Would you like a job?

Everyone knows that it is important to ask a prospective employer questions when you are interviewing. These can be clarifying questions, such as "So, you make widgets here? What exactly is a widget, anyway?" or questions that show you have done your homework on the company and can talk intelligently about any trends you have noticed: "What's up with the higher disciplinary actions here in the last month?" and "Why is Jeffrey Skilling sitting behind the president's desk?"

But the most important questions are the ones you never ask. They just sit in your brain, although at times they threaten to burst out at inappropriate moments. This happened to me recently when I was interviewing for a staff position as an editor.

First they throw out bajillions of facts at me. This particular company has been around for a hundred years, and they proceed to give me a detailed history. After hearing about the various incarnations of their homeschooling curriculum, how many students they have served in the last century, how many different buildings they have occupied, and how many former students have gone on to be contributing members of society by making widgets, I have many questions, particularly...

Where's the bathroom??

They tell me that many of the staff members here are former teachers, so the environment is very warm, caring, supportive, fuzzy, etc. And I wonder...

Do we get milk and cookies at 3:00? And naps afterward?

I am shuffled from one office to another, deposited with the next person or persons to interview with, collecting stuff along the way: a glass of water, a benefits folder from Human Resources, a thick stack of manuscript pages showing what the work would come to me looking like. One interviewer looks at the pages and says, "They gave you work already?"

Yes. It's due yesterday.

I further learn that no one goes by their real name here. Anika is known as Nikki. Michelle, who is straining to talk with a laryngitis-diminished voice, was the third Michelle to be hired, so she goes by Mick. She no more looks like a Mick than I look like a Jeremiah. And it makes me think...

Will I, too, if I am offered employment, be required to take another name? And will I have any say in what this name is? Can I be called Princess, for instance?

Eileen (whose real name, as far as I know, is Eileen, and who may be the only one called by her real name), has been here for 3 months. She is impressed, she says, by the little things the company does. (And at a nonprofit, sometimes the little things are all you have.) Milk in the fridge in case you didn't get a chance to eat your breakfast at home. Hot water for tea. An offsite holiday party. In surprise, I think...

You mean you don't have potluck holiday parties, where all the staff have to contribute something?

This is the kind of party hosted by the kind of company I'm used to working for.

By the time I leave, there is hardly anyone left in the building. I never do get any cookies, a nap, or even a trip to the bathroom, but nevertheless it has been a successful interview. At least everyone called me by my real name.

More Michigan delights

The first morning of our visit to Michigan we were pampered. We got to sleep in, enjoy a nice warm brunch, slowly enter the day. My parents lulled us into relaxation and complacency. Ah, this is the life! we thought. And then they put us to work.

My parents are not above employing enforced labor. Anyone who visits them -- they don't even have to be relatives, my parents are equal opportunity taskmasters -- is likely to be pressed into service of one sort or another. So that morning, one presided over my cleaning of the kitchen while the other kept watch over Joe while he cleaned out my mom's car in preparation for taking it to, as my mother said, the graveyard.

Okay, technically my mom didn't make me clean her kitchen. She didn't even ask me to. But it was definitely NOT Joe's idea to clean out the car.

I cleaned the kitchen because I could not stand the counters anymore. They were begging me to clean them. "Please, please, clean us, we haven't seen a cleanser since -- what's it been, Mack, like 18, 19 years?" "Yeah, I think it was back around '89 or so."..."Please!"

How could I ignore that? When I am 82, like my mother, I will probably be much better at ignoring things like that.

I had been somewhat worried that my mother might take offense at my cleaning initiative, somewhat like my father had done at my insistence that I drive his car. In fact, I told Joe to help keep my mom out of the kitchen while I cleaned it, a request he ultimately could not fulfill owing to his own cleaning assignment.

I needn't have worried. After I had worked halfway around the counter, scrubbing with everything I could find in the cupboard, my mom asked, only half joking, "Would you like to be my housekeep--"

"Only today, Mom, only today. And only the kitchen."

At this point my father came in to report on the cleaning out of the car. My mom continued, "That's going to be cleaner than it's been since--"

"Since you got the car, yeah, it sure will be! We're really clearing it out!" my dad said. (Notice the "we.")

