The Perfect Blog Post

Today I have spent a great deal of time discussing perfection—the quest for it and its possible attainment.



I will stand up right now (figuratively as I can’t type on my laptop while standing because my lap disappears) and say, “Hi. My name is Hollee, and I am a perfectionist.”



That being said, I will also now admit that I am far from perfect in any way, shape, or form, ergo most of my life, I have been my biggest disappointment.



During a long conversation with a loved one who, in some ways, knows me better than I know myself, I realized what a hard row to hoe this has been—this standard of perfection I have set for myself. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself at the difficulties I’ve encountered since my perfection quest was initiated in my teen years—no, I have no patience with woe is me conversations when I am the woe-er—I merely acknowledged to myself that those difficulties were of my own making and not the fault of any external force.



Nor have I set the same standard for others that I have set for myself, which, when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, means that I have set myself above others since perfection was obviously not possible for them . . . Wow! That thought just occurred to me. That is not good.



But I digress.



This need for perfection has, at times in my life, hindered my ability to start a task because I was afraid I would not be able to do it completely right. It has skewed my vision of myself to such a degree that I mentally pick myself apart whenever I look in the mirror—I literally do not see what I am told others see when they look at me. It has made me choose friends and companions that I felt were not perceptive enough to see my flaws, my defects, my “idiot”syncracies. Yes, that is a harsh statement, but there it is. But in my mind this was logical—if I chose someone who was as smart as me, or as driven as me, or who had my same talents, then they would be able to see when I made a mistake. (Now please take that last sentence in the spirit it is intended, those of you who don’t know me. I do not dumb myself down—I know I am intelligent, ambitious, and have certain talents—I inherited all of those things and I won’t deny a single one. To do so is false modesty.)



My greatest fears in life are being wrong and being made to feel stupid. I don’t fear dying—I am a Christian, I don’t fear being alone—I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t fear it. Admittedly, I do fear clowns, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post. To the depths of my soul, I fear I may make an error in judgment, in my work, in my life, and I fear that someone may find out some day that, for the most part, I have no clue what I am doing.



That last is entirely illogical, because I have spent my life learning everything I possibly can about what I do for a living, and yet, I have had no formal “schooling” in my craft. I have worked my way up or sideways through the ranks of the writing community for the past 30-plus years—I have picked the brains of everyone that I admire as a writer and gleaned what I could from the fields of work I am pursuing or want to pursue.



So in some ways my need for perfection has forced me to put myself out there—to forgo my fear of having “Stupid” written on my forehead—and asked those who do know how they do that voodoo they do so well. I would have much preferred to just stand next to them and osmosisized the knowledge from them (no, osmosisized is not a real word), but since that is not yet possible, I had to actually ask questions. Asking questions was me admitting to myself and those I questioned that I did not know something. That is and was very hard.



My need for perfection has also driven me to always do the very best I can at anything I undertake—although it has hindered me from being an undertake-er in some instances—that qualifies it as a catch-22.



The question is: “What do I do? How do I accept less than perfection in myself?”



And these thoughts occurred to me as my loved one and I were talking: Is a sunset any less beautiful when you discover that the reason for the multi-colors is pollution? And which is more beautiful—the perfectly unblemished piece of pseudo-wood, or the knotty, nicked, and weathered wood that has a story to tell?



My mother continuously reminds me that a diamond—the most perfect of gemstones—is made from coal which is decomposed vegetable matter. A pearl—my particular favorite—is not, as commonly told—made from a grain of sand. A pearl is formed when something organic, most often a parasite, penetrates the shell of a mollusk and lodges within the soft inner body of the animal. The parasite encounters cells within the mollusk's mantle tissue known as epithelial cells which grow into a sac, envelopes the intruder, and excretes a chemical substance of aragonite and calcite. This is known as nacre or the composite of a pearl.



I don’t know how not to be hard on myself. I have no clue. But I have been told that there comes a time when good enough needs to be accepted. I am not to settle for only achieving good enough—that is a bar set too low for my personality and I am done with settling—however, as long as I can truthfully say that I have given my absolute best effort, then that is good enough. I cannot be all things to all people, I cannot fill everyone’s needs, I cannot do everything myself—I have to ask for assistance, let go and allow someone else to help me (not ask for help then do it all myself anyway), learn from my mistakes, learn from others who have already successfully done what I want or need to do, and accept that there may be times when I can’t do something. I need to learn when “No” is the perfect answer.



