Jan Dunlap's Blog, page 11

Where there’s a will…

Decades ago, my husband and I sat down with our lawyer, Bryan, and drew up our wills. As the parents of five children, I wanted to be sure we had all the legal angles covered if the kids were suddenly without us. Now that my oldest child has reached the age of 18, I told my husband we should probably go see Bryan again and update our wills.

“We don’t need a guardian anymore,” I reminded him.

“I know I don’t,” he said. “Some days, I’m not so sure about you, though.”

I threw him my most intimidating evil eye expression. “Seriously, we need to make some changes in the will,” I pointed out. “We need to name one of the kids as executor of the estate – such as it is,” I added, “and a medical directive.”

“I thought we already did the living wills,” he said.

“Yes, we did,” I agreed. “But to be honest with you, I don’t remember what we said in them. I can’t recall if we gave Do Not Resuscitate instructions in case our hearts stopped beating, although I’m pretty sure I wanted you to pull the plug if I’m brain dead.”

My husband cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Brain DEAD,” I emphasized, “not brain LESS.”

Memo to me: review the exact wording of that directive.  And sooner, rather than later.

I picked up my cell phone and punched in a number.

“Bryan? Hi, it’s Jan. Have you got a minute?”

The annual dental blues

I have to go to the dentist today.

My life is over.

Just kidding. My teeth aren’t that bad. It’s just that I hate to go to the dentist, and I’m not even sure why that is. I think it must stem from some traumatic childhood event involving my teeth, but if that’s what it was, it was so traumatic I blocked it from my memory, because I can’t remember it.

Of course, there are lots of things I can’t remember anymore.

Like where I was going with this column.

I lied. I know exactly where this column is going: to the dentist.

I was just trying to put it off as long as possible.

Actually, I’ve had some wonderful experiences at the dentist’s office over the years. I really like my hygienist, Peg. We’ve gotten to know each other from my twice-a-year cleaning appointments and we always chat about what’s going on in our lives. Granted, it’s a little hard to enunciate clearly with her fingers in my mouth, but we manage. And I really like that little vacuum tube she sticks in my mouth to suck out all my saliva. I wish I had one of those at home. I’d use it when I start salivating watching the Food Channel. Or I could use it on the sofa to suck up all the fur the cat sheds there. It’d be great in the kitchen, too, when my husband grinds coffee beans and leaves little piles of coffee dust on the counters. I bet that dental vacuum would clean that all up in no time. And – oh my gosh! – how excellent would that little sucker be for when I drop something in the car and it lands way back under my seat? I wouldn’t have to yank my shoulder out just trying to reach it. Yep, I could think of a million uses for that little dental vacuum tube.

I wonder if I could get Peg to get me one? It’s not just for teeth, anymore.

Another thing I used to like about going to the dentist was its inspirational value. No, I don’t mean seeing pictures of shiny, perfect white teeth. I mean the posters on the ceiling. When I tilted back for Peg to clean my teeth, I could read all kinds of inspirational messages, like about enjoying your life, taking time to smell the roses, hug your kids, call your Mom, kiss a puppy. Now that I think about it, there weren’t any messages about eating chocolate, but this is a dentist’s office, after all. I guess they only ordered inspirational posters that were also dentally correct.

Actually, one of the most memorable experiences in my life happened in the dentist’s office.

(Just a reminder, here, for those of you who have really wild imaginations: this is a FAMILY humor column in a public venue, so don’t expect it to get kinky. Unless that’s the topic for the day, which it definitely isn’t. This is about my going to get my teeth cleaned, for crying out loud!)

So, about this memorable experience: I got my first root canal. Which in itself wasn’t the most fun I’d ever had, but what made it so memorable was how much better the root canal made me feel. I’d gone to the dentist with a pain in my tooth, and he said I needed a root canal, but it was the day before Thanksgiving, and he couldn’t squeeze me into his schedule for the work that day, so I’d have to wait till the following Monday.

Holy buckets! I was going to have to live with the pain for four days?

