I'm Roz, and this is my relaxed space. It's about fun, good conversation and — well yes — good conversation. Pull up a well-padded armchair and help yourself to something to drink. You'll find cheese and crackers on the sideboard. What's new with you?
If you're looking for things in a more serious or spiritual vein, you can check out Exultet where I write that sort of thing.
Long ago and far away In a land that time forgot, Before the days of Dylan Or the dawn of Camelot, There lived a race of innocents, And they were you and me. Long ago and far away In the Land of Sandra Dee.
Oh, there was truth and goodness In that land where we were born, Where navels were for oranges, And Peyton Place was porn. For Ike was in the White House, And Hoss was on TV, And God was in his heaven In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We learned to gut a muffler. We washed our hair at dawn. We spread our crinolines to dry In circles on the lawn. And they could hear us coming All the way to Tennessee, All starched and sprayed and rumbling in the Land of Sandra Dee.
We longed for love and romance, And waited for the prince. Ol' Eddie Fisher married Liz, And no one's seen him since. We danced to "Little Darlin'," And sang to "Stagger Lee," And cried for Buddy Holly In the Land of Sandra Dee.
Only girls wore earrings then, And three was one too many. And only boys wore flat-top cuts, Except for Jean McKinney. And only in our wildest dreams Did we expect to see A boy named George with Lipstick In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We fell for Frankie Avalon. Annette was oh, so nice. And when they made a movie, They never made it twice. We didn't have a Star Trek Five, Or Psycho Two and Three, Or Rocky-Rambo Twenty In the Land of Sandra Dee.
Miss Kitty had a heart of gold, And Chester had a limp, And Reagan was a Democrat Whose co-star was a chimp. We had a Mr Wizard, But not a Mr T, And Oprah couldn't talk yet In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We had our share of heroes, We never thought they'd go, At least not Bobby Darin, Or Marilyn Monroe. For youth was still eternal, And life was yet to be, And Elvis was forever In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We'd never seen the rock band That was Grateful to be Dead. And Airplanes weren't named Jefferson, And Zeppelins weren't Led. And Beatles lived in gardens then, And Monkees in a tree. Madonna was a virgin In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We'd never heard of Microwaves, Or telephones in cars. And babies might be bottle-fed, But they weren't grown in jars. And pumping iron got wrinkles out, And "gay" meant fancy-free, And dorms were never coed In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We hadn't seen enough of jets To talk about the lag, And microchips were what was left at The bottom of the bag. And hardware was a box of nails, And bytes came from a flea, And rocket ships were fiction In the Land of Sandra Dee.
Buicks came with portholes, And side show came with freaks, And bathing suits came big enough To cover both your cheeks. And Coke came just in bottles, And skirts came to the knee, And Castro came to power In the Land of Sandra Dee.
We had no Crest with flouride. We had no Hill Street Blues. We all wore superstructure bras Designed by Howard Hughes. We had no patterned pantyhose, Or Lipton herbal tea, Or prime-time ads for condoms In the Land of Sandra Dee.
There were no golden arches, Nor Perriers to chill. Fish were not called Wanda, And cats were not called Bill. And middle-aged was thirty-five And old was forty-three, And ancient were our parents In the Land of Sandra Dee.
But all things have a season, Or so we've heard them say. So now instead of Maybelline We swear by Retin-A. They send us invitations To join AARP, We've come a long way, baby, From the Land of Sandra Dee.
So now we face a brave new world In slightly larger jeans, And wonder why they're using Smaller print in magazines. We tell our children's children of the way it used to be, Long ago and far away In the Land of Sandra Dee.
As some of you know, I'm an organizational development consultant and leadership coach. Many of my projects aim at ramping up the quality of communication between employees and their supervisors. This usually includes making sure people are aimed in the same direction (or "aligned" in biz speak), communicating clearly about expectations and obstacles, and how to evaluate performance.
Bosses generally hate doing performance evaluations. Besides the natural social awkwardness of balancing clarity and tact, they're often afraid of being clumsy and getting a bad reaction from the employee. Or they play it safe and inflate the rating while softpedaling any deficiencies, after which there is a full twelve-month period in which to kick oneself for being a wimp. But it can be an excellent opportunity to do something genuinely constructive.
I recently helped Miriam move to North Carolina where she will begin a graduate program. When I returned, Henry, Elizabeth and I left for a wonderful week on Cape Cod. I have done my part to keep the petroleum industry afloat.
Here are the states I've been in the last two weeks:
For those of you who fancy yourselves to be mediocre writers at best, take heart! You are much better than you might have been, witness the award winners in the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest sponsored by the English department at San Jose State University. The challenge put to the entrants is to write a remarkably bad opening sentence of an imaginary novel; the results can be snort-into-your-milk funny.
"I know what you're thinking, punk," hissed Wordy Harry to his new editor, "you're thinking, 'Did he use six superfluous adjectives or only five?' - and to tell the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement; but being as this is English, the most powerful language in the world, whose subtle nuances will blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' - well do you, punk?"
