Finding the Carousel - Part 1

As many people probably do, I love carousels. I love the way they look and sound and more than anything, I love the way they feel.

When I was a kid, the carousel was probably the first ride I ever took. The second was the Ferris Wheel. I was equally enamoured of the Ferris Wheel. The roller coaster came next. My three favourite amusement part rides... the carousel, the Ferris wheel, the roller coaster.

The one thing these three rides have in common is that they only go in one direction at a time, although all three employ the element of moving up or down while executing the forward motion. The carousel moves forward and goes in a circle. The Ferris Wheel rotates vertically only, also in a circle. The roller coaster takes a particular route that only moves you in a forward direction, and though the modern ones do loops and barrel rolls, spins within spins are not part of the ride (at least not any I've been on). Each of these rides allows you to look forward and to the sides -- you can even look behind you if you want to -- but you control how much "spinning" you do, during the ride. They don't scramble your brain, unlike "The Scrambler," or the "Teacup" type of rides that deal in disorientation, where you are moving in a particular direction, but spinning around in circles, backwards or forwards, at the same time, where it doesn't take long at all before you're totally unsure in what direction you're actually heading and, either during or after the ride, are frequently overwhelmed by the urge to toss your cookies. At the very least, you're likely to be dizzy and unsteady when you set foot on terra firma once again.

As someone prone to motion sickness, the unsteadiness, dizziness, and disorientation are not desirable.

I liken the "scrambling" rides to multitasking, the theory of which, while so popular for so long with the moving and shaking, Yuppie, me-me-me generation, is, in reality, a pile of crap.

You can bi-task, or tri-task, provided only one task you are performing employs one hemisphere of the brain and the other task or tasks involve the other. For instance, it isn't too difficult for most people to walk and chew gum at the same time, although some days, for me, even that is a major undertaking. You can drive and listen to music simultaneously. You can drive, chew gum, and listen to music at the same time. Or walk, talk and look around at the sights simultaneously.

But you can't actually physically do two things as the same time. I don't know about anyone else, but I cannot cook and actively do anything else -- for instance, put a load of laundry in the washing machine -- at exactly the same time. I can take advantage of a pause in the meal-making process to put the laundry on, but it is impossible to stir the cheese sauce and open the washing machine and load the laundry at the same time. Aside from the fact that I am prevented from doing so by the distance involved, I would be unable to watch what my hand is doing with how much of the sauce is being splashed around outside the pot by my stirring and watch what articles of clothing I am throwing into the washing machine at the same time.

You can accomplish these things by serial tasking, but not multitasking. Efficient serial tasking is not the same thing as trying to multitask.

I can fill one pot with water and set the burner on the stove for the water to boil and then, while the stove is performing the task for which it was designed, I can go to the laundry room and take the time to pick out the items that go into a particular load. I can add the detergent and get the machine started, and then go back to the kitchen to attend the boiling pot. I am not multitasking. Although the laundry is being done, I am not the one doing that task. I delegated that task to the washing machine. As did the stove with the pot of water, the washing machine is devoting itself to the task it was designed to do and for that I thank it, because I know that I cannot cook and physically wash laundry at the same time.

At work, I get a long photocopying job going then go back to my desk and type an email, or make a phone call, but that, also is not multitasking. Once again, the photocopier is doing the task I have assigned it to do while I go and do something different. I cannot email and talk on the phone at the same time. I can type the email and listen, though only in a half-assed fashion, to the person on the other end of the line, seemingly at the same time, but neither the the email, nor the person on the phone, is getting my undivided attention and mistakes are bound to be made. Oops...left out a word, or typed 'their' instead of 'there.' Or, "I'm sorry...what did you say?" I can make a phone call and leave a message for someone to return my call and then do another task while I wait for the return call, but I can't actually even leave the message and be answering the phone at exactly the same time. Once again, this all represents serial tasking, not multitasking.

As is evidenced by the number of serious mishaps these days, people have been persuaded -- or brainwashed...take your pick -- into believing they can "multitask." You can drive and talk on the phone, or text, with impunity, right? That's what they believe; that's what the multitasking gurus have taught them. Parents can hold down jobs, chauffeur their kids all over town, go to the gym, keep house, meet with their friends, talk on the phone, text, eat, walk the dog, party, and look after their aging parents all at the same time, right?