“I’ll prescribe a painkiller if you need it,” he told me.

I needed it.

And then I felt no pain at all. I also couldn’t function the next day, let alone cook a Thanksgiving dinner. I think my sister came over and cooked. Or maybe there were aborigines from Australia in the kitchen. I’m really not sure. I really didn’t care. By the time I was lucid again, it was Saturday and I refused to take another pill. Sunday was pure misery. Monday morning I was waiting at the door of the dentist’s office when he came in. The dental chair never looked so good to me as it did that morning. An hour or so later, my tooth felt wonderful – no more pounding pain with every breath I took. I could function again. I loved dentistry. I loved my dentist. I even loved the fish swimming in the tank in the reception area.

But I didn’t love any of them enough to want to go through that again.

So maybe that’s why I hate to go to the dentist. Somewhere in a dark corner of my brain, I’m afraid my dentist will find another pain in my tooth that will temporarily incapacitate me. The inspirational posters won’t help. Nor will Peg’s vacuum tube. And I’m not taking the painkiller again.

I have an idea.

“Hi, Dental Office? I can’t make it in today after all. Could we reschedule my appointment… again?”

Here we go again…

School is back in session and I’ve already seen the writing blooper that will be the one to beat for this academic year. One of my students wrote that she’s convinced that registering for my class was “define intervention.”

I replied to her note, and told her I thought she probably meant ‘divine’ intervention, and if that was what she meant, I was flattered, though it was probably going to take more than supernatural help for her to get an A in my class if that was representative of her writing skills.

I also noted to her that spell check was not her fiend.

I mean friend.

Welcome to another school year!

The bare (literally!) bones of a simple diet

Yes! Finally! A diet that makes sense to me!

Eat naked.

Marisa Miller, a model for Victoria’s Secret, recently revealed (no pun intended!) her own diet tips for keeping off extra weight. In case you missed it, she told a Fox News reporter that “Eating smart is all about having an awareness of your body. The most obvious way to do that is by seeing it.”

I totally agree. I know that I’m oblivious to my body when I’ve got clothes on. That, in fact, is one of the reasons I wear clothes – so I don’t have to think about my body. I have lots of other things to think about, like writing deadlines, picking up groceries, scrubbing out the shower drain, string theory. If I were naked all the time, I’d never get anything done, because I’d be thinking “I’m naked. I’m naked. I’m naked.” It would definitely cut deeply into my productivity.

(Another reason I wear clothes is because it gets freaking cold here in Minnesota. Naked is not fun when it’s 30 below zero, but I’m guessing that Ms. Miller lives in a tropical climate where she never sees the downside of 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Not that I know for a fact that naked is not fun when it’s 30 below zero, but speaking theoretically I think it’s a pretty safe guess. Has anyone done a study of that yet? At what degree mark is it no longer fun to be naked? I expect there’s probably some cultural variations, too – Eskimos might tolerate a lower not-fun temperature than the natives of Fiji. Now that I think about it, this might be uncharted territory that I could turn into some kind of study proposal. I could become the Naked Happiness Expert. I bet I could get government money for it, too, since they bail out – I mean fund – just about anyone anymore.)

But back to Marissa’s diet trick. When I first read the article, I thought she meant that you’d lose weight because if you eat naked, you can clearly see that the food you’re eating is going to go somewhere – like right to your thighs or belly – and so your naked body would be a reminder not to eat so much.

Then I read it again, and I realized I’d missed the other part of her quote. She said “So when you’re trying to lose weight, spend more time wearing less. I don’t think I could eat a plate of nachos naked — could you?”

Ah. So she’s of the opinion that the less you wear, the less you’ll eat because you feel awkward eating while naked.

Oh.

Then the reverse must be true: if you’re not uncomfortable being naked, you’ll eat more.

I think I just found a major flaw in the diet plan…

Licking the couch and other bad habits

I can’t figure out why my dog licks the couch cushions.

At first, I thought maybe it just tasted good to her, like there was some chemical in the finish the furniture store put on it to keep it stain-free.

