Barbara Venkataraman's Blog: A Trip on the Mobius Strip, page 33

IRRATIONAL FEARS

Even if you are the most well-adjusted person alive today, somewhere buried deep in your psyche lives an annoying little kid who looks a lot like you and has an irrational fear of….something. Who knows how it started? Maybe you read a scary story once, or maybe you were hurt or almost hurt doing something, but now it is forever imprinted in your brain…to be afraid.

My own fear of lightning (Keraunophobia) is just one of my mother’s many fears, handed down at a susceptible point in my childhood. I know for a fact that my mother was never struck by lightning, nor did she know anyone who even came close, but the minute she heard thunder, she tore out of the house, stopped our game of “kick the can” (even if we were winning!) and herded us into the house so fast we didn’t know how we got there.
And she was “the lightning police” for the entire neighborhood. One day, the kids across the street were swimming in their above-ground pool while their parents weren’t home (!) and it started thundering. With nary a thought for her own safety, my mother dashed over there and made them get out of the pool NOW. While she did not enjoy other people’s misfortune, quite the contrary in fact, she still felt compelled to tell you whenever some unfortunate soul, often on a golf course or a baseball field, had been struck dead by lightning, usually out of the clear blue sky.

Living in Florida, the lightning capital of the country, helps to keep my fear alive and well and I’m quite sure I’ll never shake that one off. I am also afraid of bears but it’s only a problem when we visit a National Park where they happen to live, so that fear doesn’t limit me so much. But, as I grow older, I am developing some new fears including: Catoptrophobia (fear of mirrors), Barophobia (fear of gravity) and Geniophobia (a fear of chins).

My friend’s mother was afraid of riding in elevators, (a combination of acrophobia and claustrophobia) which was quite a manageable fear, and my younger son was afraid of clowns (Coulrophobia) for quite a while after seeing the movie “It.” As long as he never joins the circus, he should be alright. My older son suffered from Lachanophobia (a fear of vegetables), but he is slowly outgrowing it.

I know many people who suffer from Ergophobia (a fear of work), Phronemophobia (a fear of thinking) and Gnosiophobia (a fear of knowledge), but they don’t find it debilitating in the least. Thankfully, I don’t know anyone who suffers from Ablutophobia (fear of washing or bathing) and I personally could never associate with people who had Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (a fear of long words, of course).

Luckily, people with Paraskavedekatriaphobia (fear of Friday the 13th) only have to freak out three times a year, at most, and sometimes only once a year, but the ones I feel most sorry for are those who suffer from Panophobia (fear of everything) and Phobophobia (fear of fear). Is that what FDR meant when he said: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”?

Even if your particular fear doesn’t have an official name, don’t feel bad, I’m sure there is someone who feels the same way you do. You could probably even find a support group online, unless of course you suffer from Cyberphobia (a fear of computers) or Anthropophobia (a fear of meeting new people). Then maybe you should just go lie down until you feel better, but don’t look under the bed, just in case.

BITTERSWEET

Who would have thought this could happen to us? An economic superpower in our day and we never saw it coming. Okay, that last part isn’t true. They did try to warn us: the botanists and economists, the climatologists and even those pretentious foodies, damn them! But we refused to believe it. So spoiled and gluttonous were we that we couldn’t imagine such a vacuum in our lives, couldn’t imagine that one of our greatest pleasures, second only to, well you know, could disappear so suddenly, leaving us in a glassy-eyed stupor.

At first, there seemed to be no cause for alarm. Sure, a few high-end distributors declared bankruptcy and most of the artisanal boutiques quietly closed down, but that didn’t affect the rest of us. Even as the price started creeping up, we took it in stride, still happily gorging ourselves on a regular basis. Every holiday was an excuse to buy new varieties created in whimsical shapes or mixed with exotic flavors like hot chili peppers, spicy ginger, aromatic curry powders or edible flowers.
People even ate it on insects! Now, why would I make that up? Others drank it in liquid form; some preferred it melted or frozen. Touted for centuries as an energy-booster, an antioxidant, and an aphrodisiac, it was all that and much more. In fact, some of the wealthiest ladies went to luxury spas so they could bathe in it! Isn’t that decadent? The flavors were so rich and complex that no scientist ever managed to synthesize it in the lab. Believe me, they tried. If I told you its name meant “food of the gods,” maybe you could start to understand the depth of our loss…

