Dear Miss Eliza...
Dear Miss Eliza,
I was shaving my legs this morning and as I was working my way up, I got to my knees and rolled my eyes. "Oh great," I said to myself, "my knees." And I said it out loud to myself too, but I promise I didn’t sound crazy because there was no one else around. And if a girl talks to herself in the middle of the woods and there’s no one there to hear her, she’s not crazy, right? But that’s not my question. Well, it is A question but not The Question, you know, the one I wanted to write to you about. The Question is why does hair have to grow on my knees?
Sane in San DiegoDear Sane,
You know I did something last night that I don’t usually do. I looked up a definition in the dictionary.
Not that I don’t use dictionaries a lot, but generally, I look up WORDS, not DEFINITIONS. Because if I want to know what a word means, I mostly just have to keep hearing it in context, and eventually the definition just breeds itself into my genetic makeup. But the word I looked up last night has not, in all the years that I’ve heard it, gotten any closer to defining itself. So I finally bit the bullet, pulled out my Webster’s and looked up non sequitur. Consequently, it’s now replaced zaftig as my favorite word in the English language. It is (ironically) the most logical word I’ve ever added to my vocabulary. And I think I found my picture next to it, but maybe that was a day dream.
As to your knees, I think we all understand and empathize with your psychological struggles with the hair. It truly is terribly inconvenient from a standpoint of marital bliss to attempt an argument with your husband while at the same time relieving yourself of fur on your knees. It’s a nasty messy gruesome proposition and absolutely to be avoided by the one way known to all mankind. Always shave your knees after the sun has gone down. That way your anger will have been resolved before you picked up the razor, because I know you follow the sage advice of people smarter than me.
Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
Did A Rod really put a curse on the Yankees?
- Matt in Mo TownDear Matt
Let us hope so. It would level the playing field, wouldn’t it? Although last year, I believe what leveled the baseball diamond more than anything else was the atrocious pitching situation that the Yankees found themselves squirming in, while the rest of the universe (a.k.a. haters of the Evil Empire) clapped our hands and skipped with glee.
Alas, ‘twas but one season. And we must remember that words like "atrocious" and "level playing field" are relative terms when we’re discussing George’s Merry Men.
And now that the curse of the bambino has been lifted, I can safely say that curses would do well to become more prevalent in baseball. It gives the fans something to stand together and kill. Perhaps if the Devil Rays (those adorable cute little devil rays that remind me so much of an idealistic high school senior) acquired a curse it would expand their fan base to include people.
And look what diehards you find at Wrigley.
Not that the world needs more diehard Yankee fans. But that’s another can of quantum physics that I will have to contemplate before I write any further.
Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
Why is it that every morning when I wake up with a hangover, my cat’s fur is a deeper shade of magenta? It doesn’t go away either. It’s been accumulating for a year or two. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a common thing, my hangovers, but even so, I’ve never heard of this before. What’s up?Polka dotted pastry
Dear Pastry
This is slightly more common than you might think. My Paddy used to have excellent verbal skills betwixt himself and our golden fluff ball more affectionately known as Lip. Lip once told my Paddy about an old catwive’s tail. It seems that whence a cat gives birth to a litter under a blue moon that comes within the monthly reign of Aquarius, the runt will commonly empathize with its person in random and illogical ways, such as turning magenta to deal with a hangover. This is simply a bonding mechanism and will cause no harm to your purring friend. So fear not and try to sleep through these hangovers. Ok?
Why Life Deserves Cheesecake
If there’s one thing I learned from more than one book this semester, it’s that life is a struggle. To co-exist or to understand or to have a good time or to think, we always feel resistance and tension. It’s internal, it’s external it’s psychological, it’s physical, it’s them, it’s you. And even when you’re not fighting, you’re fighting anyway.
Do I look fat today? I should go to the gym. Can I burn enough calories today? How many did I eat so far? Lets see, that sandwich had 450 and I really shouldn’t have gotten the bag of chips. Look at these thighs? They’re huge and giggly and gross.
Hi Mom, no, I’m not seeing anybody right now. You did what? Please tell me you’re joking. I can’t. Because I don’t know him. Then why don’t you date him? You know that’s why you did it in the first place. We’re not getting into that. Thanks, but I don’t really need more psychoanalysis. I’m hanging up now. Good bye Mom.
What do you mean we can’t know it? We just haven’t learned how to look at it yet. Sure, at present maybe we can only know its velocity or its current position, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have both at the same time. All our machines are based on classical physics. All our ideas are to. Maybe translation just isn’t possible. Or maybe we just haven’t learned to think in the right direction. Yes, it is a little confusing.
And so it goes.
