Let's pandiculate!

Pandiculate may or may not be a verb. In any case, it has very little to do with a panda and, if it did, the meaning would be obscene.

According to dictionary.com, pandiculation is a noun and pandiculated is an adjective. There's no mention of a verb, but there ought to be. The noun and the adjective refer to the instinctive stretching (as while yawning) or is used to describe something that is stretched.

Pandiculate must be the verb form meaning to stretch. As long as this word is apparently my own creation, I am going to expand its meaning (to pandiculate its meaning?) to include going beyond one's comfort zone, to reinvent oneself as smarter, more important, and more, uh, pandiculated. To pandiculate is to be more useful, to more of service.

This was the message to Americans in Obama's Inauguaral speech. Beyonce tearfully said, "He makes me want to be smarter." I want Beyonce to be smarter, too, smart enough to not degrade women by looking like the women that some of the rappers are degrading. Anyway, I do understand what she was saying. I'm sure many of my own generation said something similar after John F. Kennedy said, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." This country has been yearning for a leader that asks us to give up our childish ways, to do something for one another. In other words, we should pandiculate.

So, let's pandiculate!

The Biggest Loser

The "You on a Diet" doctor/author got my attention

I was watching PBS when it featured one of the doctors of "YOU" fame (You: an Owner's Manual, You on a Diet, You Beautiful You.) It wasn't Dr. Oz; it was the other one. Let's call him Dr. R. So, Dr. R. said, "If your waistline (measured across the belly button) is larger than xxx (nevermind what that was; I don't want to fully self-disclose), then your health is as much at risk as if you were just told that you have breast cancer." Then he went on to say that if a woman received that diagnosis, she would want to immediately take some action, anything that is required. (He had a similar paradigm-shifter for men, but I don't remember what it was.) I have heard all the health crap from my own doctor, heard it in the media, read it in articles, but this statement by Dr. R. got my attention.

Then I watched The Biggest Loser last night and Bob the Trainer (kind of like Bob the Builder but taller and thinner) looked straight at me and said "America, why are you watching this show while eating ice cream? Put it down!" And he kind of yelled at me a little. So, I put the lid on the jar of peanuts. (I know better than to keep ice cream in the house.)

By the time I was watching Biggest Loser, I had already written a "food plan" to automate my eating as Dr. R. had suggested. Peanuts were on my plan as a snack. (Chewing reduces one's appetite and peanut-snackers lost significant weight during a study at Duke University. To rationalize further, I eat very little meat so I need the protein.) Nevertheless, Bob did not have to repeat himself. I heard him the first time, so I didn't have another bite to eat for the rest of the evening.

Julian the Trainer yelled at me too, but I think she is so hot and so cool (makes sense to me) that in my fantasies, she and I could share a banana split. However, neither Bob the Trainer nor Dr. R. are my type (yes, I do like men but not necessarily those two.) I'm not attracted to authoritative men, but I usually respect them as long as they remain authoritative and not too authoritarian. So, I respect both Bob the Trainer and Dr. R.

I also found it appealing that the Biggest Loser had pledged to donate to the nation's food banks, matching the pounds that Americans pledged to lose. I was conservative and pledged to lose 20 pounds by the end of April. I didn't want to fail in meeting a larger pledge because Bob the Trainer might yell at me again.

If you can be supportive in my weight loss without yelling at me, I'd like to hear from you.

Analyzing My Motivations to Write

The following are responses to questions that I came across in a book about writing:

As a creative outlet, writing keeps my brain and spirit synchronized. Sometimes my brain is very active with cognitive busyness, but it does so at the expense of my languishing spirit. At other times, my spirit lifts as if on wings of a fairy while logic struggles in vain to be productive.

Writing is like doing a puzzle or solving a riddle; it's about making the pieces fit. Writing fulfills my need to have a project in the works. To complete a project would create a deficit; I don't like feeling that I don't have something in the works. So as long as I don't complete anything, I don't feel deprived.

My motivations for writing include the hope that readers would find a new way of thinking, be touched on an emotional level, would laugh, and/or be entertained or motivated to action as a result of reading what I've written.

Regarding the past, I wanted to be an "author" when I was a little girl; I always said "author" rather than writer because I thought an author creates, and a writer "just writes." Oh, if only I had been correct that a writer "just writes." Or maybe in that simple view that children have, I really was correct. My current delays, hesitation, and procrastination in writing are because I've forgotten that a writer "just writes."