I need to look at my flaws and defects—the decomposed vegetable matter and parasites—as, perhaps, that which makes me unique. It is those very things that keep me from being a cookie-cutter human, a Stepford, which gives me depth and contrast, just as clouds enhance the perfection of a blue sky.



I will think on these things—remind myself of them when my perfection bug gets the best of me. That is the best I can do in this instance.



However, I was told today that I am loved for who I am, flaws and all, without reservation, without modification, without an “except for . . .”



How perfect is that?

The More I Learn, the Less I Know . . .

Those of you who know me on a personal basis will look at the title of this blog post and say, “Whoa! Hollee is being over-analytical again” or you may phrase it this way, “Oh, for the love of Pete, shut up!”


William Cowper[1] said, “Knowledge is proud that he has learn’d so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.”


For the past couple of weeks, I have been working on a couple of projects that have taught me just how little I actually know about some things.


The first of these projects, or at least the one I started first, is a new book by Rita Bennett that will be released by Bridge-Logos Publishers in early 2009, called “Heaven Tours – Astonishing Journeys.”


In her latest book, Bennett, who along with her late-husband Dennis Bennett, authored the bestselling books “The Holy Spirit and You,” and “Nine O’clock in the Morning” takes the reader on a guided tour of Heaven—through the memories of people who have had “Near Death Experiences”—and through the scriptural references to Heaven’s design.


As a minister’s daughter and as a born-again Christian these past 38 years, I thought I knew all there was to know about Heaven—after all, I’ve read the Bible cover-to-cover a couple of times (although I did skip the begats, for the most part).


However, the more I read as I edited this new book, the more I learned that I did not really know anything about Heaven.


I won’t go into further detail here as it will spoil the read for you, and it is not my book nor my lesson to teach—you will have to buy the book and read for yourself, and marvel at what “. . . eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for them that love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9, AKJ).


The second project that taught me how little I know is the one I am working on currently. Due to copyright constraints I also won’t go into the exact details of it, except to say that I am putting together a 3,000 word manuscript for a cardiothoracic surgeon for the Hunterian Lecture to be published in the Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons.


Whoa Nelly is right!


I have come across a slew of words and phrases I have never heard in my entire life— nucleotidase, xenotransplantation, abstract acute humoral rejection, cell mediated lysis, etc.


Oy gevalt! (Not quite the Yiddish equivalent of Whoa Nelly.)


Since I consider myself a collector of words, and as a freakishly attentive-to-detail editor, I have taken the time to look up most of the words in this manuscript. The more medical terms I learn, the more I realize just how little I really know—about the human body, about disease, about the upkeep and repair of the human heart from a physiological standpoint. I am absolutely amazed and in awe of the amount of knowledge that is in the research documents that have been provided me for this project. I am dumbfounded (yeah, a pun) that anyone actually knows this stuff! What a marvelous piece of work is the human brain.


Now—and don’t laugh at this—I loved school. I cried bitter tears when I graduated because that was the very best part of my life, up to that time. I love to read, research, investigate, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go . . . hold on, that’s Star Trek—insert back-pedaling here—I love to learn. So I am not disappointed in myself for not having this knowledge previous to these two writing/editing contracts—that would be ludicrous.


Although I may not actually know many things, I do know where I can find the answers to most of my questions. As Samuel Johnson said, “Knowledge is of two kinds: we know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.”[2] And somewhere down the line, at some unforeseen moment, this little bit of knowledge that I have accumulated over the past couple of weeks will make its way through the cluttered and dusty recesses of my mind, and come out my mouth at the appropriate time:

Alex Trebek: It is a part of the metabolic process that converts sugar, fat, and protein into cellular energy.

Hollee: What is Adenosine monophosphate deaminase 1 (isoform M), also known as AMPD1?

[1] The Task. Book vi. Winter Walk at Noon. Line 96.
[2] Life of Johnson (Boswell). 2 Vol. v. Chap. ix. 1775.

On the Occasion of My 50th Birthday, I Offer This . . .

I will be turning 50 in less than two weeks.