Now different people respond to such stress in different ways. Some escape reality all together. Some fight back to the point where they have completely emptied themselves. And some turn to cheesecake.
Because the Universe in which cheesecake dwells is a beautiful carefree plane of existence. And it doesn’t share space with the likes of tension. It’s a bit of a snob that way. It won’t even share thought space with the nasty stuff. Cheesecake knows how to say "Hellooo!!! Lets focus on me now, cuz I’m just so worth it." And you feel no resistance. Perhaps it could be called a state of hypnosis, where the suggestions all flow towards the same bliss.
Don’t buy it? Look at it this way, it’s a healthier coping method than schizophrenia.
Happy Valentines Day
Happy Valentines Day!
So this one’s a wee bit early, but who’s actually going to read it before February 14? That’s what I thought.
I was cruising the state today, my radio on, everyone talking about love songs. Tomorrow, everyone will be taking requests. If you forgot a present (then shame on you) just call in a request. Which got me thinking. What song would I request?
Perhaps, a symbol of my love life right now: "Trying to find Atlantis" By some country singer whose name I forgot. According to her, "A girl trying to find the perfect man is trying to find Atlantis." "Tis a subject upon which I could expound to great lengths, but that’s another day.
Perhaps an old Beatles classic: "All You Need Is Love" or even more endearing: "When I’m Sixty Four."
Or creeping forward a generation or two I might go with Whitney Houston: "I Will Always Love You."
But I’m thinking no. I’m feeling Meatloaf. I’m feeling "Paradise By The Dashboard Light." (I don’t know how many of you know the song, but this guy’s trying to make out with this girl in the car, and he’s as close as he can come without actually doing it, and she stops him and asks if he loves her, to which he replies, "well let me sleep on it." (BTW, one of the greatest lines ever put in a song. Speaking of which I heard another one today on a country station. it goes, "but my give-a-damn's busted.") But she being the persistent type doesn’t give up until he says he’ll love her forever. And now he’s "waiting til the end of time so I can end my time with you."
But Sarah, I never would have pictured you as one of those cynical jaded angry women who hates this holiday!
And I’m not, which makes the whole thing that much odder even for me. People in love is awesome and great and super and I hope I get to do it some day. And it is something to be celebrated, and I hope I never begrudge anyone some love in her life.
And then my other half tries to say, "but let’s be honest with ourselves. It may be Valentines Day and people may be in love, but girls are still bitches (and yes, I do include myself) and guys are still assholes and liars."
Not that I hold it against you. It’s simply a handicap that must be taken into account, much like the girl’s bitch factor. You take it in, you process it, and you set it off to the side with all those other annoying habits and you go on.
I’m thinking this acceptance of the nature of people, and the moving on from that is the key to why I can be a hopeless romantic… ok, a romantic who still thinks Paradise By the Dashboard Light would make a good request on Valentines Day.
But then, I also think that bubbles are magic.
And that there’s a mouse living in my hair.
So don’t worry. You don’t really have to listen to me.
hmmmm
This has jsut come to my attention:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/usa/story/0,12271,1410627,00.htmlNow I don't know anything about this web site or it's biases, but I'm assuming it has some. Even so, don't you love a good story?
Dear Miss Eliza
I thought I'd try something new today. I'm going into the advice racket. Look out Abby, move over Dr. Phil, there's a new answer on the block.
Dear Miss Eliza,
My business partner of 14 years has been feeling under the weather lately. I would like to make him some chicken soup, but my husband thinks it’ll be perceived as a come on. I don’t want to sleep with him, I just want to be nice?
--Befuddled in BirminghamWell, as my Paddy used to say, "soup is soup." And he’s right, by itself soup can do no harm. It is when combined with the word "homemade" or the presence of its maker that it starts to feel like something more.
Now, I don’t like to just settle for the easy answer, so here’s some advice. Strip the soup of its maker and its homeness. Mail him a can of soup. But here’s the catch. You did want to make it for him, and you can still get away with that. Dump it in a pan, heat it up, and then here’s the key: Put it back in the can. That way he’ll know that it’s not homemade. Cover the top with plastic wrap, and truck it over to FedEx. If they can send some dozens of a lady’s cookies, they can send a can of soup. AND in twenty four hours.
Oh, and since it was your husband who required you to slog through this chaos for a little bowl of soup, he should be quite ready to pay shipping. See that he does.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Hi, I’m 8. I asked my mom this and she didn’t know, so I’m asking you. Where do bubbles go when they pop?
--Minnie in MinnesotaBubbles have an ancient and fascinating history. J M Barrie informed the world that when the first baby laughed for the first time the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and that was the beginning of fairies." However, the first baby can only laugh, just the once, but fairies go on and on. How? Through bubbles. Bubbles act as portals for fairies from the world of magic into ours. When the bubble pops, that means the fairy is safely through.