Which I don’t think they really did, since there are plenty of stains on the couch now – mostly from the dog licking it.

Then I wondered if there was some scent in the cushion that was addictive for her, that made her continually lick it, like catnip inside a cat’s toy. Maybe someone in a furniture factory somewhere was sitting around one day, stuffing cushions, and thought “I know! I’ll toss some doggie treats inside this sofa pillow and make some lucky dog happy and its owners beside themselves because they can’t get the dog to quit licking the couch!” But if that were the case, I sure don’t smell any puppy-appealing smells coming from the couch.

Not that that means anything. My dog thinks dead mice smell wonderful.

Especially when she rolls in them.

So now I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just a habit of hers that probably has some kind of soothing effect for her. Sort of like a girl who twirls a lock of her hair unconsciously when she’s stressed or bored.

Or like a guy who repeatedly strokes his mustache or beard.

Frankly, that makes me crazy. I keep wanting to yell, “Stop it! Do you even realize you are petting your facial hair? You don’t see me stroking my chin, do you?”

Actually, you might, now that I think of it. When I’ve gone too long between chin waxings, I do catch myself rubbing my chin a lot.

Is that too much information?

Hey, at least I don’t lick the couch.

The height of my artistic prowess

There’s a newly-stained bedroom dresser sitting out in my neighbor’s driveway. It has the lines of an antique, and I have no doubt that my crafty neighbor discovered it in some flea market and has now turned it into a museum-quality piece.

“Helen’s working on a project,” I tell my husband as we drive past and wave to our neighbor. “And that’s one thing I will never do again, by the way – strip and stain a piece of furniture.”

“You used to do that kind of thing all the time,” my husband notes.

“Yeah,” I reply, “and it always looked awful. Other people can strip and stain wood furniture and it looks gorgeous, but whenever I did it, I felt like I was the kid in the art class whose projects were the ones about which the teacher winced and said, ‘uh, that’s nice, good job,’ when all the time she was thinking, ‘who let this kid in here?’”

“You never took art classes in school,” my husband reminds me.

“I know. And there’s a reason for it,” I tell him.  “I am artistically challenged. I didn’t want to be the one student who was humiliated when everyone else turned in beautiful sketches, while the best I could do was a stick person.”

“But you made great sock puppets for the kids when they were little,” he pointed out.

Actually, I did. I could take any old sock, sew on two buttons for eyes and a mop of yarn for hair. My husband named it Mr. Sock and used it to tell the kids wild stories. My two younger daughters still talk about Mr. Sock almost a decade after he charmed them with bedtime tales.

“I don’t know how impressive it is that the height of my artistic skill was producing Mr. Sock,” I say.

Then again, my kids remember Mr. Sock fondly. Great art is memorable, right?

Besides, I can always ask my neighbor for help with staining, if I ever wanted to give it another go…which I don’t.

But I do have more socks in the closet if you’re in the market for a Mr. Sock. That, I can do.

The real lessons of a college education

I’m teaching three online classes again this fall for New Mexico State University. Over the weekend, I asked my students to email me a short note describing the expectations they have for the class. The method to my madness is by doing so, I get an idea right off the bat of what they think we’ll be doing, and if they’re way out in left field, I can address and correct those expectations right away.

One student said she hopes to improve her public speaking skills. I reminded her it’s an online writing class – no speaking involved. So far, she’s still on my class roster. Maybe she decided that speaking skills are overrated.

Another student said he wants to learn how to succeed in life by taking the course. I told him I didn’t think the class would do much in the way of teaching him life success, unless he was aiming to become an expert on APA documentation style and knew about a job that would pay him richly to exercise that expertise. I added that if he knew about a job like that, I’d really appreciate a link to it so I could apply.

It got me thinking, though, about the real lessons of a college education. I don’t think it’s about mastering documentation style, or memorizing formulas, or earning grades on teachers’ assignments. I think it’s about learning to make your own way in the world.

That, and remembering to bring toilet paper.

