth Village.
To return. I saw this little girl at the gym today on my way to spin class...
*Sorry...it's just that I'm sure you're wondering what I'm doing in a spin class. I don't know, it sounded like a fun-yet-challenging activity that wouldn't involve my toe too much...and I ate a LOT of cheese last weekend so I needed to do something about that. I'm going again tomorrow, by the way. It's fun.
The little girl was coming into the women's locker room to use the bathroom by herself and I was in there changing. Suddenly I had this total flashback to the many times I went to the gym back in Great Falls, Montana, with my dad (who mostly went there to use the sauna, by the way) and I had to wait for him outside of the locker room. The flashback created the sensation of being her--of being this little girl--not a memory of a similar experience of what it was like to be her, but more like I was actually her and the person playing me was a woman from the 80s back in my former experience. All of the awkwardness rushed back. The feeling of being invisible to those older women, yet totally vulnerable at the thought that I was somewhere I should not be; a place I did not belong.
It's not that deep, really, since this sort of deja-vuness happens all the time whether we chose to identify it or not. The distinction I am trying to make here, however, is subtle, and in this case was accompanied by the thought, "Now it's me...I'm the "old woman" in the locker room and I've taken someone's place". The changing of the guard involved no pomp or ceremony; just a towel and a sports bra and a little girl's voice.
****** ****** ****** ****** ******
Phrase of the day: brought to you by Ram Dass:
"You're it...you're just busy thinking you're not."
But first, in keeping with the spirit of my verbal stories (re: disastrous!), I will first go on a tangent.
*Ok, so the gym I was going to in Cannon Beach closed in August because the place was way "in the red" as they say, so I didn't mope for more than a minute, but I also started to go nuts getting creative with trail runs and beach jaunts and yoga in a cottage with a ceiling so short I touch it with my upstretched arms. But...I totally sprained my left big toe back in March and it never healed properly so I've been going to a physical therapist (yes, for my toe...and he doesn't even make fun of me!) who said I should lay off the back-and-forth motions with said toe, which means I shouldn't really be pounding the 'ol toe on an uneven trail for a few weeks. So...I broke down and got a one-month membership to the gym in Seaside, the town one over from Cannon Beach; the town I refer to as Meth Village.
To return. I saw this little girl at the gym today on my way to spin class...
*Sorry...it's just that I'm sure you're wondering what I'm doing in a spin class. I don't know, it sounded like a fun-yet-challenging activity that wouldn't involve my toe too much...and I ate a LOT of cheese last weekend so I needed to do something about that. I'm going again tomorrow, by the way. It's fun.
The little girl was coming into the women's locker room to use the bathroom by herself and I was in there changing. Suddenly I had this total flashback to the many times I went to the gym back in Great Falls, Montana, with my dad (who mostly went there to use the sauna, by the way) and I had to wait for him outside of the locker room. The flashback created the sensation of being her--of being this little girl--not a memory of a similar experience of what it was like to be her, but more like I was actually her and the person playing me was a woman from the 80s back in my former experience. All of the awkwardness rushed back. The feeling of being invisible to those older women, yet totally vulnerable at the thought that I was somewhere I should not be; a place I did not belong.
It's not that deep, really, since this sort of deja-vuness happens all the time whether we chose to identify it or not. The distinction I am trying to make here, however, is subtle, and in this case was accompanied by the thought, "Now it's me...I'm the "old woman" in the locker room and I've taken someone's place". The changing of the guard involved no pomp or ceremony; just a towel and a sports bra and a little girl's voice.
****** ****** ****** ****** ******
Phrase of the day: brought to you by Ram Dass:
"You're it...you're just busy thinking you're not."
Monday, September 21, 2009
Weed Pulling
Dear Readers,
Sorry for the delay. I was stuck in traffic; my computer was on the "Fritz"; my dog ate it; or, my mom's favorite, "there was a cat on my lap". But I'm back, so...here's some Psycho-Suz Babble that's sure to make the synapses fire!
At least for this post, I have become the sort of person who uses weather to introduce what could be an otherwise profound and insightful blog entry.
"Boy is it beautiful weather we're having! They say it's only going to get nicer through the week...and they say it's even hotter in Portland. I don't know about you, but I couldn't have asked for a nicer day!" I finished my work early, and in theory I could do just about anything I want for the rest of the day. Because I am a silly human, however, and silly humans get restless, I decided to pull weeds. It is akin to opening a bag of Tim's Salt and Vinegar potato chips for me. I will start with just one, but it never ends there. Even when my mouth reaches the point of salt-and-vinegar saturation where it is raw from the acidy base of the chips, I keep eating. Likewise, my fingernails split from rocks and dirt and my arms itch from the cruel spikes of blackberry bushes, but, "Ah! There's a juicy one! Oh, wait...I'm gonna get your weedy little roots if it's the last thing I do". In fact, if I had my druthers I might go a-weeding until dark.
One of my favorite lines in literature is from dear old Virginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway. She writes, "Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." Well, I may not be one of the greatest female writers of this or any century, but I am fairly good at composing Facebook Status Updates in my head, so I say to myself, "Susan said she would pull the weeds herself".
