Crisply Spoken » Noxious Evils

At the Sound of the Bell

Elisabeth Crisp — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 15:08:03 +0000

The thing I hated most about school, as a student and as a teacher, was the clock. Instinctively, I fight it. I fight the deadline, the list, the routine. I have this inner James Dean, who says, “I won’t be controlled.” The defect extends to every corner of my life. I waste a lot of time asking myself: do I have to floss? put gas in the car? load the dishwasher? finish the day’s pages?

I know the answer, and I don’t like it.

In the summer of my discontent, brought on by global warming–you deniers out there should check the thermometer–and the unemployment rate, I find myself as rebellious as my dog on a leash. She resists, even when she wants to walk. For the dog I found a solution, a nifty device called the Gentle Leader. It’s a head collar that points a schnauzer’s nose in the right direction. I slip the loop over her muzzle, and she follows me everywhere.

For me, the solution is painful. I succumb to a schedule. From 7 to 8, coffee. From 8 to 9, exercise. From 9 to 10, journal and blog. At 10, the alarm on the laptop will tell me to work on the book.

It’s 9:55. Time to point my nose the right direction.

Badwill

Elisabeth Crisp — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 23:18:39 +0000

I wonder if this Michigan politician will forgo his paycheck to cut spending? I wonder where he buys his suits? Goodwill? The Salvation Army? Garage sales? This story is fodder for Little Orphan Annie or Lemony Snicket. Too bad he’s serious. Read here.

Not a Skunk

Elisabeth Crisp — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 15:18:30 +0000

I wore my shirt inside out most of the day yesterday. I got dressed in the dark because I didn’t want to wake Bacon. He’s on nights. I went for a two-mile walk. I took Coco’s inhaler to school and talked to Nurse Millie. I drove to a distant continent to buy veggies for the co-op. No one said anything.

On the way home I stopped for a train to pass. When I looked down, the buttons on my Henley weren’t visible. At first, I didn’t get it. Then, I laughed. People must think I’m crazy. My hair was wild–long and gray. My glasses were perched on my head. My clothes were inside out.

We are not meant to be nocturnal. Man is not a skunk wandering for miles in the dark. We need to see where we’re going. I don’t know the future, but it’s not building cars in a factory at night.

Dancing Queen

Elisabeth Crisp — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 14:53:44 +0000

At Thanksgiving, Cookie Crisp brought the movie Mama Mia. She thought the girls would like it. A movie musical usually goes over at our house. It sure did. Over. And over. And over.

I survived ABBA the first time. When I taught high school, I had to ban it from the audio cassette player on trips in the school mini-van. They had cassette players then, before iPods. The music isn’t offensive–the first time you hear it. The problem is you keep hearing it. Dancing Queen is a carcinogenic ear worm.

This morning Cherry came into my room before school. ”Mom, make it stop. Please make it stop. It’s been seven days.”

I applied the only known cure for Mama Mia, Bob Dylan. I hope he works.

Spamarama

Elisabeth Crisp — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 04:01:06 +0000

WordPress does a good job keeping out the unwanted. I’m able to see the site you come from. Read comments in advance, and gag over some of the Google searches, but WP hasn’t figured out the Referrers problem. Here is a sampling of click overs from the last month.

: click to read

With a few exceptions, it’s an eclectic assortment of places I don’t want to go produced by automated drones sent to infiltrate my world. Every morning, I check the stats page, and there’s a new one. Part of me wants to click and peak, but as a grown-up, I know that some places are best left alone.

Heavy Cleaning

Elisabeth Crisp — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 22:54:55 +0000

The people down the street owned one of those makeover-for-your-garage franchises. They ran the business out of their house. Other than the trucks, things were fine. At least, until they got ready to move.

That’s when the garage sales started. For three consecutive weeks, junk spilled out of the house and onto the lawn. It was obvious. They organized garages by taking the clutter home with them. At the end of the third week, a driver dodging a bookshelf, ran into a tree, cracking the largest limb into the street. Another neighbor called code compliance.

The garage experts are gone now, leaving a pile of unsellables by the curb. I made this out of some of their garbage.