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The September Rituals I’m Not Assuming

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Department Of Some Movies Abbreviate Better Than Others

Ticket in hand, I looked for the theater in the multiplex which was showing The Peanut Butter Falcon at 2 pm.

 

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Department Of If You Can’t Stand Misanthropy and/or Curmudgeon-ry
Then Slowly Back Away From Your Computer/ Other Device Right Now, Okay?

Someone had to be the first. Who started this “Fido has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge” thing? And by thing I mean supernatural crap wherein otherwise/mostly sentient, rational and potty-trained adults resort to sickly-sweet euphemisms when reporting on the death of their or another person’s beloved pet.

Now, before you get your incontinence garments in a knot, notice my use of the term, beloved pet.   Moiself, too, has had the heart-squeezing experience of losing dearly loved pets over the years, whether they died via natural (old age) or accidental means   [1] or euthanasia.  But, really:  Rainbow Bridge?  Can’t we just say what happened?  Your dog died; you miss your canine companion, and are sad.

Why is reality not sufficient? Who’s behind this? Something tells me the kind of people who fantasize about unicorns are involved.   [2] 

Disclaimers: The RB metaphor is used by good people with good intentions, blah blah blah. But hey, there are those of us who are trying to watch our lifestyle markers, eat properly and exercise and avoid high fructose corn syrup – which is added to everything these days, including toilet paper  [3]   – and  yet we get hit by these Type-2-Diabetes-inducing images from which there seems to be no hiding.

Moiself was curious/annoyed enough to do a little research on the term.  And by, “a little research” I mean the laziest easiest kind of research possible.  All hail Google search engines:

The Rainbow Bridge is the theme of several works of poetry written in the 1980s and 1990s that speak of an other-worldly place where pets go upon death, eventually to be reunited with their owners…..
The first mention of the “Rainbow Bridge” story on the internet is a post on the newsgroup rec.pets.dogs, dated 7 January 1993, quoting the poem from a 1992 (or earlier) issue of Mid-Atlantic Great Dane Rescue League Newsletter, which in turn is stated to have quoted it from the Akita Rescue Society of America.
Other posts from 1993 suggest it was already well established and being circulated on the Internet at that time, enough for the quotation of even a single line to be expected to be recognized by other newsgroup readers…
.
(Wikipedia, Rainbow Bridge entry)

I still want to blame the unicorn people.

 

Whatever floats your boat.

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Department Of Other Multi-Colored Bridges That Are Also Not Crossed
By Your Dead Pets, Or By Any Other Creatures, For That Matter

Frequent readers of this blog know that I am not religious, and hold no credence in the existence of anyone’s heaven or hell or other stages of post-reality existence. But I am convinced there is an afterlife, as per these two phenomena:

֎  people live on, after their physical life has ended, in the ways they are remembered by those who love them, and by the impact their deeds (for better, worse, and everything in between) have had on the world;

֎  and also by the fact that my mother has been reincarnated in my cerebellum, or whatever portion of my brain is responsible for time perception.  I heard her distinctive voice via my own proclamation this week:

How did it get to be September already?!

 

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Department of Epicurean Excursion   [4]

Featuring this week’s cookbook, author and recipe:

Inspiralized, by Ali Maffucci

Recipe:  * Vegan Celeriac Alfredo With Broccolini

My rating: 

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

Recipe Rating Refresher  [5]

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Department of September Rituals

Very occasionally, someone (who doesn’t know me well) asks moiself if I am “still working.”  During the rare times when I am asked my occupation in some formal/legal way (e.g., tax forms), I put down “retired,” for lack of a better option. I feel rather…odd…in doing so. How can I be retired, from anything? Because I don’t really know if I am, or not. When it comes to writing for publication, I am on a sabbatical, which may or may not be permanent…which segues into the September routine I’m (not quite) missing.