It is truly a day to pull weeds...but, because the nature of weeds is to overtake unremorselessly-- because weeds do not know they are weeds, the relationship between weed and weeder is rife with complexity, a combination of hate and awe. On a Sunday at 2 in the afternoon I might find myself cursing these weeds, threatening the Morning Glories, those skinny, leaf-filled ivy-wannabes...cursing their cockroach-like indestructibility, their Terminator's ability to return even after being plucked out by the root. On Tuesday, it may turn into a race to clear out entire sections; to prove, if only for a day, that determination and elbow grease is indeed king! Sometimes I get lucky and pull out a big, juicy weed by the roots--victory! Other times, just the leaves come off...which is like a cosmetic yard-bandaid. But the weeder is not off the hook yet, because even where she was victorious with her root-pulling, a new, perhaps more resilient weed will inevitably take the former weed's place. So the options become: defeat that results in what I call Why-make-the-bed-since-it's-just-going-to-get-slept-in-tomorrow Syndrome, or you can applaud and even admire the life force inherent in those weeds.
To pull a weed is to practice living in the moment in spite of the past or future. It is also trains the mind to recognise and appreciate Perspective (my new favorite concept...an oldie but goodie). Is this a plant or a weed? When I was a kid I knew that having more vegetation around was good for getting rid of carbon dioxide, so this became my argument both to protest having to pull weeds and to not mow the lawn. Since I arrived in Cannon Beach, which is a part of the Tillamook Rainforest, I have had enough encounters with weeds to accept (mostly), that as long as it rains (and it rains), the weeds will thrive. And as long as we decide weeds are undesirable, they will have to be plucked. And as long as they have to be plucked, the cycle will continue like any other cycle that exists. Ultimately it is something to be thankful for, and since lessons found in nature are much easier to accept than lessons in human-land, I will keep on thinking about these silly old weeds.
Vote now!
Sorry for the delay. I was stuck in traffic; my computer was on the "Fritz"; my dog ate it; or, my mom's favorite, "there was a cat on my lap". But I'm back, so...here's some Psycho-Suz Babble that's sure to make the synapses fire!
At least for this post, I have become the sort of person who uses weather to introduce what could be an otherwise profound and insightful blog entry.
"Boy is it beautiful weather we're having! They say it's only going to get nicer through the week...and they say it's even hotter in Portland. I don't know about you, but I couldn't have asked for a nicer day!" I finished my work early, and in theory I could do just about anything I want for the rest of the day. Because I am a silly human, however, and silly humans get restless, I decided to pull weeds. It is akin to opening a bag of Tim's Salt and Vinegar potato chips for me. I will start with just one, but it never ends there. Even when my mouth reaches the point of salt-and-vinegar saturation where it is raw from the acidy base of the chips, I keep eating. Likewise, my fingernails split from rocks and dirt and my arms itch from the cruel spikes of blackberry bushes, but, "Ah! There's a juicy one! Oh, wait...I'm gonna get your weedy little roots if it's the last thing I do". In fact, if I had my druthers I might go a-weeding until dark.
One of my favorite lines in literature is from dear old Virginia Woolf in Mrs. Dalloway. She writes, "Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself." Well, I may not be one of the greatest female writers of this or any century, but I am fairly good at composing Facebook Status Updates in my head, so I say to myself, "Susan said she would pull the weeds herself".
It is truly a day to pull weeds...but, because the nature of weeds is to overtake unremorselessly-- because weeds do not know they are weeds, the relationship between weed and weeder is rife with complexity, a combination of hate and awe. On a Sunday at 2 in the afternoon I might find myself cursing these weeds, threatening the Morning Glories, those skinny, leaf-filled ivy-wannabes...cursing their cockroach-like indestructibility, their Terminator's ability to return even after being plucked out by the root. On Tuesday, it may turn into a race to clear out entire sections; to prove, if only for a day, that determination and elbow grease is indeed king! Sometimes I get lucky and pull out a big, juicy weed by the roots--victory! Other times, just the leaves come off...which is like a cosmetic yard-bandaid. But the weeder is not off the hook yet, because even where she was victorious with her root-pulling, a new, perhaps more resilient weed will inevitably take the former weed's place. So the options become: defeat that results in what I call Why-make-the-bed-since-it's-just-going-to-get-slept-in-tomorrow Syndrome, or you can applaud and even admire the life force inherent in those weeds.
To pull a weed is to practice living in the moment in spite of the past or future. It is also trains the mind to recognise and appreciate Perspective (my new favorite concept...an oldie but goodie). Is this a plant or a weed? When I was a kid I knew that having more vegetation around was good for getting rid of carbon dioxide, so this became my argument both to protest having to pull weeds and to not mow the lawn. Since I arrived in Cannon Beach, which is a part of the Tillamook Rainforest, I have had enough encounters with weeds to accept (mostly), that as long as it rains (and it rains), the weeds will thrive. And as long as we decide weeds are undesirable, they will have to be plucked. And as long as they have to be plucked, the cycle will continue like any other cycle that exists. Ultimately it is something to be thankful for, and since lessons found in nature are much easier to accept than lessons in human-land, I will keep on thinking about these silly old weeds.
Suz's Blog Club "Topics for Further Discussion" (suitable for housewives, aestheticians, and children ages 4-15):
1) Is it discouraging or encouraging that the weed will come back after you pull it out? Is the weed actually an inspiration--an example of evolution and survival or not? Is pulling a weed the biggest waste of time ever and a total stupid human invention, or does the act of pulling it afford one's mind time for rest and/or reflection?
2) Would you rather pull weeds or watch Weeds?
Vote now!
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