The multitasking gurus have sold everyone a bill of goods. They're the equivalent of snake oil salesmen. They're the "Scrambler" and the "Teacup" ride that have you spinning around in circles while you're trying to go in one direction. You cannot look forward at your destination or around you at the things that make you feel good, and take time to enjoy the ride, because "around you" keep changing so rapidly that you can't focus. You spin till you puke. That's what "multitasking" really is...spinning till you puke. It's trying to do all of the above, at the same time, until you burn out. Burnout is mental and emotional puking.

But you've also been sold on the idea that if you can't multitask, can't hack that endless spinning, can't shovel ten different piles of shit, all at the same time, you're a failure; you're doing something wrong, you're not organized, you're disordered, you're flighty, you're unfocused, and you're just not trying. You've got ADHD or ADD or any other number of "disorders" that have been, to a large degree, created by the makers of the multitasking myth. I'm not saying these disorders do not exist in a certain percentage of the population. I'm just saying that I'd be willing to bet a lot of people have been convinced that they have a much more serious degree of this disorder than they might actually have, because they are being expected to focus on more than one, or maybe two, or possibly three, tasks at the same time 

I started this post three years ago (2010) just before I couldn't get back into Blogger, which I decided to try and get into this morning and here it is.  

Yikes, I'm Back

Can it be?  After months of thinking I couldn't log back into my own blog, because Blogger kept telling me I needed to open a new account, which, obviously, I already had, it looks as if I am back in.  On the other hand, it keeps popping a message at me that "I've signed out from another account and do I want to sign in again."  Sheesh.  So I'm not going to write much at this point, since this may just be an illusion and a waste of keystrokes.

Response and Responsibility

I thought of "Sense and Sensibility," which I've never read, and that segued into Season Three of Blackadder (http://www.cultv.co.uk/blackaddereps.htm), a favourite episode of which is "Ink and Incapability." So I came up with "Response and Responsibility," though this entry isn't anywhere near as humourous as all things Blackadder.

Today's photo is of Sam snoozing blissfully by my computer keyboard a while back.

Sam was recently diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and is now on methimazole to maintain the balance of the required hormone. At the end of this month, we'll know if it's working, or if the 5 mg per day has to be adjusted. She'll be on the meds for the rest of her life. She's about two months shy of seven years right now. The most noticeable symptom of her medical condition was weight loss, but with increased appetite. Since she was a little on the chunky side for awhile, and since she certainly seemed to be pining after the death of Ben, the best little dog in the who-o-o-le world (February 3, 2009), I wasn't too worried, until I noticed that she was eating more, but losing weight. We'd seen this before, in another of our cats, some years ago, so off to the vet she went for blood tests. It was as I suspected, so, caught in time, with the aid of the medication, and barring the onset of any other illnesses, she should live a normal life for whatever her amount of time on this plane will be.

So what has all this to do with the heading at the top of this entry? Well, it has to do with my response to a recent occurrence.

I was in a fuel and convenience store the other morning and I overheard two women talking. It wasn't all that difficult hearing what they were saying. In fact, it would have been difficult not to; they weren't exactly talking in hushed tones. I tend to ignore such conversations, and even if I inadvertently hear what's being said, I have this tendency to promptly forget what I've heard. (I promptly forget a lot of things these days, but that's beside the point.) I was struck, however, by a comment made by one of the women. They were talking about their kids and one of them said, "Kids these days just aren't responsible. They're not as responsible as we were." It was clear from her tone that she was dismayed by this apparent lack of responsible behaviour on the part of her child.

And I thought to myself, "And whose fault is that?"

I don't have children. I never wanted them and neither did my husband, so that has worked out very well for us. But it seems to me that if kids these days aren't "as responsible as we were," it's because they are not being taught to be.