In our defense, we had a lot of other problems to worry about. There were no world population councils back then so people could have as many children as they wanted. My own grandparents had twelve kids! The population climbed to 9 billion before we did anything about it. On top of that, the climate was changing and real estate which had been “underwater” due to the housing bubble was now literally underwater. Coastal areas were disappearing, Louisiana was sinking and the popular area known as South Beach was cut off from the mainland forever. At the same time, countries were locked in a massive power struggle over the dwindling supply of fossil fuels.

Is it any wonder we paid no attention to those whining foodies? I mean, they were always complaining about something. If it wasn’t the shortage of truffle pigs, then it was the ban on pâté de foie gras or the counterfeit caviar flooding the market. Their concerns were so alien to the rest of us plebeians that we tuned them out when we really should have listened to them. Only the Doomsday freaks took them seriously and, naturally, they started hoarding the “food of the gods” because, well, hoarding was what they did best. Always preparing for the world to end, they saw no sense in going hungry while they waited. It was the hoarding that jacked the price up enough for the world to finally notice.

Outside of our purview, the fragile crops that supplied the delicious elixir were dying from insect infestation, disease, and climate change, and demand was quickly overtaking supply. Speculators entered the mix and real panic set in. It became the hottest commodity in the world, even overtaking gold. Financial markets were so volatile that in West African countries, where the crop was cultivated, ripe pods became the new currency, just like in ancient times. Black markets sprang up everywhere and nobody could talk about anything else. Elected officials were besieged by rabid voters demanding immediate action. Riots broke out and the processing factories were looted for raw materials. Even natural disasters couldn’t distract people for very long…

I’m sorry, where was I? You’ll have to forgive me but ever since I reached my 115th sun cycle, my mind has started to wander. Oh, yes, the governments became involved but, of course, they only made things worse. Truthfully, I don’t know if there was anything they could have done anyway. Our best agro-scientists worked around the clock but, in the end, all they could do was bank seeds in all of the master seed banks and watch it play out. In only ten years, all of the crops were utterly decimated, never to return. Even the hoarders and black marketeers eventually reached their last precious morsels. And, because they had no choice, the people of the world adjusted, but there was a sadness that permeated everything, a yearning that would never pass, a taste that could not be forgotten…

I know you’re wondering why I told you this long story, especially today, when we should be celebrating your 21st sun-cycle and eating a feast of the best synth food in town, but you’re my only great-great-granddaughter and I wanted to give you something really special. Yesterday, I went to my Cryo-storage unit to get your gift so that it would thaw out in time. Here, please take this and remember to savor every bite: it’s like nothing you’ve ever eaten before and nothing you will ever eat again. Yes, it is a curious shape, it’s meant to resemble an animal that’s now extinct; it was called a rabbit. I hope you don’t mind if I watch you take a bite, it would give me great pleasure. Oh no, please don’t cry! Like life, chocolate isn’t meant to last. Only the joy of experiencing it lingers on.

THE SWEET LIFE

My mom used to say I had "candy radar." She was right, of course, I do, but I can't take credit for it. I was born this way, it's my unique superpower. No other superhero can claim it--and I'm not sure they'd want to. No matter where I am, no matter what else is going on, I can always sense the presence of candy. I'm not kidding. Even if I was in a burning building, and a fireman threw me over his shoulder to carry me to safety, I'd be wailing: "Who's going back for the jar of jelly beans?"

It's not like I go looking for candy, you know. Well okay, I do, but most of the time it just appears in my line of vision, with no effort on my part. But, before you recommend a twelve step program for my sugar addiction, you need to hang on a sec. I said I had candy radar--I never said I ate all the candy I came across. Think of me more as a divining rod, a candy psychic as it were. I'm a Tootsie Pop cop, a Baby Ruth sleuth and a gumdrop gumshoe all rolled into one, ha ha.