"I was talking about the kitchen," my mom said stoutly. "Not the car. Why do I care how clean my car is now that it's going away?"

Later we showed my parents the book about our historic community that was just published. Our house is in it, and we are even in it ("Behold the Only Residents Who Do Not Recycle!") (Just kidding). It's a beautiful book (not just because we are in it), and we showed it to them in the hopes of enticing them to come visit us and see all the wondrous beauty we live in (by which I do NOT mean our kitchen counters). My mom looked through the book cover to cover, put it down, and said, "Well, now we've seen everything so we don't have to come visit."

So much for psychology.

But my dad told Joe that maybe they would come see us sometime, although of course he said this when my mom was not around. I'm sure she will have something to say about it, and it won't be the same thing he said. Perhaps I should call them, and then they can discuss it between themselves while I wait for someone to have a conversation with me.

And if they do come, boy will I have some assignments for them...

Car scares

The two principals concerned in this blog have often been viewed as having horrendous luck on trips. Well, I would just like everyone to know that we went to Michigan to see my family over Easter, and we had a marvelous time. Everyone got along fine, the flights and luggage arrived at the same time and at the same terminal, and Joe did not poke me too many times while looking at SkyMall.

Now, wasn't that exciting? Of course it wasn't! No one ever wants to hear about the good stuff that happens. Booooring.

There were some tense moments on the airplane due to turbulence from high winds (although the two children seated behind us no doubt added to it), but I am happy to say that no arms of those seated near me were permanently injured. (Joe has taken to wrapping towels around his arms, just in case.)

But far more interesting -- in the sense of terrifying -- than the plane adventures were the car adventures.

Scenario #1: The family is getting ready to drive to Good Friday services, and it has been snowing for the past couple of hours. It is also beginning to get dark. Your 85-year-old father not only insists on driving, he puts on his sunglasses to do so, which he has worn day and night, indoors and out, for seemingly the last two centuries.

You:
(a) Explain, gently but firmly, that you think it best he does not drive under such conditions
(b) Steal his car keys when he is not looking
(c) Warn him that if he insists on driving, no one will get in the car with him
(d) Keep your mouth shut and pray the entire trip

Well, if you are a coward like me, you will choose (d). The only problem with this, other than the possibility of not having your prayers answered, is that

(e) Everyone else in the family is now mad at you for not insisting to Dad that you drive.

So, to avoid family wrath, you attempt to make a different choice on the way home from church. First you choose (a). This brings about the reaction you fully expected from your father, namely, "Pffft." (This is why you chose (d) in the first place.) Next, you try (c). This brings about a rather stronger reaction from Dad. Desperate, you try (b), but you find to your surprise that his reaction times are pretty good for a man his age. Defeated, you retreat to the back seat and commence with (d), leading, inevitably, to (e).

Somehow, something that had nothing to do with you is now all your fault, leading you to stay out of...

Scenario #2, also involving a vehicle and an octogenarian

Mom, who drives a Sherman tank of a car, was planning to get rid of it the day after we left ("It's going to the graveyard," she said sadly). The car emitted toxic fumes whenever it was driven and obviously needed to go to the graveyard, but she was reluctant to let it go for two reasons. First, she had fought long and hard to have her own car, one that she didn't have to share with a husband or any children, and one that was blue (my father hates blue).

The second reason, which was far more important to her, was that she had just filled the tank with gas and was not about to let it go to waste. So she just kept driving it around town, to the grocery store, to the hospital where she volunteers, to the drug store to get one of their 1,783 prescriptions filled, wherever, until the gas was pretty well used up. The car must have left a trail like in the "Family Circus" comic, only of smoke and obnoxious fumes.

Other than issuing a mild warning, based on our limited understanding of fumes and smoke, that the car was probably not safe to drive, there was little we could do about Scenario #2. Happily, Mom did not drive it while we were there, although it did play a part in Scenario #3...

Scenario #3: First octogenarian, second car

On Easter morning, Dad overslept and was not ready to go to church when the rest of us were. No problem! We early birds would go together in Dad's car, Mom explained, and Dad would come later in Mom's car.