Responsibility isn't just something you're born having or knowing how to take on. And you don't just learn it by watching other people be responsible, though that probably helps. Kids learn responsibility by being given things for which they are responsible and for learning the [usually untoward] consequences of not being responsible for them and of neglecting or ignoring their responsibilities.

I'm not talking about children being responsible for anything beyond their control, or beyond an age appropriate level of responsibility. What I'm talking about is teaching them, on an ongoing basis, that for every action there is a reaction, for every cause, there is an effect.

You don't learn responsibility by being given a toy and breaking it, or losing it somewhere, and having mommy or daddy replacing it immediately with a new toy. You don't learn responsibility by being told you have to do your homework before you can watch TV, but then after just a bit of whining, get to watch TV first and put off doing the homework until it's time for bed, and then it's too late.

You don't learn responsibility by being told to pick up your dirty clothes and put them in the laundry basket and ignoring that directive, but having it not matter because mom comes along and picks up the dirty clothes and puts them in the laundry basket for you.

You don't learn responsibility by asking for and getting whatever you want, with no knowledge of, or regard for, the financial implications of obtaining said object of desire.

Whose fault is it if kids don't learn to take responsibility for their actions? You can't blame children for not knowing how to do something they've never been taught to do. It takes a lot of work to teach children and adults that when they take on the responsibility of doing something, there are consequences, sometimes very serious and even deadly consequences, when they drop the responsibility ball.

It seems to me that an inordinate amount of time is spent imparting, to both children and adults, what all their rights are, but not nearly as much time on what corollary responsibilities go with those rights. The scales of rights and responsibilities must be balanced or things just go totally out of whack.

More than anything, children need to be taught to be responsible for their own actions and behaviour and that their actions and behaviour have consequences, not just for themselves, but for others. Learning this helps them develop empathy. (At this time, I won't get into the very terrible consequences of the emotionally abusive practice of coercing a child into believing that she/he is responsible for the actions and behaviour of others -- a dysfunctional parent, for instance -- because that is a whole different topic.) However, just because I don't have children of my own doesn't mean that I don't understand that learning to be responsible for one's own actions and behaviour isn't something that starts at age five or ten or fifteen. You don't raise a child to be responsible for nothing until age 16, and then expect them to magically acquire a sense of responsibility on their 16th birthday. Teaching responsibility starts as soon as a child is old enough to observe and understand cause and effect.

One way it starts is when they learn that adopting a kitten or puppy, or an adult cat or dog, doesn't just mean playing with the animal companion for five minutes in the morning or after school, and ignoring them the rest of the time, or neglecting them once the novelty of having them around wears off.

It means being responsible for the care of that animal companion. It means ensuring that their little buddy has a safe place to sleep protected from the elements, plenty of healthy food and regular meals, available fresh water always, exercise, and medical check-ups, and sometimes it means medical care, if their companion is injured or becomes ill. A young child is not capable of providing any of the financial support for these responsibilities, of course, but they are capable of being taught that these responsibilities do incur costs. They might not be able to provide all this care on their own, but they can be charged with the responsibility of helping their parents or older siblings perform these tasks.

Having an animal companion means cleaning out the litter boxes and scooping the poop out in the yard, or when they take the dog for a walk. It means spending quality time with their animal companions...grooming, playing, or just schmoozing.

It means that as much as they want to text their friends, or play soccer, or get on the computer and play video games, or watch television, or play with their latest toy, just goof around, or even get their homework done, that the little kitten or puppy, cat or dog, that they wanted so badly, comes first, and not after all the fun and games are done, or only when they get around to it.

And if a child is old enough to be given the opportunity of having a lifelong animal companion, then it also means the child is old enough to be taught to understand that spaying and neutering are the only ways to reduce the numbers of unwanted, neglected, and abused animals that end up in shelters, or dead on the side of the road, or sick and starving to death in filth.

Responsibility is learned at home and if "kids these days aren't responsible," as that woman in the convenience store observed, then who shirked the responsibility of teaching the kids to be responsible?

Rose ;-)

Pussies Galore

This is Sam -- short for Samwise -- in one of her favourite positions. She's one of the few cats we've had, who lies on her back and kneads the air. Most of the others knead either pillows or us. Kneading us is a really good way of keeping track of who needs their claws trimmed.