That doesn't mean I don't eat candy. Au contraire! There's nothing like the burn of an Atomic Fireball rolling around your mouth, or the mouth-puckering sourness of a Lemonhead on the tip of your tongue. And nothing compares to the perfect piece of dark chocolate, melting like butter in your mouth and sending happy thoughts to your brain. Of course, I have gone overboard once or twice. I'm not proud of this, but I once ate a half pound of Jelly Bellies while working at the register in my college book store (you can't really call it an "impulse buy" if you've been eyeing it for three hours). But those days are over. My teeth and my waistline now insist on moderation.

Also, I need to set a good example for my kids. My oldest son doesn't care much for candy, but the younger one is another story. If I buy a pack a Sweet Tarts and stash it in my glove compartment, Josh will find it (and eat some). But it wasn't until the day that I took him to my office and he went straight for the dark office in the corner, opened the desk drawer and found a large bag of candy that had been placed there only hours before, that I knew. He had candy radar, too.

Perhaps one day the world will need people like us for some higher purpose. After all, they can train pigs to sniff out truffles and they're even training dogs to sniff out cancer. Surely, they can use people who sniff out candy. I only hope they use our superpower for good and not evil!

IT ALL STARTED WITH A LOUD SNEEZE

It all started with a loud sneeze. One minute I was chatting on the phone, and the next I was down on all fours, chanting “ow ow ow OW!” I had never thrown my back out before and I wondered if I would ever get off the floor. From this new perspective, I realized that I could now “keep my ear to the ground” and my “nose to the grindstone” with no effort at all. Eventually, the spasm subsided and I crawled to the bathtub to take a hot bath.

A few days later, a physical therapist recommended back exercises for me. Her favorite was “wall-sitting.” Wall-sitting is simply standing with your back to the wall and then bending your knees until you resemble a human chair. Then you stay that way as long as you can. She also recommended a half hour of Pilates. I vowed to wake up early every day to fit all of that in.


The next week I went to the dentist for a check-up. He told me that, at my age, I should brush twice daily, floss, use a Water Pik (like a pressure cleaner for your teeth) at night and then stimulate my gums with a rubber-tip between each tooth, front and back. I vowed to stay awake a half hour later every night so I could fit all of that in.


The next week I went for my annual check-up. My doctor told me that, at my age, I should be doing 30 minutes of aerobic exercise three times a week and also working out with weights to keep up my bone density. He added that if I wanted to remain flexible, I should start doing Yoga. I decided to give up my lunch hour and also wake up an hour earlier on the weekends so I could fit all of that in.


The next week, I went to the dermatologist for a check-up. She told me that, at my age, I should stay out of the sun at all costs and slather myself with sunscreen any time I saw the light of day. So, I bought a case of sunscreen and vowed to spend an extra fifteen minutes getting ready every morning so I could fit that in as well.


After a month of my new routine, I was so sleep-deprived that I started combining things so I could stay in bed longer. I became the “Queen of Efficiency.” I flossed my teeth while I practiced being a human chair; I rubbed sunscreen on while I jogged in place and I stimulated my gums with a rubber pick while holding a Yoga pose of a tree. Instead of lifting weights, I juggled the cans of beans as I was making dinner and carried the dog out of the kitchen. Finally, after I started doing deep knee bends while I brushed my teeth, I found I didn’t have to wake up early anymore. This getting older stuff is totally manageable; I don’t know why everyone complains about it. Excuse me, I feel a sneeze coming on…

I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU, OF COURSE...

I’m not talking about you, of course, but pet owners can be so annoying. Oh, I know what you’re thinking-that I just don’t understand and that, clearly, I have never experienced the joy of pet ownership. To that I say you may have a point. But, seriously, why the need for a bumper sticker that proclaims: “I love my Labrador Retriever”? Are you hoping that fellow Labrador enthusiasts will feel a kinship towards you and avoid rear-ending your car? Or, are you hoping they will pull up next to you at a traffic light to chat about Labs? I don’t get it…And I also don’t understand people who plaster pictures of their pets all over their office (or cubicles) at work. They have dozens more pictures than I have of my kids (does that make me a bad mother? do they enjoy making me feel inferior?) And they always want to tell you stories, lots of stories about how brilliant, charming and adorable their pet is and why their pet should perform on the Letterman show.

