I got careless as I slung my computer bag around in the car yesterday. It caught on my fingernail and ripped it.

Ouch!

I’m not talking about a “simple” broken fingernail. I’m talking “ripped-across-the-nail-plate-about-a-quarter-of-an inch-into-the-pink,torn-halfway-across-my-nail, bleeding-like-a-stuck-pig” broken fingernail.

Well, maybe I exaggerate a little about the blood, but there was blood, and there was pain, and the air in my car turned blue from the cuss words. I said a little more than “dagnabbit!” You weren’t there, so I didn’t censor myself.

Now, a month ago this post would have been all about my vanity. Indeed my poor vanity (her name is “Woman”) is wounded. My fingernails were looking beautiful, if I say so myself. I was quite proud to use my hands expressively while I told my stories. Today, I toned it down to avoid attention to the SpongeBob Square Pants Band Aid that I had wrapped around my middle finger. Just in time for the holidays, my manicure is ruined.

That’s no longer my concern. You see, about a month ago I told stories in a local middle school and learned of a new concern. My librarian friend, who normally has had a very “laid back” attitude was acting very obsessive. She had those antibacterial soap dispensers everywhere and was making kids use it when they came in the library. I saw her use it several times in the space of a few minutes. I remarked that I had heard that overuse of those gels wasn’t good. She ignored me and kept on pumping.

I admit that I giggled and asked her what was going on. I teased her by saying “Wipe!” That’s the phrase uttered by Adrian Monk, that obsessive compulsive television detective (on the USA Channel) who is so phobic about germs. After every contact with humans, he has to have an antibacterial wipe cloth to attack the germs. Her eyes grew large, her face grew ashen, and she whispered, “We’ve had staph infections!”

I just said, “Oh,” as if that explained everything to me. However, I was clueless to her concern, and I thought, “Yeah? Well, it’s a middle school. What do you expect? Kids are germy and they get gross staph infections, then they get antibiotics and the boo-boos go away. No big deal, why the drama?” I left that day thinking that she was quite a character.

THAT was before spending a week in a hotel watching the pathetic offerings of daytime television when I come home from work. Daytime television is a vast wasteland. I wanted something less strident than Judge Judy and less vapid than Tyra. I switched to The Discovery Channel. Gloom and Doom. That’s what I got. The show was about global warming, and our melting ice caps. I couldn’t stand to watch any more predictions about what New York City would look like if the glaciers melt. So, I switched to The History Channel to be bombarded by information about the Black Plague and the Influenza Epidemic of 1918. After getting thoroughly depressed by that, I switched to a local news station to find only more bad news. Now, I think I have become phobic about germs, myself.

The fresh-faced, smiling reporter informed me about the occurrences of MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) in schools, nursing homes, hospitals and child care facilities across the nation. It seems that the staph virus has mutated, and a new strain has emerged which is serious (read that “deadly”) if not treated immediately AND doesn’t respond to the normally prescribed antibiotics. The reporter said that while frequent hand washing is good, it won’t stop folks from getting the virus. The virus comes from physical contact with other people. It said that cuts should be bandaged and watched for signs of infection. She smiled as she talked about it being deadly, but the perky reporter didn’t give much information about how to prevent the virus, and concluded that more research is needed.

EEK! Am I the last person on earth to know about this? Will I never learn not to watch daytime television?

On the heels of that, I have a serious cut on my finger—-and every day in schools where this virus lurks, children want to shake my hand and hug me after I perform—-those children are covered in germs—-does that cut look infected?—-

“WIPE!”

Technorati Tags: staph infections, MRSA

I had lofty goals of posting every day during the month of November. I swore to myself that I would participate in NaBloPoMo. That’s what I thought I was going to do. However the internet connection at this hotel and my Muse (that creative force that drives me) had other plans for me. They conspired against me. It’s not my fault! She would give me no inspiration.

It’s true that the internet connection here here is not worth diddly, but I think that even if I were at home I wouldn’t have been able to stick with the plan. I have a most uncooperative Muse. As soon as She heard me say, “I’ll post every day,” She said, “Say Whut?” She raised her hackles and shouted, “Gal, you don’t tell me when I’m going to talk. Nobody tells me what to do. I’ll talk when I have something to say.”

I can’t argue with that wench. She’s unreasonable.

So, this blog fell silent. Then, I was embarrassed, because I didn’t do what I said I would do. But, I hope y’all realize I have no control over Her. I’m just a helpless human. I’m at her mercy.

I realized that a good poker player can look at the hand he has been dealt and determine whether to play the hand or fold. There isn’t any sense in playing a worthless hand. If you do, you are just going to lose. There is no shame in folding the hand; it doesn’t mean that you forfeited the game.

Since she wouldn’t talk to me, I had no choice but to work on the projects I had brought with me to this hotel and ponder the fickle nature of my Muse. Why won’t She just let me talk? Why won’t she just let me post something silly so that I can at least have a post? It got me remembering my childhood. Let’s see if She will let me tell you what I remember.