For the last month, my daughter and I have been making lists of what she needs to take with her when she leaves for college this weekend.

“You need some cups and plates,” I told her. “You won’t have a kitchen cupboard stocked with dishes when you want a snack or something to drink.”

She bought a pair of cups and plates. The next time she did her laundry, she commented, “I’m going to need laundry detergent, aren’t I?”

“Yup,” I said. “It’s hard to get clothes clean without it.”

“And dish soap,” she added, remembering her recent purchases . “I’ll need to wash the cups and plates.”

“That would be preferable to the alternative, yes,” I agreed. “Basically, everything you take for granted here at home, you’ll need to take with you, or you won’t have it – toothpaste, soap, shampoo, laundry detergent, sunscreen. Even toilet paper, since you’re living in a quad with your own bathroom. “

She shook her head. “I’m sure my roommates will have that covered. Two of them are going up a week early for an outdoor program. They said they’ll bring all the bathroom stuff.”

But I noticed that the next time we went supply shopping, she picked up a package of 12 rolls.

“Just in case,” she explained.

Last night, she sent an email to her new roomies, asking if there was anything they had forgotten or would like her to bring.

The answer: toilet paper.

“It’s going to be a long couple of days for your new roommates,” my husband observed.  “Aren’t you glad you listened to your mother?”

Yes, indeed, going to college is about learning self-sufficiency.

Although it doesn’t hurt that going to college also reminds you that, sometimes, your mother really does know best. Even if it is about toilet paper.

Fledging an author

When I sat down to write my first book, I asked myself: who is going to read this?

The answer: my fourth-grade classmates.

So I shelved the idea of writing a philosophical treatise, and instead wrote a cute little story about a purple buttercup who just wanted to fit in.

It didn’t hit the New York Times Bestseller List, but it did get put into the school’s brand-new library collection and enjoyed lots of readings for the next few years. It was my first lesson in how to get published.

That question is still the one that guides me every time I write: who is the audience? It is also the question every publisher asks of every author, though it might be phrased a bit differently as “who is the market?” Either way, knowing your reader is an essential first step to not only crafting writing that someone else will want to read, but it is also the determining factor in whether or not you’ll succeed in finding a publisher.

Twenty-three years ago, I decided I wanted to write a local newspaper column about my experiences as a stay-at-home mother of five. Living in a newly-sprouted suburb, I met other young mothers every place I went. I noticed what we had in common, what we chatted about on the neighborhood playground, or complained about in the grocery store aisles. I realized that I especially enjoyed the company of other parents who made me laugh about the mundane pieces of daily life, like waiting for the plumber while you were toilet-training toddlers, or wiggling out baby teeth for the tooth fairy’s first visit (who then forgot to show up that night!). I decided I wanted to share those laughs with more parents to lighten the tedious moments we all experienced in our child-raising.

With my friends in mind, I wrote a set of three columns about the funny stuff I’d dealt with in the course of a day. I made it specific to the events and places in our suburb to increase its appeal for my intended audience. I kept it light and short, and I modeled my work after the fabulous humor of Erma Bombeck, who absolutely knew her readers inside and out. I took the columns to our local newspaper editor and asked him what he thought.

“Let’s give it a try,” he said. “I’ve got lots of young families, and this looks like a fit for them.”

It was, and I enjoyed five years of column-writing and connecting with readers who became my friends, as well as my audience.

Now I write humorous mysteries about a birder. Yes, I’m a birdwatcher…along with 81 million other Americans. I can tell you all about them as a market segment, too – what they spend on their hobby, their educational backgrounds, their age distribution. Now if I can just get them to put down those binoculars to pick up my books….wait…I think I hear a Pileated Woodpecker out my back door…

As a special thank-you to my visitors today, I want to share with you a sneak peek at the first chapter of my newest Birder Murder, titled A Murder of Crows, to be published next month by North Star Press. Drop me an email on my contact page, put “I love a parade!” in the subject line, and I’ll email a PDF of the first chapter to you! Thanks for stopping by today, and if you’d like to receive my twice-weekly humorous blog in your inbox, click on this subscription link.