Sam's the consummate drooler. In fact, I think she has an auto-drool mechanism. As soon as she starts kneading me, she salivates copiously. She's also great for parking atop my 'mouse' arm, when I'm working at the computer. I'm not sure if it actually strengthens my arm, trying to operate the mouse with ten pounds of cat resting on it, but at least I don't have carpal tunnel issues. Here's the thing, though. When she's in this position, she also kneads my arm and drools over my keyboard. I simply don't have the heart to push her away...it just feels too much like I'm rejecting her affection, when I do that, and she is one very affectionate kitty.

And then there's Sam's brother, Pip, short for Pippin (the blond kitty to your right, in this photo with Spot), who is also a major kneader. He saves his kneading activity until I'm in bed, and then he starts in on Nicky, the Teddy Bear, who sits by my pillow. Pip doesn't drool, but he does have auto-purr, which means that as soon as he starts kneading, a sound similar to that of an Evinrude motor, is audible even in the next room. Imagine it right by your ear. He moves from Nicky to my pillow and then occasionally decides to play with my hair, straying from time to time to my cheek, which he also pats to get my attention just in case it wavers. The amazing thing is that I have no trouble falling asleep with all this going on.

Spot is one heavy, solid dude. He does the whole "flopping" thing on the bed and after spending fifteen or twenty minutes flopping, rubbing, purring (he has a deep tiger-like purr), gnawing, and drooling, he either pastes himself against my hip and thigh, or drapes himself over my legs and dozes off. Spot also has a thing for anything minty, including Icy-Hot, or Vicks. It has the same effect on him as catnip. His gnawing becomes considerably more enthusiastic when he gets a whiff of anything of a mentholated nature.

These cats have known each other from birth, and have never been apart. Each has his or her own unique personality and each has a very special place in my heart. They're all related. Sam and Pip are littermates. Spot is their cousin (and possibly a half brother). They were born to mother and daughter cats within a week of each other. We adopted them when Spot was six weeks old and Sam and Pip were five weeks old. They are the ones who came to live with us, when my husband said, "This house needs more cats." That was when all, but one, of the original eight cats, who moved with us from Ontario to Vermont, in 1996, had passed.

Sam was especially fond of that one, our old Patton, who died in his nineteenth year, back in January 2008. She pined for him for quite some time and it was obvious she missed him. She was also very close to our old dog, Ben, who died last February 3rd (2009) at age 14 years, 4 months. Again, she pined and really cut back on eating after he passed away. Since Ben's death, her affection quotient -- both the giving and receiving thereof -- has gone through the roof.

The dynamic amongst the cats changed, as well, first with the passing of Patton, and then Ben. From the time these three kittens arrived (April 2003), Patton was the "the big guy," the boss. You'd think that after he died, Spot, the largest and seemingly boldest, would become the boss, but he didn't. Pip, the lightest and smallest of the trio, is the king, and Sam, the only female and of medium size, doesn't take shit from anybody.

Despite their different personalities and occasional tiffs, the causes of which, when they do occur, I mostly cannot ascertain, these cats, as all the cats who have shared our household have done, manage a peaceful coexistence. They play tag and other games together. They take part in the midnight crazies together. (Only people who share their lives with cats know about the "midnight crazies.") They eat in the same area and share their food. They mutually groom and laze together. They snuggle up together and snooze. If anyone needs lessons in getting along, there can be no better example than Spot, Sam, and Pip.

I actually feel quite privileged to be part of their family.

Rose ;-)

November 17, 2009

The Poppy

When we moved from Ontario to Vermont, I brought with me a little box of Remembrance Day poppies that we'd collected over the years.

On Remembrance Day (Veterans' Day) I wear one, as I did from the very beginning, decades ago, when we used to receive them in school. Back in the "old days," the poppies were made of red felt and had a round, black felt centre. The one in the photo here is one of the more contemporary ones, though it is at least thirteen years old because, that's how long we've been in Vermont.