Well, I need to set the record straight: I have indeed owned pets and have even lived with other people’s pets. In fact, my favorite roommate in college also happened to own my least favorite cat in the world. This cat hissed and nipped at me any time I encroached on his territory, which apparently was the entire apartment with the exception of my room. I tried to win him over, but he was unimpressed. The most amazing thing was how oblivious my roommate was to her cat’s open hostility. She explained that he liked me-he was just being “standoffish.”

When I was a kid, my father brought home a Basset Hound and named him Boris. He was kind of cute, in a droopy sort of way, (the dog, not my father) but, if Boris liked us, he kept it to himself. He also had one particularly unendearing quality, he smelled terrible! And no amount of bathing could change that. Naturally, my mother didn’t want him in the house, except at night when he slept in the utility room-with the door tightly closed. Undaunted, my father bought Boris a dog house. If Donald Trump decided to keep an outside dog, he would buy this exact dog house. It had all of the amenities, including indoor/outdoor carpet and a fan, and it was huge! Our tree house wasn’t half as nice, not that I harbor any resentment. Well, not anymore. My Dad was so proud of that dog house that he actually took people outside to take a tour.

One day, it was pouring like it would never stop. My dad looked out the window and then slammed his coffee cup down. “Unbelievable! Boris is standing out in the rain! Why doesn’t he go in his dog house?” My dad marched outside and, while we watched through the window, he tried to show Boris how to go into the doghouse by crawling on all fours and going into it himself. Boris just stood there as the rain pelted him from every direction. Frustrated, my dad proceeded to half-carry, half-shove the recalcitrant hound into his palatial home. But, as soon as Boris was inside, he turned around and walked out again. After spending an hour in the rain trying to keep the dog from getting wet, my Dad came in the house, exhausted and soaked to the bone, muttering, “What a stupid dog…”

Soon after that, we had to give Boris away due to his other bad habit, which we didn’t even know he had. One after another, our neighbors began calling to complain. It turned out that when we weren’t home, Boris howled non-stop. He was so loud, he was scaring their children. They couldn’t hear their TV sets even with the windows closed. So it was “Bye bye Boris,” we hardly knew you.

And don’t think my experience with pet ownership ended there. No Sir, it did not. When our boys were young, they convinced us that we needed a dog. Foolishly, we decided to rescue a dog from Animal Control, not realizing that our chance of finding a normal dog there was practically zero. As it turned out, cute little Sunny was in a class by himself- a little Cock-a-Poo with a big problem. It wasn’t a problem for him, it didn’t faze him a bit, but when Sunny received anything more than a passing glance, he became so excited that he wet the floor. Sadly, we could only be friendly to Sunny when we were outside; inside, we had to maintain a cool cordiality from a safe distance.

We were prepared to live with Sunny’s strange quirk if it hadn’t been for his other issues. First, he started snapping at non-existent flies; then he started licking his left front paw incessantly for no apparent reason (although I’m sure he had an excellent reason for snapping at imaginary flies). The vet prescribed Prozac for his OCD (yes, dogs can have OCD), but it didn’t help. Soon after that, Sunny started jumping up on the table and peeing on the mail (on purpose!) and he had to go.

Several peaceful, pet-free years passed and our memories faded to the point that when our youngest son begged for a dog for his birthday, we capitulated. Somehow, we ended up with not one but two dogs, sisters named Abby and Phoebe. Vivid memories of Sunny suddenly returned and we waited for the nightmare to begin again but now times two! We waited and waited and…nothing happened. Well, something happened. We discovered that we had two perfectly house-trained dogs who were sweet and good-natured and only barked at the mailman. Soon, we learned how brilliant, charming and adorable they could be and so clever that they were sure to be on the David Letterman show one day. I just happen to have some pictures, would you like to see them?

FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

It's nothing personal, but I'm not fond of frogs. I think they're kind of ugly, although I try not to judge. For all I know, they think the same about me. Not that it matters, since we usually don't come into contact--what with me enjoying the comfort of my couch and them enjoying the comfort of wherever they watch "Dr. Who." But all that changed yesterday...

First, I should explain that I love to swim, and by "swim" I mean splash around in my pool. Actually, I do much more than that but, if you saw me, you'd think I was just splashing around. Here's how it goes. Before I get in the pool, there is a crazy chatterbox in my head pitching fastballs into my brain, something like this:

How did it get to be so late? What can I make for dinner? Are there leftovers? I need to order meds for the dog. Got to remember to buy stamps, milk, and… what was the third thing? I can't believe I forgot the third thing--I feel like Rick Perry! I am so losing it…

But, as soon as I wade into the pool, Ms. Chatterbox forgets all that and says, "Ahhh, this is nice!" If I'm lucky, I won't hear from her for the rest of the day. I then pick up the pool net and start circling the perimeter, scooping up leaves and bugs (I can't risk getting a bug in my mouth. I'm sure you understand) while immersing myself oh-so-gradually. Once the pool is bug-free, I can submerge and practice my audition for "Cirque du Soleil," under-water edition. I proceed to roll and tumble, pirouette and twirl--I just couldn't be more graceful. Of course, I can't see myself, so that helps.

After practicing my routine, I try to see how long I can swim on the bottom of the pool while scuttling like a crab. I imagine I look just like the blue crabs that sometimes find their way into our pool. And then sometimes I just free-float, swaying like a sea anemone, giving up control of my limbs. Control is overrated anyway.

Yesterday was different though. As I was netting up the debris, I caught a glimpse of something moving. A tiny black frog, no bigger than a nickel, was trying to scale the slick tile wall of the pool and make his escape. I could see that it wasn't happening for him. He was so cute and determined, I decided to help, offering him a lift on my index finger to ferry him out. But he had a different idea. Grasping my finger with all his puny strength, he decided he liked it there and no amount of coaxing could convince him otherwise. I was touched. I couldn't help but smile as my little friend and I cleaned the pool together, basking in the afternoon sun. I lazily tried to remember anything I could about frogs and came up with one thing: they love to eat mosquitos.

I thought about how my friend's mother contracted West Nile Virus and my dog contracted heartworms, even while taking preventative meds; both of those were mosquito-borne diseases.

I suddenly realized that by saving my little frog's life, I could be saving a person's life! I was struck by how far-reaching one small act of kindness could be.

"I know you're nervous," I said, gently nudging him, "but it's time for you to go. You have a big job--you have to save the world!" He finally understood how important he was and reluctantly hopped away.

I've changed my mind about frogs, of course, but I still won't be inviting them to watch "Dr. Who" with me on my couch.

GADGET GIRL

If the opposite of “hoarder” is a person who despises clutter, knick-knacks, gee gaws and tchotchkes, then I am that person, with one notable exception. Although I worship Minimalism as a philosophy, and also as a house-cleaning technique, I admit I have a weakness: I love gadgets–specifically, kitchen gadgets. I can’t help it. While I can easily ignore the siren call of an infomercial (Seal in flavor! Juice it! Grill away fat!) and I’ve never purchased a Ginsu knife ( who wants to cut their sneakers in half?) I just can’t resist a cool gadget. Maybe it’s the way they solve problems I didn’t know I had, but my online dictionary got it right, a gadget really is an “ingenious device.”

Let’s start low-tech with the apple slicer. Now, tell me this: who wouldn’t enjoy eating a crisp Fuji, Gala or Granny Smith apple cut into eight perfectly symmetrical slices? Nobody, that’s who. When Eve took a bite of her first apple, she had to be wondering, “Isn’t there an easier way to eat this thing?” She would have appreciated the apple slicer.