Now, normally, this is when I would run my annual “Aging Gracefully . . . or Gratefully” post—a perennial favorite among the well-read (in my own mind.)

But this year, I’ve decided it is time to share some of the things I know to be true and other things I’ve found to be just plain hooey.

I love adages. I love words, grand, lofty thoughts, pithy comments from famous and infamous people. I collect quotes; own numerous books of quotes and who said what tomes—I am fascinated by the clever turn of a phrase.

Some “clevernalities”—as I call them—are true—some are patent falsehoods. This is what I have learned after half a century of living:

a) Silence is golden. No, silence is yellow. Silence is cowardly. Silence betrays a shallow heart, devoid of feeling—a fear a retribution. Speak up! Raise your voice in praise to God. Shout from the rooftops when you’re in love. Loudly decry the injustice in prejudice and bigotry. Shout your protest when an animal is mistreated, a child is abused or neglected, another human is bullied, betrayed, battered, or beaten into subservience.

b) The best things in life are free. No, freedom demands hard work, constant diligence, and sacrifice.

c) People are basically good. I wish this was true. I have lived five decades believing in the innate goodness of “man.” I have been proven wrong time and time again. As much as I hate to “pen” this, I must—the majority of people I have known in my life will lie, cheat, and steal to get what they want. Some of them will brag about it—wear their ability to dupe the general public like a badge of honor. There is a possibility of goodness within all of us—we are made in the image of God, the Author of all that is good. But, people are basically lazy, and it is far easier to lie, cheat, and steal then it is to be good. The world tells us good is boring—bad is sexy, bad is cool, bad is better. Mae West voiced the opinion of the world best: “When I’m good, I’m very, very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better.” Sorry, Mae darling, it is a funny line, but it is certainly not a life lesson.

d) Beauty is only skin deep. Oh my no. Although I have seen and experienced a lifetime of ugliness, there are some absolutely and divinely beautiful men and women who are lovely to the depths of their souls. Here’s the short list: my father, Harold; my mother, Beverlee; Ken; my brothers, Steve and Thomas; my sisters, Kim and Barb; my daughters, Sarah, Amanda, and Samantha; my grandmother, “Nana”; my friends, past and present—Daniel Silver, Mary Alice O’Connor, Elise Shelton, Rita Lester, Helen Spicer, Rick and Amy Hassebrock, Brad and Tara Bolsinger, Rita Bennett, Elizabeth Nason, Peggy Hildebrand, Molly Pelon, Kitty Morrell—I love you all.

e) Love is blind. Oh no. “Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails . . .” (I Corinthians 13: 4-8, NIV). Love has its eyes wide open and will rush into action, blind only to the consequences to itself—the lover—thinking only of the beloved.

f) Honesty is the best policy. Unequivocally, yes. Certainly it is easier to lie than to tell the truth. It is easier to waffle, to hem and haw, to conceal—oh vastly! But herein lies the rub: dishonesty reveals one’s contempt for the person from whom one is withholding the truth—“They won’t understand”; “It will hurt their feelings”; “I am being kind”; “I am protecting them”; “You can’t handle the truth!” But tell me, which is better: to tell the truth, to face the consequences, to help that person handle that truth, or, to be found out in a lie, to be branded a liar? When, then, should you be believed?

g) Laughter is the best medicine. Yeah, that one is definitely true. Laughter increases blood flow to your skin, lending you that healthy glow. Laughter raises your serotonin level—that hormone that gives you a sense of well-being. Laughter brings people closer and draws people toward you. A baby’s laugh is priceless and puts a smile on the face of even the most hard-hearted. A child’s laughter is a delight and a treasure and should be cultivated and preserved.

h) No man is an island. Granted, some “men” ought to be restrained on an island, alone, sans contact with anyone living. But what we do or do not do in our own life has an effect on everyone around us. It is the basis of the “butterfly effect” and the “one-hundredth monkey effect” theories. Look it up, people. Which brings me to this last truth . . .

i) Knowledge is power. Yes! Gone are the days when the dimwitted girl is considered the desirable and most feminine woman. Thank heaven for that. Knowledge increases your ability to function physically, mentally, socially, and emotionally. The more you know, the better equipped you are to cope, to grow, to be an asset to someone else. Do not dumb yourself down. Do not dumb-down your writing, your speech, your thoughts, or your actions. Force those around you to think, to investigate, to probe, to question, to analyze, to debate. Make them powerful.