But it's not all about adventure and suspense, no sir. Here's an offering for fans of romance:
Her angry accusations burned Clyde like that first bite of a double cheese pizza, when the toppings slide off and sear that small elevation of the oral mucosa, just behind the front teeth, known as the incisive papilla, which is linked to the discriminatory function of the taste buds except, where Clyde was concerned, when it came to women.
I note here what is to me a mystery. It is that people with lower IQs somehow tend, in our age, to have a greater apprehension of the meaning of things and the reality of life, than do our high-IQ professionals, who often seem, in areas outside their immediate field, startlingly dim. I don't know why intellectuals--or cerebralists or eggheads or IQ hegemonists--seem to miss the most obvious things, floating on untethered by common sense.If you talk to a brilliant scholar at a fine university about social policy, chances are he will say with honest perplexity that he cannot understand--really cannot understand--why people would not want men to marry men, or women women. I wish there were a name for this, for the cluelessness of the more intellectually accomplished, the simpler but truer wisdom of those who are often less lettered and less accomplished.
. . . and considerably more humble.
It is always a delight when you're a writer not to write things you later judge to be idiotic, or, to be charitable to oneself, flawed. But last week I'd no sooner seen my column online than I disagreed not with its assertions and arguments but, I suppose, with its tone. And not only tone, but its incompleteness.
What can I say? I like her. Read the whole piece here.
Once upon a time, there was a family of Papa, Mama and their three cubs who moved into a nice four-bedroom colonial house near the children's school. It gave them bedrooms, a nice family room and a yard for cookouts and kicking a football around during halftime of Michigan games. The one drawback to the house was that it backed up onto a fairly busy street and offered no privacy for these backyard family activities, but they decided to give it a try nevertheless.
Papa Bear was full of energy and wanted to provide what was best for his family, so he began to build a fence. It was a pretty fence that zig-zagged a bit for visual interest and was set back some from the street to avoid being too imposing, yet it offered a background for plantings and created a nice area around the patio for sitting out to enjoy the fresh air and bird songs (or whatever was discernible of those over the aroma and noise of the nearby street).
Well, the local municipality decided that the fence had to go because of a Rule. Apparently any fence in a front yard was to be confined to no higher than 4 feet, and the horizontal boards would need to be spaced at least as far apart as the width of the board to prevent it from being opaque and "wall-like". Front yard, you ask? So did the kindly Bear family. They found that, in the eyes of the city, any yard that fronts a street is (aha!) a Front Yard. Papa and Mama Bear tried tearfully to convince the city that it was less than fair to force them to have two front yards and no back yard for privacy, but to no avail. They moved their fence, spaced their boards, planted some evergreens as a screen, and moved out of the house several years later.
Fast forward to 2006: As I said above, I wish we'd thought of this.
Which love language do you understand the best? Here's what they say about me.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The Five Love Languages
My primary love language is probably Physical Touch
with a secondary love language being Quality Time.
Complete set of results
Words of Affirmation:
Acts of Service:
Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.
Moneybags (such an unlikely nom de plume) over at A Catholic Life is performing an unusual service for his readers. He has oodles of saints names in a hat (whether literal or figurative I don't know) and is willing to draw a name for requesters as sort of a patron-of-the-year. I have been notified that my chosen saint, or the one who chose me, is St. Louis Bertrand. I wasn't familiar with him before, but what an intriguing person he was!
Like me, he experienced charismatic gifts, had a childhood "unattended by any of the prodigies that frequently forcast heroic sanctity," and was called to serve God in the New World. Unlike me, he was "grave, apparently without any sense of humour, yet withal possessed of a gentle and sweet disposition that greatly endeared him to those with whom he came in contact." A Dominican, he lacked most of the scholastic and preaching gifts characteristic of most of his peers, yet his quiet holiness distinguished him and led him into opportunities for great leadership, gifted evangelism and self-forgetful service.
It's too bad that when there's a lot going on, the consequence is that it's harder to find time to post about it. It reminds me of the fact that little tykes, who seem to generate the energy of a thousand suns, lack all responsibility or discipline to harness that vigor and put it to good use. Sometimes life is a paradox.
If you want to keep better track of what's going on in my world, check out my other blog. My time for blog cruising, flights of fancy, reflection and mental fun seems to be much more limited lately, but my deeper reflections and consideration of the things that are really important are in the ascendant and tend to show up over there.
But the short answer is: I'm getting married to a wonderful man and am caught up in wedding preparations, househunting, and (as Kate reminded me) that separate category called "marriage preparation" that is far more important than the other two. I'd appreciate your prayers. And I haven't lost my appetite for fun, so I'll be back here from time to time.
P.S. If you have any good engagement or wedding jokes, please post them here.
Name:: Roz Hometown::Ann Arbor, MI
Mother of several, grandmother of a couple, wife to one very good man. My epitaph will probably read, "Well, you just never know." Life is good, but it takes unexpected turns. Good thing I like surprises.