Of course, if you want to bake your apple, you should put away the slicer and take out your apple corer. Once that pesky core is gone, you can fill your apple with yummy deliciousness like honey, raisins & cinnamon, and then top it off with vanilla ice cream when it's baked. See what you’ve been missing? Luckily, both of these gadgets are inexpensive and fit neatly in your kitchen drawer.

Things start to get tricky if you’re a garlic-lover, and honestly, who isn’t? The first gadget you’ll need is a garlic keeper so your garlic stays fresh as a daisy, er, just fresh. Next up, you’ll want to buy a garlic roaster because-- what’s the point of eating fresh-baked, crusty bread if there’s no roasted garlic to spread on it? You’ll need only a few more gadgets to complete your set: a garlic peeler, a garlic press, a garlic slicer, a garlic dicer and a magic soap bar made of stainless steel to take away the garlic smell.

Personally, I enjoy the smell of garlic. I’d like to create a garlic perfume called “Delicioso.” A light spritz would make you smell like a world-class chef and, in the event of a culinary crisis, you could also spray it on your food. All of these gadgets are essential, but don’t worry, they won’t take up much space, only half of a kitchen drawer.

Since you still have some room in the drawer, you should consider adding these beauties: a tomato stem remover, a corn stripper, a lemon zester, a grapefruit segmenter, an herb snipper with a stem stripper, an avocado slicer, a strawberry huller, a cherry pitter, an olive stuffer, a ravioli stamper, a calzone mold, and my absolute favorite, an egg-cuber, so you can make square hard-boiled eggs that won’t roll off your plate. Genius!

Now that your drawer is full, let’s talk about the fun stuff. You can’t live without a Popsicle maker if you have kids--that’s a fact–and you just can’t beat the smell of fresh bread wafting from your automatic bread maker. If you pour the ingredients in at night and set the timer, you’ll be dreaming you live in a bakery as you bake fresh bread in your sleep. If you’re health-conscious, then an electric yogurt-maker is perfect for you, and you can always beat the summer heat with your electric ice-cream maker. Think of the exotic flavors you could invent, like bourbon with cornflakes, or candied bacon--you can’t find those in the store! And how about those fancy Panini you can make with your Panini Press? But we aren’t done yet! Just think how much you’ll enjoy the gentle gurgle of seltzer water flowing from your Sodastream and the Belgian waffles you made in your waffle iron, not to mention the fries you fried in your Fry Daddy, the coffee you ground with your coffee grinder, the noodles spiraling out of your pasta maker and the perfectly prepped lettuce leaves shooting out of your salad spinner.

When you’re done with all that, you can bathe in your chocolate fountain. Isn't life good?

You may be wondering where to put all of these amazing gadgets. It’s simple really, just get rid of your knick-knacks, gee gaws and tchotchkes, and any other useless clutter, like dishes, pots & pans, and all the food in your pantry, and you’ll have plenty of room for all this neat stuff. Enjoy!

If you enjoyed this sample, then why not go crazy and buy the whole e-book? Available on Amazon for only $0.99(!) "A Trip to the Hardware Store & Other Calamities."

LAZY BONES

Efficient people are really lazy people in disguise--true or false? If you said false, you clearly aren't one of us. The truth is we lazies strive to do as little as possible as quickly as possible so we can get back to lazing around. Being efficient fits nicely with our goals and, more importantly, it gets better press.

Case in point: a quick peek at the dictionary reveals that "efficient" means being productive with minimal effort, while "lazy" means requiring little or no effort. See? They're the same. Except, of course, for the synonyms. Oy! If you're lazy, you are indolent, shiftless and slothful. Slothful! When the best way to describe you is by invoking the Seven Deadly Sins, you know you're in trouble.

On the other hand, if you're efficient, Mr. Roget and his eponymous book can't praise you highly enough. Not only are you energetic and economical, you are also capable and clever, able and accomplished, shrewd and skillful, and also, my personal favorite, virtuous.

Not to mention that lazy is often followed by the word "bastard."

So unfair. And where's the gratitude? Where would the rest of you be if we hadn't perfected procrastination? Take Hamlet, the biggest procrastinator of all time…okay, not a good example. Just remember this: procrastinating is an art. A person may dabble for years and never become a virtuoso. Only a master procrastinator can leap from the precipice of putting things off into the whitewater of wasted time, swim through the sea of snide remarks, and all without drowning.