Fifty years of wisdom condensed into less than a thousand words. I am looking forward, not to growing older—ick—but to growing smarter, to laughing loudly, to loving longer and stronger, to not going gentle into that good night . . .

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Womanly Wisdom from my Aunt Pam

• Women over 50 don't have babies because they would put them down and forget where they left them.
• A friend of mine confused her Valium with her birth control pills. She has 14 kids but doesn't really care.
• One of life's mysteries is how a two-pound box of chocolates can make a woman gain five pounds.
• My mind not only wanders, it sometimes leaves completely.
• The best way to forget your troubles is to wear tight shoes.
• The nice part about living in a small town is that when you don't know what you are doing, someone else does.
• The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then your body and your fat are really good friends.
• Just when I was getting used to yesterday, along came today.
• Sometimes I think I understand everything, and then I regain consciousness.
• I gave up jogging for my health when my thighs kept rubbing together and setting fire to my knicker's.
• Amazing! You hang something in your closet for a while and it shrinks two sizes!
• Skinny people irritate me! Especially when they say things like, "You know sometimes I forget to eat!" Now I've forgotten my address, my mother's maiden name and my keys, but I have never forgotten to eat. You have to be a special kind of stupid to forget to eat!
• I read this article that said the typical symptoms of stress are eating too much, impulse buying, and driving too fast. Are they kidding? That's my idea of a perfect day!

The Soundtrack of My Life

The other day I asked a blogger friend what it would be like if we had a musical score that played in the background as we went through life.

The last few nights I have been thinking about the songs that I grew up with. These aren't songs on the radio or necessarily popular songs. These are songs that were sung in our home and songs I sung to my children.

After we moved to Ohio from Philly, we used to go back to Nana's house in Hanover, NH, once a year to visit. All of Nana's brothers and sisters would come over—these would be my great-aunts and uncles. They came from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, and New Hampshire—all over the east. Uncle Gerald would fly in from Sacramento. All the sisters looked alike and all smoked. Blessed with deep, sultry voices anyway, the smoking, of course, made them even deeper. These women loved to sing. Aunt Beverly, Aunt Dorothy, Aunt Clara, Aunt Thelma, and Nana would sit around the table singing. My mom would join in. Mom was—is—a wonderful singer. As a teenager she was in a group called The Harmonettes—three girls who performed on WKXL in Concord—even sang the call letters: "Listening's swell on WKXL. For a smile all the while, keep your dial on WKXL, WKXL, WKXL. Concord!" Mom was the baritone.

So here the women were sitting around the table and there was I from the age of five on up, every year, parked on the floor listening to their wonderful voices. To warm up, they would do a song that ran down the musical scale: "Many brave men are asleep in the deep. So beware. Be-e-e-e-ware." They'd keep going down the scale to see who could hit the lowest note! It was wonderful. As a soprano—I couldn't even come close to the depths they reached. Then they'd sing the song that The Harmonettes sang on the Arthur Godfrey Show on TV: There not making the skies as blue this year. Wish you were here. As blue as they used to when you were here. Wish you were here. . . ."

For the children about, they'd sing: "A peanut sat on a railroad track, his heart was all aflutter. Around the track came a choo-choo train. Choo-Choo peanut butter. It ain't gonna rain no more, no more, it ain't gonna rain no more . . ." The men would invariably request Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy—another Harmonettes hit locally. It was #1 at WKXL in the early 50's.

When my daughters were little, I made up songs for them. Sarah liked Peas Porridge Hot —but couldn't say it. So we sang "Beesboes hot, beesboes cold, beesboes in a pot, nine-days old." Sam liked the country song I’ll Still Be Loving You: "I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine, till time stands still, until the winds don't blow, when today is just a memory to me, I know. I'll still be lovin', I'll still be lovin' you." I sang that to her whenever I had to drop her off at her dad's house for her visits with him. I always cried during it.

I even used to sing to Nana's German Shepherd Helga. A messed up version of Georgie Porgie Puddin and Pie: "Helega, peliga, puddin' and pie-gela. Kivissed the gervils and madelum crygela. Geven the dogums came outum to playgula, Helega peliga ranugal waygala."