Great. Now we have
(a) car of unknown reliability
(b) driver of, um...
(c) (b) alone in (a)

Somehow, probably due to all those prayers, (a) and (b) made it safely to church.

I was almost relieved to get on the plane later that night to come home. I wouldn't even have minded if we'd had a snowstorm on the way.

More on rodent editors

Last week I wrote about conversations with People Who Think Editors Are Some Sort of Rodent. When I have these conversations with visitors at our church, the discussion is a little different owing to the confusing fact, for the visitors, that another woman at church works at a newspaper. When the visitors talk to her and then talk to me, this is usually what transpires:

V: "Oh, you're the one who works for the newspaper!"

M: "No, that's Doreen."

V: "But you're an editor?"

M: "Yes."

V: "You don't work for a newspaper?"

M: "No."

V: "But Doreen does."

M: "Yes."

V: "Is she an editor?"

M: "No."

At this point, most people are wishing they'd never heard of editors or newspapers -- newspapers never carry any positive news anyway, and since "Calvin & Hobbes" left the comics page there's nothing worth reading -- and they change the subject to something they can understand: the weather.

This is fine with me, because this way I don't have to explain what it is I actually do, which even I haven't been able to figure out after nine years.

Great expectations

When I was teaching, and people found out that I was a teacher, the ensuing conversation generally involved one of two responses:

Response #1:
Other person: (in saccharine sweet voice) You're a teacher? Oh, that must be soooo rewarding! (clasps hands in rapturous wonder)

Response #2:
Other person: You're a teacher? (snorts) Must be nice to have the whole summer off! (proceeds to tell everyone within earshot that I am a lowlife scum living off honest taxpayers' money)

So I was rather relieved when I left teaching to become an editor. I thought this would give me some measure of stature when I told people what I did for a living. Instead, what I generally got was this:

Other person: So what do you do?
Me: I'm an editor.
Other person: (stares blankly, possibly believing that editor means "some sort of rodent")

Now that I also do some writing, I find that the response has shifted again. When people hear that you are a writer, they do not automatically think of, say, writing for a newsletter on waste treatment, or writing for the Wilberforce, Ohio, Journal-Star-Free Press. They think New York publishing houses. They think multimillion dollar contracts. They want to know whether you have written any bestsellers. They want to know who your agent is. They want to know whether you can help them get published.

Some are quite adamant that you must be an author someone has heard of, even if they haven't. That you are holding out on them, being modest about your accomplishments. No, no, you say, really, I just write a blog. And an occasional note to my husband to please make sure the back door is locked before he comes to bed.

I run into these people in the oddest places. At the bank one day, I patiently waited while the teller conducted my transaction. She looked at her computer and said, "You're an editor and a writer!"

I stared at her, somewhat frightened. What other information about me was on her little computer screen? That I like chocolate and watching Monk? That I have always wanted to go to Australia? That I really wish the bank would offer a drive-through option so that I could do my banking in my pajamas?

"What's your latest book?" she went on.

I stammered, "Uh, nothing you would recognize. I just, uh, do, you know, educational stuff."

"Oh, you must be working on something exciting. Come on, tell me what's coming out next."

No matter how much I tried to explain that I'm not that kind of writer, she refused to believe it. She was sure that I was holding out on her. The more I declined to reveal any secrets I might be holding about the next bestseller, the more she tried to pry them out of me.

She finally flung my money and receipt at me, clearly disgusted that either 1) I wouldn't confide in her or 2) I had no secrets to confide.

To save myself this grief, the next time someone asks what I do, I'm just going to say that I eat chocolate and watch Monk. Let them make of it what they will.

13,000 miles to nowhere

We amused ourselves on our trip to Indiana a few weeks ago by reading the signs that tell you how much further you have to your destination. If you are traveling in New England and your destination is Dunkin' Donuts, congratulations! You are never more than five miles away from where you are going.

Unfortunately, on this trip we were not traveling in the Northeast, and our destination was not Dunkin' Donuts. Our destination was Indiana, which was 584 miles away. Even more unfortunately, we had to drive across the entire state of Ohio (motto: "Who Would Believe a State Could Be So Boring?"), which alone is 1,953 miles.