Isn't it time the world lauded our contributions to society? Look at our magnificent "Paper Self-Management System" which enables offices everywhere to run smoothly. Also known as "Elimination by Procrastination," this system allows the user to dispose of piles of paperwork without ever touching them. The secret lies in recognizing which documents will take care of themselves without human intervention. It also works with e-mails, texts and voicemails.

Another of our crackerjack accomplishments is, "National Procrastination Week." Troubled by the stressful lives of our friends and neighbors, we wanted to show them an easier life--our life, and so we instituted "National Procrastination Week"(March 4-10), to promote the many benefits of putting off until tomorrow everything that needn’t be done today. You're welcome.

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't introduce you to some famous procrastinators in history. First, we have President Woodrow Wilson who prohibited child labor, limited railway workers to an eight hour day, declared war on Germany and wrote fourteen points about something or other. I should probably look that up. I'll do it later, I need a snack first … oops, where was I? Oh yes, the important thing was Wilson's firm belief that: "Today's greatest labor-saving device is tomorrow."

And then there's Mark Twain, father of American literature and the greatest humorist of his age. He was one of ours, too. Did you know he changed his name to Mark Twain because it took too darn long to write Samuel Langhorne Clemens? Think of all the time he saved over a lifetime! He even patented several time-saving devices including the "Improvement in Adjustable and Detachable Straps for Garments" (to replace suspenders) and a self-pasting scrapbook featuring pages coated with dried adhesive that only required moistening. Genius!

And talk about efficient, when Twain learned that his birth coincided with the appearance of Halley's Comet, he declared that he would die when it returned. And, of course, he did. His motto was: "Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow."

Our third American hero is Les Waas, founder and president of the "Procrastination Club of America." The club boasts 12,000 active members and millions more who are planning to join, but haven't gotten around to it. The club started as a joke when Waas and some friends hung a sign up in a hotel that read: "The procrastination's club meeting has been postponed." Waas has been president for fifty-five years and explains that while the club would like to award an annual "Procrastinator of the Year," they are still waiting for the nominating committee to make a recommendation. (Steel, Piers, PhD. The Procrastination Equation. New York: Harper 2010).

So, what are the roots of procrastination? Is this just a modern-day reaction to our perpetual busyness? Excellent questions, glad you asked. Some ancient civilizations did embrace the concept of procrastination. Indian philosophy, for example, gives equal weight to the paths of action and inaction, and one of the foundations of Zen Buddhism is to live in the moment, aware of your actions, thoughts and sensory perceptions.

Hey multi-taskers! Turn off your phones and pay attention. You don't see any Buddhist monks racing around town picking up their dry cleaning and dropping off their dog at the vet, do you? That's because they're serene. They're living in the moment. They’re in tune with their inner selves. Nah, they're probably just procrastinating…

The bottom line is: don't feel guilty for procrastinating. The important stuff will get done eventually and the other stuff will take care of itself. It turns out some of the most creative people are the biggest procrastinators. Virginia Woolf wrote in A Room of One's Own: "It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top." See? You weren't procrastinating, you were just being creative!

This is a sample from my e-book, "A Trip to the Hardware Store & Other Calamities," available on Amazon for only $0.99. Such a deal!

If You'd Just Listened to Me in the First Place...

This is an excerpt from my new book...

Nobody, and I mean nobody, can nag like I can. If you don’t believe me, just ask my husband Charlie. He'll probably roll his eyes without actually answering because Charlie isn’t one to waste words, but he knows in his heart that he wouldn’t be where he is today but for me and my nagging.Now, if you ask my neighbors and friends in Covington about me, they'll say: “Ella Boudreaux? Oh, she can be real persistent,” but they always say it in such an admiring way that I don’t mind at all. 'Nagging' just sounds so negative and I am not a negative person. Truth is, I’m the kind of person you'd ask for directions if you were lost, or tell your life story to while waiting in line at the grocery store, which has happened on more than one occasion, believe me.