Growing up in Canada, I got so used to seeing the poppies worn before and on Remembrance Day. It seemed that just about everyone wore one and for me, it was a little strange not seeing them here, but I still wear one on November 11th. And 365 days a year, there is a poppy pinned above the windshield of my vehicle. My husband does the same thing. We also keep one pinned up and visible in the house all the time. I had one uncle, who served in WW2, in the RCAF. My late Uncle Paul was a navigator and served out of England. My late father-in-law served in the Canadian Army and saw action in Italy, Sicily, North Africa, France, Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands.

War is a hellish evil and, perhaps...some day...wars will be distant memories for all the peoples of Earth, but in the meantime, let us not forget those who survived the hells and those who fell.

Rose ;-)

Marcel the Mute Parrot

As you can clearly see, Marcel is not a real parrot, but he does have an honoured place in the garden. He does appear to be considerably more lively than the now world famous avian star of Monty Python's dead parrot skit.

I learned something from Marcel, who, as far as I know, didn't actually have a name until my sister came to visit me this past summer.

Marcel is adopted. He sat in a box of used toys that one of my colleagues brought to work and had outlived his usefulness. At first I thought this might be because my colleague's kid had outgrown him. However, as time passed and no one claimed him anew, I thought it a shame that he was just sitting there, all alone, discarded, and generally being ignored. Upon closer examination, I discovered that Marcel was actually designed to be quite a bit more animated than the evidence would have suggested. His wings are hinged, as is his beak, and there's a little button on the front of his perch. A sticker reads, "If the parrot does not move or speak, please replace batteries." Well, I replaced the batteries, and all I heard was a dismal, strangled, ratcheting sound that barely resembled a squawk, then nothing. Brilliantly, I deduced that the mechanisms no longer functioned according to plan...even with the batteries included, hence the "dead parrot." I knew no one would ever take him and he'd end up in some landfill site eventually, and the thought of that saddened me. Just because he could no longer flap his wings and talk didn't mean he still couldn't at least be decoration.

So Marcel moved from the used-toy box into a bag thence into the back seat of my van, where I consistently forgot about him for quite a spell. (Well, at least he was being chauffeured around and not thrown into the dump.)

I finally remembered to bring him in the house last fall. He came with a stand, and all last winter, he perched on his stand, atop the buffet, amidst the plants in our dining room. Just another adopted addition to a household full of rescued critters, both live and inanimate. He looked kind of cute sitting there amongst the begonias. Very Amazonian jungle-like; right in his element.

When I got my "outdoor" garden going just this past summer -- it's actually a deck garden -- I decided Marcel would be a worthy addition, perched on his little plastic log, hanging from a rafter of the covered deck. I had a vision of how he'd look suspended above the begonias and geraniums, and an idea of how to do it. I apprised my husband of the ingenious plan and he said, "Go for it."

Now, Marcel looks deceptively light, but he's actually rather weighty. When I finally got the 550 cord tied to the perch, where I wanted it and even used a crossbar above, separating the two pieces of cord and to make the perch swing-like, I picked up the rope and...FWOOMP!... Marcel promptly did a nose dive (beak dive?) and was hanging upside down, which suddenly made him look remarkably more similar to Monty Python's dead parrot. "Well, shit," I said, after I'd stopped laughing out loud. I then carried him, still inverted, out to the garage and showed him to my husband and said, "There appears to be a flaw in my design." I love hearing my husband's laughter. It's deep and when it comes, it comes out straight, and full, and true.

Well, I'm no engineer, but I carried Marcel back to the house and decided that what he really needed was a counterweight underneath his perch. But what to use? Well, you can see in the photo that there's a white hook beneath his perch. The white hook is part of a cheap plastic hanging planter. I placed a terra cotta pot containing a geranium plant, inside the hanging planter and voila, the perfect counterweight.

Marcel graced the deck all summer long. When my sister visited, I pointed out my awesome engineering skills to her, but also mentioned that at some point in his life, the parrot was supposed to flap his wings, and his beak was supposed to open and close, and he was actually supposed to talk, but that he was broken. Sighhhhhhhhh. Nance asked me what his name was and I said he didn't have one. She said, "Well, he doesn't talk, right? So he's a mime parrot. His name should be Marcel."

