My dad didn't advise me much when I was growing up. When he did, they were humdingers, and usually they were one-liners.  For instance, on the day of my senior prom, he told me rather placidly, and unexpectedly, "Don't go f***ing around." The idea hadn't even entered my mind.  And, when I was attending community college, Daddy pronounced suddenly in his usual unruffled way to me, "Don't be a hippie." Nothing more. Probably the most profound guidance Daddy gave me was when, as a teenager, I decided to check out different churches. Not because I was looking for a church to join but because I was curious about how different churches worshiped. I didn't know that Daddy had noticed what I was doing. Even if he had, I didn't think he would've cared since we were not avid churchgoers. But before I went on my fourth Sunday outing, Daddy said, calmly, as always, "I don't want you going to any other church as long as I'm alive." H

What a ditz I am! What a dope! I could blame it on my  progressive lenses that give me trouble finding the  sweet spot in which to read my computer screen. Yeah, I can blame my glasses. No personal responsibility here for reading $.045 as 45 cents instead of 4 1/2 cents. What a big difference that is! Last month, I contracted to write three articles for a reputable publisher based on $.045 per word, which I read as 45 cents a word. I would've been none the wiser if I hadn't received an e-mail yesterday from the editor seeking writers to complete a few  rush articles. He wrote that the pay would be the usual "4 1/2 cents per word." What? I quickly looked up the initial query I received and my contract. The wording was "$.045 per word." Such a dumbo, I am. Sigh . Now I could turn my frown upside down by saying that 4 1/2 cents per word is better than the zero cents per word I give myself for blog posts. Four and a half cents is better than nothing, right? So

I learned recently that the Pulitzer people give out an annual prize for criticism. The mama would win one if she was a journalist, or if the prize was for the most, best, and consistent criticizer around.  That doesn't sound good, does it? On a positive note, she is less critical than she was in our younger days. That could be because I am just as less critical about her. Ah, the joys of this daughter-and-mother relationship. I digress, as bloggers are sometimes meant to do. According to the Pulitzer Prizes Web site, the winners in the criticism category are awarded for their " distinguished criticism." In other words, they have written in print or online acclaimed, celebrated, esteemed, respected, important, and influential words of assessment, appraisal, judgement, disapproval, condemnation, and/or censure. Imagine. Some winning critics have offered their opinions about movies, books, music, art, architecture, or media. Others have commented about social, cultural, ec

I bought a 2010 calendar last year. I don't know where it is. I only care now because I have work assignments for different clients that I need to keep tabs on. Don't worry clients, if you happen to be reading this. I know my deadline for each of you. Some moments, I just feel anal-retentive and wish to have a calendar that's not on my computer (as if I look at that one) but strewn on top of a noteworthy pile on my desk. That's just how I operate.

Departures is a film directed by Yojiro Takita. It is a simple, but elegant, story that won the 2009 Oscar for best foreign language film. Be forewarned. There are no scenes of violence, crashes, bombs, car chases, or graphic sex, but there are scenes of death. Essentially, the movie is about people and their humanity. The main character is Daigo Kobayashi. He is a cellist. When his orchestra is dissolved, he decides that he is not talented enough to continue his career as a professional musician. Because they cannot afford to live in Tokyo, he tells his wife Mika that they will move back to his hometown.  Mika supports Daigo wholeheartedly, but she is upset to learn that he had recently bought a high-priced cello without first talking with her. Finding work is difficult for Daigo because he has no skills besides playing his cello. He reads a newspaper ad for an agent who assists with departures. No experience necessary. Daigo thinks that it may be a job with a travel agency so he app

I woke up feeling down this morning. Actually, I went to sleep feeling down. I was also feeling a sense of devastation for no obvious reason. To keep the ya-ya's at bay, I played Bejeweled Blitz at Facebook for a long while. Of course, it didn't work.  I  told myself to do something constructive such as add stuff that I've been avoiding to do on my to-do list.  And do them. Or, at least take care of the things that are still on that list. I didn't even try to find my to-do list. I thought about doing something healthy and frolicky such as  walking over to the quilt shop and buying a couple of cheerful looking fat quarters. But, should I be spending money that way? Besides, it looked like it might rain. Then we received our mail. Amongst it was a handprinted envelope, which the husband thought was a wedding invitation. An assumption, he said, because there was no return address. But it was a card from Rabobank where we had opened a new account a few months back. "We

If you ask the mama how old she is, she will usually say, "I'm 100 years old." And, depending on who you are, she might give you a smile or a look that tells you she thinks you're a moron. So, how old is the mama? She has told me not to tell. But I can say that the mama is 30-some years older than me, and I'm already considered a senior by AARP. Age does not slow the mama down. The weather does. First it was rain, now it's the chilly wind that keeps her from spending all day playing outside in her garden patches. I'm grateful for that. The cold weather, that is. It buys the husband and me time to figure out how to prep a smaller vegetable garden space without it being too obvious. Her vegetable garden, you see, is practically the whole back yard. When the husband and I first moved in with the mama, we made a point of staying out of her garden. It is her domain, her zen, her centering place. With each year, though, I've been casually going out there a b

I now sweep the kitchen floor after dinner while the husband washes the dishes. I used to do it in the morning. That is when I remembered. Most mornings, I didn't. Until recently I rarely swept the kitchen floor in the evening because I was taught to not do that unless something bad happened such as a glass broke on the floor.  So, what changed? I read an article about 10 good cleaning habits to have, of which one was sweeping the kitchen floor after dinner. Made sense. No stepping on crumbs or unpopped popcorn first thing in the morning. The other evening the mama caught me sweeping the kitchen floor. Just as I thought she would, she said, "It's bad luck to sweep at night." "Why?" I asked. She didn't respond. She just left the kitchen. I doubt she has an answer for that or any of her  superstitions.  I think grownups taught her superstitions when she was a kid as a way of getting her to obey. I also think that she made up her own to control my actions m

I woke up to the sounds of doves cooing outside and the husband snoring next to me. Signs of a blooming bright day? Sure. Why not? Happy Valentine's Day, Dear Gentle Readers!

This afternoon, the husband and I went downtown to do a couple of errands. It was a beautiful afternoon, so we ambled between places. The best part of the walk was peering into store fronts. A woman was knitting inside a beauty shop, a little girl was doodling on paper in a restaurant, and a barber was sitting in his chair reading the paper. All three looked up as we passed by. Each one smiled and waved back at us. Smiling and waving at people who you don't know just makes the day more delightful.