So how does a person with my unique skill set make a living? As a bill collector, of course. It didn’t occur to me for a long time that this was my true calling--not until I had tried my hand as a dog walker, burger slinger, barnacle scraper, typist (on a real typewriter, with correction tape and everything), waitress (for fancy and not-so-fancy restaurants), and telemarketer.

Without a doubt, slinging burgers was the most humbling job, hands down. By the end of every shift, my skin and clothes had soaked up more oil than a gusher. The worst part of that job was feeling like I was in the army. We had to follow orders and never question our superiors, even if they were no smarter than a French fry! For an independent thinker like me, that was torture, as you might imagine.
While my other jobs had their highs and lows, I have to say that telemarketer was my absolute favorite. I certainly set some records while I was there, including: fewest magazine subscriptions sold, highest phone bills racked up, and most sob stories ever listened to--which may explain why I only lasted a month. But the stories I heard were priceless! It’s amazing what people will tell you when all you asked was: “Are you happy with your magazine subscription Mrs. _______?” Why, I could write a book! I heard about runaway dogs, philandering husbands, tragic illnesses, financial catastrophes, and children whose sole mission in life was to disappoint their parents.But it wasn’t all bad stuff. Some days I heard about upcoming nuptials, new grandbabies, second chances at love, and vacations to faraway places, like California and Hawaii.

And while this may not be news to you, it was a real eye-opener for me to learn that some people have no filter at all--whatever pops into their brains flies right out of their mouths faster than a kid coming down a water slide. So, while I tried to sell them magazines, they were spilling their guts like guests on The Jerry Springer Show. Funny thing is I never thought of it as a dead-end job, not once. No, it was more like my own personal soap opera with an ever-changing cast of characters. All I had to do was listen--and throw in an encouraging word once in a while.

I loved that job, so I was sad when it ended. It was the last Wednesday in June, around lunchtime, and I was on the phone with a woman named Maria Teresa Flanagan who very much wanted to renew her subscriptions to Reader’s Digest and Needlepoint Now, but just couldn’t afford it with everything else going on in her life. Well, wouldn’t you know it, right when Maria Teresa got to the good part of her story my boss, Roy Charbonnet, Jr., walked over. Of course, everyone else pretended to be working when they saw him tap me on the shoulder, but I knew what was coming, especially in light of my poor sales record. He was so nice when he fired me (he said he was “letting me go”) that I couldn’t be mad. All the same, I was sorely disappointed. Now I would never know whether Maria Teresa’s son did the right thing and married his pregnant girlfriend, or joined the army to get away from his drunken step-daddy.

I must admit that telemarketing taught me a few things about people. I learned that while everyone has a story to tell, boring people believe their stories are absolutely fascinating. They do so love to talk, but their stories are rambling and pointless and never have an ending. Not much of a beginning or middle either, to tell the truth. I had to learn how to interrupt them while still being nice because if they hung up on me, I'd just have to start all over again with a new chatterbox.
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Charlie is reading this over my shoulder and giving me a look that says I need to move my story along, or someone will be tempted to shut me down for rambling. Even if I believe I'm absolutely fascinating. I know he just wants me to get to the part where he has a starring role. Don't worry Darlin', I'll get there…

If you enjoyed this sample, then check out the book on Amazon, it's only $0.99! What a deal!

THE SENSES AWAKEN

Padding bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I grope my way towards sanity, towards my little miracle. Only it can soothe my parched throat and banish the vague nightmares that still skitter through my brain like the deformed creatures they are.


A simple routine, but I relish it. Moving like an automaton, I check the water level in the machine and flip the on switch, take out the milk (thank God there's milk!) and reach for the coffee, the spoon, the sugar. As I measure the finely ground espresso powder and tamp it into the compartment, I breathe in deeply, the dark complex aromas swirl in my flared nostrils promising me revival and a return to the world of the real.

Without the aroma, would I enjoy coffee as much? I wonder, but then dismiss the thought. It was like imagining a sun with no heat, or a sky with no blue, or a heart with no love.