September brings the strangeness of being apart from the back to school mode, which I’ve previously referenced (8-24-18)  :

There is something different for me this year, about this time of the year – this particular end of August. I couldn’t put my finger on it, until I realized that Belle’s graduation from college in May (brother K graduated three years earlier) means that for the first time in twenty years, there is no Back to School ® component to my life. The end of summer/resumption of school, the preparation and routine and rhythm of such, it was not so all-encompassing – for both my personal and the family’s schedules – when the kids were in college.  Still, it wasthere.I’ve noticed how “out of it” I’ve sometimes felt, during the past four years, with regards to schedules of other families – including even the approaching of holidays – by not having at least one child with a public school schedule. There was no compelling reason for me to keep track of certain things, and so I didn’t…and then I found myself frequently (and sometimes sheepishly) surprised by the mundane:
Why is there less traffic these past couple of morning? Why are there so many kids wandering around in the early afternoon…oh..yeah….it’s probably a teacher conference/grading/”staff development day” off for the schools….”

But September has other significant ritual associations, for fiction writers. Fall is (or used to be) when writers would send for updated guidelines from literary journals, many of which are associated with colleges and universities and thus have publishing schedules which are linked to the academic calendar. September was back to school housekeeping for writers: what are the Oxnard University Review’s new writers guidelines – same as last year, or any changes? What are their deadlines and estimated response times? Do they want online or print submissions? Do they still have two three month reading periods year round for their three issues, or do they publish bi-annually now? Are there new guidelines regarding manuscript length; will they have any special/themed issues?

Back in the olden days, before even the most obscure of journals had a website, writers obtained this information re the time-honored send-a ms. guidelines-request-enclose-a-SASE method.  All those stamps and envelopes added up to be a financial irritant – not an insignificant part of a writer’s budget, when you consider that the vast majority of the “good” literary journals (i.e., those that actually pay and/or have a circulation above 1000 readers) accept less than 1% of manuscripts submitted.  The acceptance rate for the “other” literary journals – from the obscure to the prestigious, they offer no remuneration for publication other than copies of their journal and, of course, the dreaded promise of “exposure” – varies from 2-10%.

 

(cartoon via electriclit.com)

 

That financial irritant of guidelines requests/SASEs has been mostly alleviated, in that you can now get guidelines from a journal’s websites. But the major irritant for writers about those guidelines – whether you got them via a letter or a computer screen – remained: discovering that a journal had a no simultaneous submissions policy.

(Oh-so-brief- Definition: A simultaneous submission is the submission of a literary work – e.g. a short story,  novel or short fiction collection or another piece of writing –  to more than one literary magazine or publisher at the same time.)

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Blast From The Past: the Ongoing   [6]  Department Of Complaining About….

In the past year, reading Facebook posts from writers reminded me of a few   [7]  of the major complaints I had re submitting work to literary publications, including response time and no simultaneous submission policies. Especially infuriating were/are the journals who have a no simultaneous submission policy (i.e. these journals have the audacity to ask for exclusive submissions – as in, they want you to guarantee you are not submitting your work to publications while they are considering it) and also have notoriously long response times, some up to 8-16 months .

Really.

What kind of B.S about submitting a M.S. is that?  How did that policy – editors demanding exclusive consideration of your work – even get started?  Imagine going to a job interview where your potential employer said you couldn’t apply to any other jobs until he made his decision (and you noticed you were one in a line of 50+ applicants outside his office door)?

Once I began to encounter that imbalanced policy, I vowed I would not submit work to magazines that declared they would not read ss (simultaneous submissions).

In theory, I refused to support such a monstrously skewed power dynamic.  If editors wanting to enforce a ss policy were willing to practice the exclusivity they expected from writers – i.e. if they promised to only consider one ms. at a time –  then I would promise to submit my work to them and only them.