And that is how Marcel, the mute parrot, got his moniker.

What did I learn from Marcel?

Well, not so long ago, a few years, perhaps, when faced with the inverted parrot and my frustrated attempt to have him do exactly as I wished, on the first attempt, I would have thrown a tantrum and given up, not being able to be bothered trying to rectify what I would have seen as just another failed attempt at doing something perfectly the first time. I would have seen it as utter failure because doing something wrong -- making a mistake, misjudging -- was an unforgivable defect in me, as far as I was concerned. I would have seen that inverted parrot as an irrevocable flaw in myself, instead of a correctable flaw in the plan. But that was then and many things have changed.

I laughed at myself, went out of my way to actually show and tell others about my flawed plan, and then, instead of giving up...because I wasn't perfect the first time...I persevered and made it work.

Marcel, the discarded toy that no one wanted, because he wasn't perfect and didn't work the way he was designed to anymore, now adds a bit of colour and character to our household, mute testament that (a) just because something isn't perfect doesn't mean it's garbage and (b) I don't have to be perfect either.

Rose ;-)
November 7, 2009

My Official Blog Spot

Seriously, this is Spot, one of our cats, so he is officially my blog Spot.

This wasn't posed at all. He jumped up on the little end table, upon which the pumpkin was sitting, and it was just too good a shot to pass up. I try to keep my camera within arm's reach for just such photo ops. It's like he just knew it was Hallowe'en.

Spot's a character, whose favourite pastimes include knocking stuff off counter tops and tables onto the floor just to watch them fall and, possibly, because he knows the sound of them hitting the wood floor above where I sit, here at my computer, scares the bejeebers out of me, especially when it's dead quiet in the house.

Here in New England -- I'm in Vermont, to be precise -- Hallowe'en seems to be an occasion for major decorating, comparable to Christmas. On my drive to and from work, I see all manner of scarecrow-like creations posed in front yards and draped over benches and slumped in chairs (at least, I think they're scarecrows). They're still all lying around this week, totally unaffected by the dusting of early snow, though a few are looking pretty sodden from the typical early November drizzle (perfect weather for curling up by the fireplace or wood stove and wishing hibernation were an option.) "Ghosts," fashioned from white plastic kitchen bags, dangle from trees and fake cobwebs festoon porches lined with carved pumpkins. Witches on broomsticks are firmly planted in the sides of houses, looking for all the world as if they just didn't brake fast enough. The creativity of the folks in this area never ceases to amaze me.

I live in the middle of the woods, 1,400 feet from the main road, and our house can't even be seen from it, so no trick-or-treaters venture this far in and I don't bother decorating. I'm a curmudgeon, albeit a lovable one, so sitting out the spooky festivities in the peace and quiet of the forest doesn't bother me at all. The added bonus is that I don't buy all kinds of wicked treats that I can't resist sampling...and sampling...and sampling (bad enough my colleagues at work bring in all their leftover sugar bombs and I find myself gorging on fruit chewies).

Besides, with Spot and a pumpkin, I have the perfect Hallowe'en decor right inside the house.

"So, why is this blog called "Weeding the Rose Garden?" I hear you ask. Or is that just the voices inside my head? Well, I'm Rose and this blog, along with all my other creative endeavours, are my gardens. Weeding is just pulling out the random thoughts and putting them out there, letting them lie, and do what any good compost does... feed the soil and initiate new growth, more thoughts.


Weeds are flowers, too, and I like them. And I take LOTS of floral shots, whether cultivated flowers, wildflowers, or what other people consider just weeds. I took this one the morning after Hallowe'en during a three-mile walk, which felt great right after I'd done it, but just about killed me for the first part the week. There was some serious aching going on all day Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday was no hell, either. I am soooo out of shape. I'm not sure what these are (yes, yes, I know...they're flowers), but the colour was gorgeous and it was just so wonderful to see such lovely late bloomers.

Speaking of late bloomers... okay I don't know where I'm going with this, and besides, it's time to go nuke some yummy leftovers for dinner.

Rose ;-)
November 6, 2009