But the good transportation people of Ohio, anxious to do their best to get us through their state with no accidents involving cows, put up helpful mileage signs like every 500 feet, telling you how many more miles until, based on their extremely careful calculations, you will go crazy.

They are probably also afraid that if they do not continually remind you how much farther you have on your extremely long trip across their extremely boring state, you will forget where you are headed.

Passenger: We've been driving forever...where are we going again?
Driver: Uh, Maine, isn't it? Wait, there's a sign...no, Dayton! That's right, Dayton!
Passenger: Are you sure it wasn't Dunkin' Donuts?

But what these Ohio transportation people -- who no doubt fly everywhere they want to go -- don't realize is that when you are driving on such a long trip, it is really not very reassuring to watch the number of miles to your destination decrease by only two miles with each successive sign. You might as well be traveling to Russia, because that's what it feels like when you see these signs:

Russia: 173,986 miles (9,694,821,374 km)
Russia: 173,984 miles
Russia: 173,982 miles
Dunkin' Donuts: Next right
Russia: 173,980 miles
Russia: 173,978 miles

No wonder so many people end up at Dunkin' Donuts. They just want to be, finally, at a destination. They don't really care which destination.

This also no doubt explains why it takes 6 days for mail to get from our house to Joe's family in Illinois. The mail truck watches those signs go by, mile by agonizingly slow mile, until it can't take it anymore. It just breaks down, crying. It is towed by a team of mules to a recovery site, where it receives depression counseling ("Now, tell me, when did you first notice this condition coming on?" "I'm not sure...somewhere between mile 9,635 and 9,633! Oh, boo hoo hoo!"). The mail that was being carried by the truck is transferred to several bikes and wagons driven by young boys, which also explains why the price of stamps keeps going up: Those boys are constantly wanting newer models.

When you think about it, those mile signs explain a lot.

But back to our topic. Where was I? Oh, yes, 384 miles east of Wilberforce, Ohio (which is not made up, anymore than its neighboring town of Goes is made up).

Once we were out of Ohio and into Indiana (motto: "Be Glad You're Not in Ohio Anymore!"), the interesting signs shifted from destination miles to clever river names. These were some prize-winning names! The first was Mad River, which inspired Joe (remember, we had just crossed the great expanse of Ohio) to burst into a spontaneous, twisted version of "Moon River," the lyrics of which are probably best not made public.

After this came Big Blue River, the color of which -- surprise! -- was not blue. But we figured maybe it is connected to the Pacific Ocean, because in Hawaii I was once told that the government proudly spends several hundred million a year on Ty-D-Bol to get the water just that shade of blue. Alas, the Big Blue River in Indiana looks nothing like Ty-D-Bol, or the Pacific Ocean for that matter.

But the best, most clever river name was saved for last. The State River Namers, in an attempt to achieve immortality in the Annals of River Naming, christened it "Nameless River."

We bet they came up with that name while crossing Ohio.

What color is your dinosaur?

I am still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Several career guides counsel people in my situation to concentrate on growing up first. Ha ha! Of course that is not what they say. They say to look for clues about what you like to do in what you enjoyed doing as a kid.

Joe's mom says she did this with her own kids. She watched what they liked to do when they were little, and it sort of correlated with what they ended up doing later in life. Except Joe, whose early interest was dinosaurs. (He also liked to rip things apart to see how they worked, and there is definitely some correlation there with his current hobbies.) I guess if computers hadn't come along, he might be out digging bones or something now instead of working for an investment company. Or maybe doing museum work, ala the movie "Night at the Museum" (which, if you haven't seen it, is hysterical, although my mom said she "didn't see what was so funny about it." I think this is because Dick van Dyke, whom she has always enjoyed watching and holds in high esteem, plays a character whose values are not exactly worthy of his alter egos Bert the chimney sweep or Rob Petrie).

Anyway, back to my interests as a kid and how they might help me figure out what to do now. Here is my list of what I liked to do from roughly ages 4 to 8:

1. Read
2. Swing
3. Read
4. Play with Fisher-Price people, house, and village and make up stories about them
5. Read

Did I mention I liked to read?

So, according to this list and the theory that what you liked as a child can help point you to a satisfying career as an adult, I should make a good city planner and swing set installer who can read instruction booklets.