Regarding the future, in response to the question, "What do you do for a living?" I would like to say that I "just write."

I don't know that I have expectations for fame or money. If I truly believed in the attainability of those goals, I would be writing more as well as more often. I wouldn't turn down money, but I don't think I want fame. I would have at one time, but now I think I'm content to sit back and watch others thrust themselves into the limelight.

I don't think I write in order to work through any lurking demons , but I do find that insight occurs as a natural by-product of writing. But, no, I don't think that's my purpose in writing.

It's becoming a bit clearer to me that I would like to make money from writing. I think there is a certain reluctance, a Bohemian mindset, that wants to deny this, but given the options of fame, money, or processing trauma, I'll choose money.

Also, I do like the reactions of others to what I'm writing. That's probably a part of why I wanted to write a blog. Sometimes when I write, I'm writing "to a reader." Sometimes the reader is me.

In summary, my reasons for writing are 1. as a creative outlet 2. having a project to work on 3. touching others 4. getting others' reactions 5. money

It would be more pragmatic, if I reversed the priority of my motivation to write: 1. money 2. getting others' reactions 3. touching others 4. having a project to work on, and 5. as a creative outlet.

Interestingly, at the center of each list is the desire to touch others. So, there you have it. If you have read this far, you must be at least a little touched, one way or the other.

Inexplicable Indignation

Occasionally, I have seen someone "blow" for no apparent reason. Things were going along fairly well, at least in my mind, and then "the blower" initiates the inexplicable indignation with the words "I cannot believe this." Obviously, the blower does believe it or believes enough of it to become the black hole that sucks the energy out of anyone within hearing distance. Next, the person spins around asking "Do you believe this crap?"

This scenario has become a common social interaction especially in the workplace. In the workplace, there is a captive audience (itself, a universe of potential black holes) and a lot of crap.

I usually respond to the "blower" in mild support, nodding and uh-huh-ing while hanging on to my mouse. So long as I have my hand wrapped around the mouse, I am connected and safe by virtue of numbers. Everyone else in the world who has a hand wrapped around a mouse at that moment is my ally. The real danger can occur when the blower cuts a co-worker away from the pack and herds that person toward the hallway.

In the hallway, not only is the co-worker alienated from allies and, therefore, vulnerable, but now other energies will be sucked out into the hallway contributing to the toxic mass and all hell breaks loose.

This may very well be the true nature of hell: toxic gasses of inexplicable indignation.

Hey you, you Haiku

Affirmations hope

Endure the groan of winter

Leaves in denial.

Loud librarian
Militant or messenger
Chastises children.

One of the things that differentiates the working class from the capitalists in Twisted Roots is where they spend their money. For example, there was more than one place to buy a tire and where you went said something about who you were.

A member of the working class would buy their tires from the Rural Roundup which had tires for every size vehicle including tractors and combines. If you were neither working nor had class, you bought a tire that would last only as long as the piece of crap riding on the tire. (Here I'm referring to the car, not the driver.) That kind of tire could be gotten just about anywhere, such as at a rummage sale or, if you were lucky, you might find one discarded in the alley behind some of the better homes in town. If you were really lucky and a little loose with your morals, that tire might be inside of a garage whose door had been carelessly left open.

However, if you were a member of the capitalists in town, you would call up the Tire Emporium and they would send a man to change your tire at the location where you need it. Then about 30 days later, the Emporium would send out an invoice for the cost of the tire and the labor. Although there might be an advantage in the convenience, the tires at the Tire Emporium cost about twice what the same tire would cost at the Rural Roundup.

Gil Garrison, the mayor, managed to find combine convenience with savings when he found himself stranded behind the Historical Society with not one, but two flat tires. It was unlikely that the tires had just gone flat on their own, but even without the slash marks, Gil might have been experiencing a little paranoia due to the fact that it was late at night, the Historical Society had been closed for the last five hours, and the Laurie, the Society's youthful director, lived on the second floor of the old house. He had to think of someone that he could call that had a few of his own skeletons in the proverbial closet in case questions might arise. Gil was relieved when Tom from Terry's Corner answered the phone and was willing to bring one of his own spare tires over to the Historical Society.

There was hardly room for a pair of slippers in Tom's closet.