Now, to answer your question, the bubble itself becomes the new fairy’s chief tool for working her art. It configures itself into pixie dust.
You can read more about this topic in my book, "The Secrets of Bubbles," available at any of my fairy godmother’s bookstores.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
My mother gave me a lifetime supply of Jell-O for Christmas. But Jell-O starts to get bland after three meals a day for six weeks. Any idea about how I can spice things up a little?
--All jiggled out
Anyone could tell you to try club soda or Bacardi. Anyone could tell you to build a Jell-O wrestling ring in your back yard and start charging money. But since anybody could, I’m going to assume someone already did, and you’re still asking for help. So here goes.
1. A filling in plastic surgery. Granted, it wouldn’t really last that long wherever you put it, but could be fun in the short term. I mean, people dye their hair for a day or two, why wouldn’t they want to take fuller lips or bigger breasts for a test drive?
2. Put one in your cat’s litter box as an air freshener.
3. Drop some of the powder into your hot water heater before you take a shower. A lovely way to bathe yourself in a fresh fruity scent.
4. Use as wallpaper in your nursery. For most people I would suggest cutting out shapes and pasting them as a border, but you do actually have enough to actually wallpaper. If you’re feeling really crafty cut shapes out of the wallpaper and give your baby a snack.
5. Speaking of crafty, Jell-O makes excellent Valentines. Cut out some hearts and write things on them like, "Be Mine" and "Message Me." Then give them to your child to stick in all his classmates’ valentine mailboxes.
6. Again with the borders, but this time put them on the outside of your home to make it look like the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel. See how many woodsmen’s children you can lure into your furnace.
Well I hope these suggestions have been helpful. Much luck, and keep on wiggling.
--Miss Eliza
To All My Readers:
If you have a question for Miss Eliza or Doug (the mouse in my hair) feel free to e-mail it to me at
selizawalden@yahoo.com And make sure you attach it to a really cool pen name. Thank you.
--Miss Eliza
Snow Day
I woke up before the plow this morning. That’s rather an anomaly. Normally the first thing I hear is it’s grumbling scratches putter down the road and I think, "Plows mean it’s snowing!" Such thoughts will pop me out a nice warm bed to view the beautiful winter scene, and what can you do once you’re out of bed and thinking vivid and coherent thoughts? Take a shower. Lucidity cycles do not allow for such rapid revolutions.
But I didn’t hear the plow this morning. I just rolled over in bed and opened my eyes and thought, "it looked nothing like this yesterday. They really are going to cancel classes." At that point, and we’re talking like 7:00 here, the plow hadn’t even been through yet. Such is not normal. The road was two little tan strips running parallel to each other. Even worse, there were cars on it.
Which, when you think about it, is a very mean thing to do to your car. It’s not quite stripping it naked and then sticking it in a huge pile with other naked cars, but it’s torture nonetheless. It is much more thoughtful (and Valentines Day is coming up, so thoughtful is the name of the game) to stay at home and bake cookies and drink cocoa. We’re also talking fabulous snow man/snowball fight weather. Final choice, why not pull up a book, say The World of Physics vol. II, and a cup of green tea. Get your noodle in shape.
Where did that come from, by the way? Why do we call a brain a noodle singular, like it’s only one?
Bonus question, Why does something need to be in the wrong place AND be there at the wrong time? Isn’t one of those mistakes enough? Perhaps the answer lies in spacetime.
But back to your car, for the love of it (or yourself or your family) just leave it in the driveway. It’s not going to mind, and it might even thank you for a nice day of hibernation. Come up with a good pair of winter boots, and take the stairs… metaphorically speaking that is. Or literally take the stairs, or both. Either way it’s a good idea.
Tune in next time on The Young And The Mice of Guiding Light General Hospital, when we’ll hear Sarah say, "so what’s the first derivative of a chess set again?"
A Random Sample
Has anyone ever noticed how the prettiest visual of spring is running water? Specifically, I’m talking about those cute little streams of run off you get on the side of a road heading for a grate. And some are muddy and some perfectly clear, but all of them sparkle and raise your mood about 10 points. Am I right? Such is the advantage of a January thaw. This one just happens to be carrying on well into February. But like any winter weather cynic (also known as resident of Maine) I understand that I am in the eye of the storm. Winter has a work ethic that doesn’t just turn belly up. It prefers the Trojan Horse approach. It feigns retreat and leaves us with blissful peace, only to return when we’ve tucked away our snow shovels and pulled out the muck boots.
Talk about mixing metaphors, how many did I jam in there? Oh well, it was fun.