Or possibly a writer of fiction who holds book readings out on the playground. (Of course, some readers of this blog, including my husband, might say that I am already a fiction writer).

Had I been more computer gifted, like Joe, perhaps I might have been the one to create the Sims, a computer game that lets you create people and whole towns and direct their lives and, generally, be bossy. (They say this game is very popular with female players.) But I came into the computer age rather late, and not exactly willingly (I remember telling my sister at one point that I didn't need a computer, just a word processor. Visionary I am not).

I admit I've always had a secret interest in being something of a career coach, helping other people figure out how to turn their interests into a great career. But I guess until I can do this for myself, no one will want to pay me to help them do it.

Another thing I did when I was young, according to my mother (who, as a Revisionist Historian, cannot always be trusted to tell things exactly the way they occurred -- with five children, she might actually be thinking of another child), was to correct people's grammar. So maybe after all I am in the right career.

Grumpy and Grumpier

One of the nice things about marriage -- besides long car trips spent listening to Don't Know Much About...Anything -- is that when one of you is not having such a good day, the other most likely is and can help the first one get over whatever is wrong. The trick is to not be weak in the same area at the same time.

I've written before about how I tend to get a little out of sorts at times (Joe would probably say more than "at times"), which sometimes prompts him to go to God about it and pray that He would "help those who are grumpy to improve their attitude."

Well. It is hard to stay grumpy when your spouse specifically prays for you not to. It is also difficult not to giggle when this happens. I did try to contain myself though when this happened recently.

After he was through praying, he said accusingly, "I heard you laughing."

Like the biblical Sarah, I denied it. "I did not laugh," I said firmly. "I thought about laughing, but I did not laugh."

Another night, at dinner, he prayed again for the Lord to "help us improve our bad attitudes." After we finished praying, I looked at him quizzically. I didn't remember acting grumpy that day. Usually I have some knowledge of these things.

"Did I have a bad attitude today?" I asked.

"No," he said, "I was talking about me."

"Whew," I said. "I'm glad it's your turn this time."

I guess he figured it had worked when he prayed for me, so it should work for him.

When we were moving into our house, it was a rather stressful time. I had had several days in a row in which I was out of sorts. Finally Joe let me know that it was not exactly easy on him either, and we agreed it was only fair if he got a day in which to be the grumpy one. That day I really tried to live up to the agreement by being as pleasant as I could, but late in the day I blew it by crying and burying my face in the sofa, which was not easy because it was almost completely covered by boxes.

Joe stroked my back for a few minutes, then said sadly, "I thought today was my day to have a breakdown."

I sniffed. "I know, I'm sorry," I said. I handed him a pillow. "Here, do you want to bury your face in this?"

But neither of us could be grumpy and laugh at the same time.

One big happy

Our neighbors a few doors down have a rowhouse slightly bigger than ours, which is good, because the population that resides there is triple ours. In addition to two people, there are two large dogs, a rabbit, and most recently, a ferret.

Our introduction to the ferret comes as Joe and I are returning from a walk, greatly invigorated by our excursion down to the corner and back, when suddenly he stops and points at something. There, in another neighbor's garden, is a long, whitish animal who seems curious about his surroundings but not so much about us. He does not run away. My first thought is that it is an opposum, but it seems too small.

"Do you think it's a rat?" Joe says, echoing my next thought. We are quite calm, considering we are discussing the possibility of a rat being less than two feet from us.

I check the animal's tail. As fluffy as the rest of him. Not a rat, thank goodness.

Next Joe proposes a ferret. I realize I have never actually seen a ferret, and this one does not conform to my ferret expectations. Besides, what is a ferret doing outside?

The neighbor's incorrigible dog comes bounding down the steps and aims straight for us. I wonder, briefly, if I should be more concerned about the ferret or myself.

"Do something!" I whisper urgently to Joe. "If Flirt sees this -- this -- whatever it is, he'll go ballistic!"

But Flirt gives the animal no more than a passing glance. He is far more interested in jumping on me, as if I am a long-lost friend he was sure he'd never see again. Both Joe and the ferret could be invisible for all Flirt seems to care.