I was always considered the “shy one” in my family. I can look back on those days from this vast distance and realize that I was not shy at all. My siblings and my parents were loud and boisterous people. One had to be very assertive to be able to get a chance to speak; and if one did say something, the chances were good that no one would hear it. Everyone was thinking about what they were going to say next. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

I think that might be why I became a professional storyteller. I get to take center stage, the audience hushes and they listen! That’s pretty heady stuff for a person like me.

As a quiet child, though, I spent a lot of time listening and observing. Especially at family gatherings with the extended family, which had a very different dynamic. I noticed that the women and the men separated into groups in the evenings after the meal. There was a vast difference in the two groups.

The women chattered and clucked like hens in a barnyard. They talked about anything and everything, constantly interrupting each other. It seemed as if they just couldn’t stop their mouths from running. My Daddy called it “verbal dysentery.” Though they didn’t have much of importance to say, they said it all anyway. It was as if they were battling away the forces of silence with mindless babble.

On the men’s side of the room, they sat quietly amidst the swirling pipe smoke. When one man spoke, the others all turned their heads to listen. They pondered what he had to say. It seemed as if they only talked when they had something worth saying, and they always let another person finish a thought before they began to speak.

Do I have to tell you that I preferred the men’s side of the room? My grandfathers and uncles were laconic men. They only spoke when they had something to say, and they used as few words as possible to communicate their thoughts, but when they did talk their words were worth hearing.

I guess that’s the lesson my Muse was trying to teach me. Maybe NaBloPoMo isn’t such a good thing? At least it isn’t for me. I think I would much rather post something that I would want to read again, than put something on here just to be talking. What do y’all think? Should we declare a National Post When You Have Something To Say month?

I’ve folded my hand for NaBloPoMo, but I’m not out of the game.

Technorati Tags: NaBloPoMo, inspiration, Muse

The following is an image of my best friend from childhood.

His name was Ming Toi Tu, and he was a bona fide, purebred toy Pekingese who was descended from a long line of award winning show dogs. He had his papers, but he wasn’t snooty about it. Ming didn’t look down his nose at anyone.

My parents ruined his chances to be a show dog himself by having him “fixed,” but he still thought he was quite a stud. Nobody had the heart to tell him otherwise. This proud little dog strutted with a manly gait, his tail curled high over his back and his chest stuck out as far as it would go. This dog was no pampered pooch, and he wouldn’t sit still for primping. He loved to get out and romp around. He liked to run with the big dogs. Ming Toi was afraid of nothing.

Early in his life, this miniature mutt deemed himself my “protector,” and he was at my side constantly. If you have had a loyal dog before, you know exactly what he was like. If another dog approached me (even a huge Great Dane) Ming Toi was known to leap up and latch on to the larger dog’s jowls. Like a snapping turtle, he wouldn’t let go until lightning struck, or until I pulled him away. No one else could ever unclamp his jaws.

Now, my Daddy thought that Ming was “stupid,” but that was just plain wrong. I figure it this way: the dog knew how to get people to open doors for him and how to get them to feed him. How stupid could that be? But I have to admit that the pup was a clown. When I was little, he even let me dress him up like one. More than that, though, Ming Toi was as stubborn as a mule.

This dog followed every footstep that I took, and when I was a teenager that was a lot of steps. My favorite thing to do when my family went to Paw Paw Creek Resort on Lake Texoma every weekend was to take long walks in the woods and along the shores of the lake. Ming Toi was my constant companion.

As we walked, I always searched on the ground for rocks. I don’t know why anymore, but I was fascinated by the stones I found on my walks. Near Texoma, it wasn’t unusual to find petrified wood or fossils of sea creatures. I still have a bowl full of rocks that I deemed worthy of bringing back to the house. Often I picked up a rock and decided I didn’t want it. I tossed it back on the ground and Ming Toi always picked it up in his mouth and trotted along behind me. Usually he carried the rock all the way home.

One day, I unintentionally confused him. As we picked our way along the rocky beach not far from our trailer, I tossed a rock I was carrying into the shallow water. Ming dropped the rock that he already had in his mouth and walked out into the water. With his bulging eyes wide open, that dog ducked his head into the water to retrieve it. He brought it back and laid it on the shore next to the other rock he had carried. While he had his head underwater, Ming had evidently noticed other rocks in the sand. He want back into the water and brought out another rock and dropped it beside the first two. For the next hour, I sat on the banks of the lake watching and giggling as this silly dog returned to the water to fetch rock after rock. He brought each one back and put it in his pile. I called to him, but he wouldn’t be distracted from his mission, whatever on earth that mission might have been. He kept after it with single minded purpose and would not give up until he had finished whatever it was that he felt he had to do.

At last Ming Toi’s little pea brain registered that he had done his task. With a goofy grin on his face, and dripping wet, Ming Toi crawled into my lap. After a contented sigh about a job well done, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. I had to carry the poor little fella home, because he was all tuckered out.

Ming Toi has been in “Doggy Heaven” for more almost three decades now. I haven’t had a dog in several years, and I guess I’m a “cat lady” now. Tonight, sitting in a lonesome hotel room, I’ve been thinking about that little buddy of mine. I miss his unwavering devotion and his unconditional love, because cats just don’t give that up to a human.

And, tonight I’m envying his single minded attention to a task. I wish I could muster the same.

Technorati Tags: Pekingese, dog