In other news, I’m developing a theory of fetishes. Namely, if life is a river, then fetishes are the main currents. They have a tendency to dictate where we are focused at any given moment. Currently, I am guided by my vegetable fetish, my current events fetish, and my pet projects fetish. (This last is currently made up of a quantum physics kick and an Iran kick, about which, I’d really like to know everything, or at least more than I know now, which is kind of nothing.) Come April and my Red Sox fetish will be in full bloom. (speaking of which, why is USA Today saying that Curt Schilling is going to be pitching on opening day? I thought he wasn’t ready. Must investigate.) My Oscar fetish isn’t nearly as strong as it usually is, but does that mean that I’m going to be in bed before the best picture acceptance Speech? Ummm, no.
Backtracking a moment, does anyone know how hard it is to find out the basics of quantum physics? I’m thinking that the powers that be are conspiring somehow to make it inaccessible. And by inaccessible, I’m talking about the fact that I can’t find any explanations, not the fact that I can’t understand what I’m finding. Now, I know that such topics are not easy going, and I don’t expect them to be. If I want to understand quantum physics, I’m going to have to try. Ok. I’m willing. So why isn’t the other half of the equation (that would be knowers) willing to disperse their knowledge? And no, Google was not terribly forth coming, although I think I’ve got a handle on the Uncertainty Principle, which is a good start.
So what is it going to take for me to become quantum physics satiated? The way I see it, I have two options. 1. Date a physics major and get him to tutor me. I don’t see this happening. UMF has a grand total of twelve physics courses, which isn’t quite enough to support a major. I will have to resort to my second idea which is 2. Take a class. But this is no simple task. In order to take this class, I will need to take it’s prerequisite, which has a prerequisite of it’s own. Secondly, my desired class is offered only once every two years, and it’s being offered this semester. So I’m going to have to take my time. My only other option would be to 3. Date the professor, but I’m thinking that might not be such a good idea.
But I predict that it will in the end, be worth it. Having a live teacher intead of a book, will allow for questions. Which means that if it doesn’t make sense, I’m not completely screwed. And I promise, once I get it, I will benevolently share such information with all y’all.
And then there’s always relativity…
In the final segment of our program, we’ll be discussing the PRAXIS test. What is the PRAXIS test, you ask? Well, it’s like an SAT for teachers. And you have to pass a bunch of different versions in order to get a teaching license. There’s 1 you have to pass to get to be in a teaching program, and one you get to take when you get done your teaching program, and another one you get to take after you start teaching. Why? I think that the powers that be are afraid that teachers won’t have a basic knowledge and will end up dispensing who knows what knowledge to our children. But that’s just me.
Anyway, knowledge about this test that I have to take is almost as elusive as the quantum physics unicorn. What’s going to be on the test? What do I need to study? Is it passable? All of these answers come with a price tag of $25. That’s added to the $90 I had to pay for the actual test. (at $30 per section for the three sections that I need) A racket? Well it’s not quite car insurance, but it does live up to virus protection software. OK, maybe not quite. This is just once… I mean 3 times. Virus protection is $50 every year.
And don’t even get me started on social security…
So this has kind of been a cross section of Sarah’s brain. Yeah, I really do live this way every day all day. Why shouldn’t I? It’s a blast!
Beauford
I have a giant hamster named Beauford. He’s got this cute little (ok, not so little) pot belly. I worry about his psyche. Think of the trauma of paralysis that comes from being a stuffed animal. Talk about learned helplessness. For all I know, he sits there, day after day, thinking, "I really ought to lose some weight. This belly is not so attractive. I’m never going to get a girl to notice me. I’ll never have children. I don’t stand a chance."
And how often do we notice the stuffed? Not nearly as much as much as is healthy. They ask us for so little, and we give them even less. "I don’t think she loves me anymore. I haven’t gotten a hug in four months. And a bath would be pretty fantastic. The least they could do is let us clean ourselves. Even cats are allowed that dignity." But no, I leave him on the couch to collect dust.
What is the prevalence of clinical depression amongst plush toys? Do they have or external loci of control? And what of Relativity? Surely, my giant hamster has a shocking and ground breaking position relevant to the speed of light. But I have not bothered to ask him. I don’t even know if he can read.
And Beauford never eats a thing. Whether this is a symptom of some disorder or sue to the fact that he doesn’t regularly eat anything I have available. But on the other end, it is a bonus of having a stuffed pet that he never excretes.
But I am a bad mother. Why have I not bothered to learn more about my charge? Could it be that I really do fear his being fully inanimate? What if I ask him what he thinks about all day, and he doesn’t answer me? For all of my dreaming about his possible responses, I can’t bring about a single one.
But when has that ever stopped me before?