Our neighbor, who must spend half her days trying to get Flirt to do what he doesn't want to do and to not do what he wants to, comes looking for him. Joe yells to her, "Is this your" -- he pauses, realizing we haven't yet decided what it is, and chooses the safe route -- "your animal?"

She looks at the ferret, her face showing as much surprise as if she had discovered that her dishwasher had suddenly escaped from the house and was standing in the neighbor's yard. She hardly knows which animal to chase first, but chooses the ferret. It, however, is not about to be caught and returned to the house. Not yet.

And so she chases it up the neighbor's porch, where it easily evades her grasp by slinking through the porch railings to the next neighbor's porch, forcing her to go back down the stairs and run around to the next porch. And all the while, Flirt is bounding back and forth across the grass, hardly able to contain his excitement. He, Flirt, is loose in the great outdoors, and his owner is running after another animal! She is not yelling at him! He bounds off to more neighbors who have gathered, wanting them to celebrate this miracle with him.

For there is now a small crowd watching. Flirt discovers a baby in the crowd, and immediately decides that he must investigate. Meanwhile the neighbor's second dog, Tuxedo, who exercises infinitely more self-control than Flirt, is peering out of the back door. Clearly not wanting to miss anything, he still cannot bring himself to breach those bounds set for him. He nudges the door open but does not join the fray.

Finally, the neighbor corrals her brood and heads back inside. Later we hear the simple story of how the ferret came to join them: The husband went to buy rabbit food one day, and came home with a ferret. "It was just sitting there in the cage, looking at me, and I said, 'You're coming home with me, bud.' "

I duly notify my own husband that this is not to happen when HE goes to the store ("But the tarantula was so cute..."). But if he did bring home a ferret, at least now I would know what it was.

Don't mess with my brownies

I don't know about you, but I am getting quite fed up with being told what to eat. Or more specifically, what I shouldn't eat. Isn't that one of the great perks of being a grownup (along with wearing really bad ties) -- that you get to pick your own foods?

But no. Across the country, more and more County Commissions for the Banishment of Pretty Much Everything That Tastes Good are decreeing that this or that food is bad for us and are running it out of restaurants. Trans fats. Saturated fats. Foie gras (literally, "fake grass" -- not that I eat it). You watch, Girl Scout cookies will be next.

Trans fats are banned in restaurants and churches in the county where our church is located. This is obviously yet another attempt to undermine religion in America. Our churches were built on a solid foundation of what? Donuts! (St. Dunkin, Ch. 35, Article VI) Where is separation of church and state when you need it?

The fact that these foods are really bad for you is not the point. The point is, stop telling me what to eat!

But all is not gloom and doom. From the American Dietetics Association we have the following happy announcement. I know none of you would want to miss this very important message. You will thank me, I'm sure. This announcement could change your life!

Are you ready? You might want to write this down.

Pureed cannellinni beans can be substituted for shortening in brownies.

What a relief to know that we don't have to throw out all our favorite recipes just because they have something unhealthy in them! We just have to add new ("new" meaning "weird") food groups to them.

Of all the foods that could be substituted for shortening, pureed cannellinni beans are quite possibly the last thing I would ever think of. Foie gras would come to mind before cannellinni beans.

But I have heard of at least one brave person who has tried this substitution, in cookies, and her family didn't lynch her. She says it made the cookies more "cake-like" and insists that the cookies did not taste "bean-like" at all. To me, this sounds suspiciously like "try it, it tastes like chicken." She did admit that several family members refused to try the brownies once they knew what was in them.

Now there are some smart cookies.

For your listening pleasure

I heartily recommend that every couple take long car trips. Long car trips are great. They give couples a chance to really connect, to find out more about each other, to get beyond the superficial, everyday talk.

This is why when WE go on long car trips, we get books on CD.

For our latest trip, I got some CDs from our local library and asked Joe to get some from the library near his work, which has a better selection. "And no more Ben Franklin," I warned. He opened his mouth. "That goes for the other Founding Fathers, too," I added. "They may have done great things for this country, but they put me to sleep."

He frowned. "Well, Jane Austen puts me to sleep," he said. "I'm not getting any Jane Austen."

It might have been easier to forget the CDs and just talk.