A new experience on tap for Friday

No, I’m not going to Vegas to play strip billiards. (Sorry, Harry.) Nor am I going to compete in a beer pong tournament. I’m also not going scuba-diving in Fiji or base-jumping in Brazil.

I’m going to be in a parade!

A blog parade, that is. Tomorrow, in this space, my column will discuss the first steps I took to becoming published. Nineteen other authors will be addressing the same topic – the steps they took to becoming published, not the steps I took – on their blogs. The sponsor of the parade is the WordServe Water Cooler, an online community of writers to which I belong. It will be a novel experience for me – pun intended! – and if you’re interested in what makes writers tick, it should be fun. All the participating blogs will be listed on the WordServe website.

BUT, the most exciting piece of the parade is the stuff we authors will toss at you for free! Just like a real hometown celebration, but no beauty queens waving from convertibles. (Don’t quote me on that – one of my colleagues might figure out how to do just that online.) In my case, I’m going to give away…wait for it…(fanfare!)…the first chapter of my new book set to release next month – A Murder of Crows!! You’ll have to wait a few more weeks for the whole book to be available at your favorite outlet, but you can get a taste of what’s ahead in Bob White’s newest Birder Murder mystery by following the instructions at the end of my parade blog.

Interested?

Come back tomorrow and join the parade![image error]

 

 

Live long, healthy and…naked?

If I see one more list of the Top Ten – or Seven – or Five – or whatever – Steps to Living Long and Healthy, I just may go berserk. I’m tired of hearing about fish oil, walking, eating certain foods, stimulating your brain, reducing stress, getting enough sleep, or moving someplace other than where I live.

To be honest with you, almost every time I read one of those lists, I usually get so stressed out because I’m not doing it all that it keeps me awake at night. Of course, the flip side of that reaction is that my brain is really stimulated by being stressed, so I don’t know if that one good effect cancels out the two bad ones. Is there some kind of algorithm that tells you how long you’ll live if you do only one out of three of the things you’re supposed to do to live long and healthy?

Is there some kind of ranking that tells me which are the most important things to do? You know, in case I want to pick and choose?

This would be my ranking from most important to least important:

Moving someplace other than where I live. I would like to live in Santa Barbara, California, I think. I was there a few weeks ago, and it was wonderful. The climate is mild year-round, which means you can walk anytime you want. Hey – there’s a two-fer right there – moving and walking. Score!
Getting enough sleep. I would love to get more sleep. I haven’t had enough sleep since my first child was born almost 31 years ago. I’m amazed I’m still alive if the amount of sleep you get is a predictor of how long you’ll live. I should have been dead 20 years ago if you’re counting sleep.
Eating certain foods. I like to eat. Eating is a good thing. Next to sleeping and moving to Santa Barbara, I think eating would help me live a long time. But I try not to be biased. I believe in equal-opportunity eating.
Stimulating my brain. This is a snap. I’ll just read a list of how to live long and healthy – like I said, the stress it generates really exercises my brain.
Fish oil. I would make this the least important thing to do since I always gag when I pop those monster suckers down my throat. You know, if I moved to Santa Barbara, I could eat fresh fish all the time and then I wouldn’t have to take the fish oil capsules. Just one more reason that No. 1 on this list is No. 1.

Which leaves me with just one conclusion: if I want to live long and healthy, I should move to Santa Barbara.

Unfortunately, I’m not planning to do that, though, because it’s outrageously expensive to live there.

Unless I start a commune. That might work. I’ve heard that there are lots of communes in California. There was one down the beach in Santa Barbara, in fact.

No, wait. That wasn’t a commune. That was a nude beach.

That’s it! That’s how people afford living in Santa Barbara – they don’t buy clothes.

I KNEW there was something those lists weren’t telling us. You have to be naked to live long and healthy.

On second thought, I’m really grateful those lists don’t tell us that. Ignorance can be a wonderful thing, don’t you agree?