My dad, who says he found one note he liked and decided to only use that one, used to sing "I can tell by your outfit, you're a cowboy . . " I sang that to my girls also—but changed the words to teacher, ballerina, doctor, lawyer (the last two with fingers crossed).

To this day, Sam and I have songs—current ones—that we refer to as our theme songs, depending on what is going on in our lives on any given day. My theme songs seem to center around moving on and getting on with life. Sam’s? Well, that’s anybody’s guess—if you can understand rap music lyrics, call and explain my daughter’s life to me, will ya?

Life without a sound track—I can’t imagine it.

The Soundtrack of My Life

The other day I asked a blogger friend what it would be like if we had a musical score that played in the background as we went through life.

The last few nights I have been thinking about the songs that I grew up with. These aren't songs on the radio or necessarily popular songs. These are songs that were sung in our home and songs I sung to my children.

After we moved to Ohio from Philly, we used to go back to Nana's house in Hanover, NH, once a year to visit. All of Nana's brothers and sisters would come over—these would be my great-aunts and uncles. They came from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, and New Hampshire—all over the east. Uncle Gerald would fly in from Sacramento. All the sisters looked alike and all smoked. Blessed with deep, sultry voices anyway, the smoking, of course, made them even deeper. These women loved to sing. Aunt Beverly, Aunt Dorothy, Aunt Clara, Aunt Thelma, and Nana would sit around the table singing. My mom would join in. Mom was—is—a wonderful singer. As a teenager she was in a group called The Harmonettes—three girls who performed on WKXL in Concord—even sang the call letters: "Listening's swell on WKXL. For a smile all the while, keep your dial on WKXL, WKXL, WKXL. Concord!" Mom was the baritone.

So here the women were sitting around the table and there was I from the age of five on up, every year, parked on the floor listening to their wonderful voices. To warm up, they would do a song that ran down the musical scale: "Many brave men are asleep in the deep. So beware. Be-e-e-e-ware." They'd keep going down the scale to see who could hit the lowest note! It was wonderful. As a soprano—I couldn't even come close to the depths they reached. Then they'd sing the song that The Harmonettes sang on the Arthur Godfrey Show on TV: There not making the skies as blue this year. Wish you were here. As blue as they used to when you were here. Wish you were here. . . ."

For the children about, they'd sing: "A peanut sat on a railroad track, his heart was all aflutter. Around the track came a choo-choo train. Choo-Choo peanut butter. It ain't gonna rain no more, no more, it ain't gonna rain no more . . ." The men would invariably request Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy—another Harmonettes hit locally. It was #1 at WKXL in the early 50's.

When my daughters were little, I made up songs for them. Sarah liked Peas Porridge Hot —but couldn't say it. So we sang "Beesboes hot, beesboes cold, beesboes in a pot, nine-days old." Sam liked the country song I’ll Still Be Loving You: "I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine, till time stands still, until the winds don't blow, when today is just a memory to me, I know. I'll still be lovin', I'll still be lovin' you." I sang that to her whenever I had to drop her off at her dad's house for her visits with him. I always cried during it.

I even used to sing to Nana's German Shepherd Helga. A messed up version of Georgie Porgie Puddin and Pie: "Helega, peliga, puddin' and pie-gela. Kivissed the gervils and madelum crygela. Geven the dogums came outum to playgula, Helega peliga ranugal waygala."

My dad, who says he found one note he liked and decided to only use that one, used to sing "I can tell by your outfit, you're a cowboy . . " I sang that to my girls also—but changed the words to teacher, ballerina, doctor, lawyer (the last two with fingers crossed).

To this day, Sam and I have songs—current ones—that we refer to as our theme songs, depending on what is going on in our lives on any given day. My theme songs seem to center around moving on and getting on with life. Sam’s? Well, that’s anybody’s guess—if you can understand rap music lyrics, call and explain my daughter’s life to me, will ya?

Life without a sound track—I can’t imagine it.

Just like the one that married dear old Mom

I have been staying at my parents’ home for a number of weeks while my father is undergoing chemotherapy and radiation.

While here, I have been reminded daily of something that I have sorely missed in my life—a gentleman.

My father—even after nine-million years of marriage (53)—still opens doors for my mother, including the car door!