Between the two of us, we got enough listening material for interplanetary travel. With our respective restrictions, we ended up with some interesting stuff. Car Talk. A story about a woman supposedly being befriended by a baby gray whale while swimming in the ocean (it sounded enough like fiction to be interesting to me, yet factual enough for Joe to listen to). NPR's Driveway Moments, with stories ranging from a young girl's frank discussion of her cystic fibrosis ("This better not have a sad ending," Joe said. Then, "I can't believe this had a sad ending!") to an interview with the author of The Sweet Potato Queen.

But what was most telling of us was that we both got the exact same CD: Don't Know Much About...Anything.

With all our differences in listening material preference, we can agree on at least one thing: We don't know much...about anything.

Dancing for the uncoordinated

I have long been fascinated by ballroom dancing -- the sight of couples gliding across the floor, twirling, breathless, seemingly floating on clouds...

Or at least other couples. We, personally, do not float on clouds, not that we have made much of an attempt.

But I keep wanting to make an attempt. A couple of years ago Joe got me a ballroom dancing DVD so that we could learn in the privacy of our own home, where no one could laugh at us. But this was while we lived in the apartment, where there was little room to push a vacuum cleaner, let alone practice turns and dips.

Little did we know there would be even less room when we moved to our rowhouse.

So the DVD sits, neglected, in a spot that I'm sure would be totally inaccessible if we even knew where to look for it. But my interest in taking up dance was rekindled when a neighbor mentioned at a meeting that she and her husband were taking a ballroom dance class ("I've always wanted to do it, and he has never wanted to, so I signed us up for his birthday"). She said there were like 98 couples in the class, which is a lot of people. I thought, no one could possibly notice a couple of klutzes with that many people.

So when the parks and rec catalog came, I eagerly flipped to the dance section. There didn't seem to be much for beginners in the way of ballroom dancing, though. Everything was "Advanced," "Level II," or "Next Step." There was even "Advanced Salsa & Merengue!" I got confused; was this dancing or cooking? Cooking while dancing?

But then I found something just for us. In English Country Dancing, you get to learn the kind of dances you see in Pride & Prejudice, which I drool over. The description says, "If you can walk, you can do these dances." Yes! Sign us up.

It's a good thing it also says, "Partner not required." Once Joe hears the P&P phrase, he will SO want out of that class.

Joe wants to know, if we did manage to learn something about dance, what we would do with our knowledge. Where would we practice our newfound skills?

Leave it to a man to be practical.

There are a couple of other interesting classes in this catalog. Did you know that May is National Salad Month? Yes. And you can get in on May Salad Day Bingo if you don't have anything else to do. Me, I'd rather celebrate National Donut Day (which appears to be either June 6 or June 7; why not celebrate both days?). Unfortunately, both of these classes are limited to those over 55. Why do they always get the fun stuff?

We need you, Phil!

There was an article in the paper about gardening enthusiasts who are taking advantage of the mild weather to plan their gardens. They scheme and plot and haunt nurseries and pore over catalogs, looking for just the right seeds and bulbs to plant this year.

Surprisingly, no reporter came to interview me for this article.

But the article did inspire me. It inspired me to pray for 6 more weeks of winter, on top of Punxsutawney Phil's prediction.

Personally, I am only too happy to put off the day when I must do something with the garden. Unfortunately that won't be possible this year, as our neighborhood is planning a home and garden tour in May (this was NOT my idea), and even though our home is not on the tour, our garden -- or what passes for one -- will certainly be on display along with everyone else's in our row of homes.

My first idea on hearing this was to plant plastic flowers, and a neighbor thought that was a good idea, too, but now she is looking at flower catalogs -- that newspaper article must have inspired her somewhat differently than it inspired me -- and I am certainly not going to be the only one to have a plastic garden.

But maybe there is hope that I won't have to do too much. Today I noticed two little buds coming up, right in the middle of the garden. What they are, I have no idea. They certainly don't resemble anything I planted last year. Most likely they are something that blew over from my neighbor's yard. And if I am very, very lucky, more might appear -- and I won't have to plant any plastic flowers after all.

Thank you for not stopping

On our recent driving trip to Indiana, Joe asked if I'd ever be interested in driving across the country. "You know, take our time, see the sights, do some adventurous things," he said.

Sounded great, except for two things. Most of our "adventures" when we drive somewhere are centered around looking for places to 1) eat and 2) use the restroom. There are probably not more than three places in the entire country that meet our standards on these two factors.

Note that I said "our" standards. I'm sure you are all thinking that these standards, whatever they are, were the idea first and foremost of the Prissy Princess. This is not true. On this particular trip, we drove by more than one gas station because of Joe's insistence that he wanted a place with nice bathrooms. We call this the "pretty potty" standard. Of course, if you have ever used a gas station or fast-food restroom, you know that very few of them can be characterized as "pretty." But we still hold out hope that something out there will remotely resemble what we are used to at home.

Which explains why, on our trip this weekend, we wasted quite a bit of time and gas driving up to a potential pit stop, giving it a once-over, and driving off.

Finding a place to eat is no easier. It's not that we are so picky about our food, mind you. We are not food snobs; the faster, the better. It's just that, again, we prefer to find a restaurant that might, in some small way, resemble our own kitchen.

So we rejected one place to grab some food because it was "too dark." There were also a large number of large semi trucks parked facing the entrance, in ominous formation, and we felt that if we got out of the car they might attack us. Another Subway was in a dying strip mall, and although the Subway was probably fine, by association it just didn't meet our standards.

Also, if there are fewer than five cars parked outside a restaurant, we drive right on by.

Another of our standards for both food and restrooms is that the facilities must be clearly visible from the highway, preferably from at least a mile away so that we have plenty of time to 1) decide that, yes, this is where we want to stop and 2) get over four lanes and make the exit. We do not want to get off and have to drive to Montana before we find the place. Sometimes the restaurants or gas stations are right off the highway, but to get back on the highway you have to drive to Montana. That happened to us on this trip, after we had finally stopped at a gas station that didn't quite meet the "pretty potty" standard but that we had to make do with because we were running out of options (and out of time, if you know what I mean.)

Once we drove by an exit that we had wanted to take because we thought it was exit 39, and we wanted 40, where there was reportedly food. As we drove by, in the far left lane, we could see that it was exit 40. There is nothing quite like the feeling of seeing exit 40 flash by at 70 miles an hour and knowing that the next exit with food will be exit 785.

In West Virginia we got off the expressway in hopes of finding some dinner fare, but while we were still on the exit ramp we could see that we were in the heart of the city and not likely to find an easy-to-get-to place to eat. We stopped at the stoplight and decided to get right back on the expressway. "This completes your tour of Wheeling," I intoned as we drove straight up the entrance ramp. "We hope you have enjoyed your drive-through."

It's a pity we couldn't stay longer. They probably had some pretty potties.

Warning: This drug may hurt you

While researching an allergy medication I've been taking, I learned some interesting facts. One of these facts explains why I've had the urge to burst forth into mooing lately, and why cows have been showing up at our back door.

Just kidding. But I did read that another form of the drug I'm taking can cause "headache, cold, coughing, or accidental injury."

"Accidental injury"? What exactly are we talking about here?

That's all the Web site said. It did not explain what this injury might be, or how seriously it might affect one's bodily functioning or quality of life. Could something happen internally from taking this drug -- say, maybe your esophagus becomes dislodged and rams into your spleen? Could it drastically change your outer appearance, frightening dogs and causing them to attack you? Does the medicine make you more clumsy and therefore more likely to step on the nail gun your husband forgot to put away? Or do they not really know what it might do; they just want to cover themselves in case something "accidentally" happens? The Web site categorically denies that you will become sleepy taking this drug, so I guess we can rule out car accidents or "heavy machinery" accidents.

Here's another thought: Nowhere does it say that the injury necessarily occurs to the person taking the medicine; perhaps, for instance, it causes the person to gain an inordinate amount of weight, thereby increasing the chances that another person happening to be in the vicinity of the now-grossly-overweight person will get hurt if the overweight person loses balance and falls over onto the second person. In the interest of self-preservation, you might want to ask the people around you, in a casual manner, if they happen to be taking any medication, and what sort of side effects might occur, and whether you might be in any danger from these side effects.

And if you notice any cows following you home, get help immediately.