He doesn’t start eating his dinner until Mom has started eating. He even sets and clears the table (unless I beat him to it)! The television is not on while breakfast, lunch, or dinner is on the table, nor is a phone conversation carried on.

He holds her hand—and not just because he is weakened by the treatments.
At a restaurant, he orders AFTER her!

And here’s the kicker—they actually carry on conversations with each other—I’m talking real, honest-to-goodness adult conversations. They even laugh together. Uproariously.

Can you imagine that?

I can’t.

However, I do pray for it—a man just like the one that married dear old mom.

Chicken Crosses Road - World Wonders Why

WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?

• BARACK OBAMA: The chicken crossed the road because it was time for a CHANGE! The chicken wanted CHANGE!
• JOHN McCAIN: My friends, that chicken crossed the road because he recognized the need to engage in cooperation and dialogue with all the chickens on the other side of the road.
• HILLARY CLINTON: When I was First Lady, I personally helped that little chicken to cross the road. This experience makes me uniquely qualified to ensure—right from Day One! -- that every chicken in this country gets the chance it deserves to cross the road. But then, this really isn’t about me…
• DR. PHIL: The problem we have here is that this chicken won’t realize that he must first deal with the problem on ‘THIS’ side of the road before it goes after the problem on the ‘OTHER SIDE’ of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he’s acting by not taking on his ‘CURRENT’ problems before adding ‘NEW’ problems.
• OPRAH: Well, I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I’m going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.
• GEORGE W. BUSH: We don’t really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.
• COLIN POWELL: Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road...
• ANDERSON COOPER - CNN: We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.
• JOHN KERRY: Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken’s intentions. I am not for it now, and will remain against it.
• NANCY GRACE: That chicken crossed the road because he’s GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.
• PAT BUCHANAN: To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.
• MARTHA STEWART: No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer’s Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level. No little bird gave me any insider information.
• DR SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad? Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I’ve not been told.
• ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain. Alone.
• GRANDPA: In my day we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.
• BARBARA WALTERS: Isn’t that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.
• ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.
• JOHN LENNON: Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together, in peace.
• BILL GATES: I have just released eChicken2007, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet Explorer is an integral part of the Chicken. This new platform is much more stable and will never cra...#@&&^(C% .........reboot.
• ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?
• BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?
• AL GORE: I invented the chicken!
• COLONEL SANDERS: Did I miss one?
• DICK CHENEY: Where’s my gun?
• AL SHARPTON: Why are all the chickens white? We need some black chickens.

The Terror Behind Tech Support Calls. Please hold . . . . . . .

Placed any calls for tech support lately? You got someone in India, right?

From my cousin, Joel I received these photos of India's technical savvy.

Scary, huh?

Job outsourcing . . . ain't it grand?

Where's a good JoeBob when you need him?

Last New Year, I made a resolution to increase the number of cells in my brain by reading, or rereading, the classic novels.

This did not include anything written by Stephen King or J. K. Rowling.

The authors on this list included, of course, Jane Austen (my personal favorite), Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Leon Uris, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, Gustave Flaubert, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, to name a few.

I've read War and Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, Exodus, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Great Gatsby, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Northanger Abbey, Mansfield Park, Persuasion, Madame Bovary, etc.

Right now I am slogging my way through Anna Karenina, by Tolstoy. I took a couple of days off to read Glenn Beck's An Inconvenient Truth--which I loved (thank you to my stepson, Will, for gifting me with this book)--but now I am back to slogging.

Parts of the book are quite exciting--some others, not so much. It has been classed as the greatest novel ever written and Tolstoy considered it his best work.

I dispute none of that.

I just wish the character's names weren't so confusing: Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky is married to Darya Alexandrovna, Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin is in love with Ekaterina Alexandrovna Shcherbatskaya, Anna Arkadyevna Karenina is married to Alexei Alexandrovich Karenin, but is in love with Count Alexei Kirillovich Vronsky, who has also captured the affections of Ekaterina Alexandrovna Shcherbatskaya.

Not a Joe or Bob in the bunch.

Tolstoy originally released this novel in serial installments between 1873 and 1877 in a Russian Periodical.

It may take me four years to get through this one, but I will do it. Just to be able to say I read it.

I think the next book may be See Spot Run.

As for this New Year's resolution: I'm taking up coloring.