In practice, my policy in response to journals proclaiming a no ss policy was twofold:

(1) Depending on how obnoxiously self-important the guidelines were written, I either did not submit work to those journals which had that policy…

(2) or I did…but didn’t tell them my work was a ss[8]   After all, they didn’t tell me how many manuscripts other than mine they were considering, did they?   [9]

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One of the “reminder” FB posts I mentioned came from NS, editor of the late great literary journal, Oasis (1992 – 2009)  [10]  who is also a writer.   NS’s beef is with editors and journals who waste writers’ time via absurdly long response times to manuscript submissions.  NS – I’ll call him Neal,   [11]   because that’s what his mommy and daddy did – was one of the more efficient and competent editors I’ve had the privilege of working with: smart and  pleasant; down to earth and enthusiastic; no BS.  Despite (or more likely because) of having had the experience of being a literary magazine editor, Neal finds the standard long response times of journals to be maddening, even insulting:

Isn’t it odd how most literary magazines make you pay for the privilege of ignoring you?
 Also:  All you literary magazines who claim to appreciate SO MUCH the men and women who submit to you, prove it. Start by no longer claiming you need 4 months to do what can be done in 4 minutes.

I – and most fiction writers, I’d bet – am fully in NS’s corner on this.  What is it with some journals’ response times – what could possibly be their excuse?  If you don’t know in two months, you will in eight…twelve…even more?  You are not conducting trials on the efficacy and safety of pharmacological treatments for malignant melanoma; you are considering which stories to publish.  Do you like the story, or not?  Does the story “fit” (if you’re that type of journal) with the rest of the material/theme of the issue, or doesn’t it?

 

 

Not all journals were like that. I kept on file the guidelines of a few of the best of what I considered to be Good Examples ®, two of which moiself will share with y’all:

Simultaneous Submissions: We accept simultaneous submissions, since we feel that it’s unreasonable to expect writers to give a magazine an exclusive look at a work unless the magazine can respond within two to three weeks.
We want writers to have every possible opportunity for success, so we’re willing to risk losing a story we want when someone at another magazine may have done their reading before we have, and in that case we’ll be sorry to lose the piece but happy for the writer.

We encourage simultaneous submissions.  It is unreasonable for any editor to ask for exclusive consideration of your work for an indefinite period of time.  There are many good writers submitting quality work.  Unless you have just won a Pulitzer or have an established rapport with a publication or editor, send your best work out to numerous publications you have vetted.  If your work is accepted elsewhere before you hear from us, just drop us an email and we will be very happy for you!

It was shocking to me that the reasonable-ness of these magazine’s respective policies…well…shocked me, when I first read them.  It was a Eureka moment – here are editors who understand and respect writers (and likely are themselves writers, as well as editors and/or publishers).

 

Are we done complaining yet?

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May you never voluntarily cross anything resembling a Rainbow Bridge;
May the story of your life provide for a most provocative movie marquee abbreviation;
May you remember that the more you complain, the longer you live;   [12]
…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

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[1] Run over by a car….shudder and ick.

[2] Almost always (or so it seems to moiself) the Rainbow Bridge metaphor is used in relation to dogs, but I’m sure other animals involved.

[3] Just a hunch. I haven’t actually read a toilet paper ingredients label.

[4] A recurring feature of this blog, since week 2 of April 2019, wherein moiself decided that moiself would go through my cookbooks alphabetically and, one day a week, cook (at least) one recipe from one book.

[5]

* Two Thumbs up:  Liked it

* Two Hamster Thumbs Up :  Loved it

* Thumbs Down – Not even Kevin, a character from The Office who would eat anything, would like this.  

* Twiddling Thumbs: I was, in due course, bored by this recipe.

* Thumbscrew: It was torture to make this recipe.

* All Thumbs: Good recipe, but I somehow mucked it up .

* Thumby McThumb Face: This recipe was fun to make.

* Thumbing my nose: Yeah, I made this recipe, but I did not respect it.

[6] As in, neverending.

[7] There were many….sooooooo many….

[8] As in, it was already under consideration by another journal, or I’d also planned on submitting it elsewhere.

[9] And yes, it is possible I ended up on the notorious/rumored “blacklist” for doing so.

[10] Full disclosure: my story We’ll Talk Later  (which was included in my short fiction collection, This Here And Now, ) was published in Oasis in 1993.

[11] I usually don’t name names in this blog, unless the namee is somewhat of a public person.

[12] Or actually it just seems longer to everyone around you.

The Cats I’m Not Shaming

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The Berries of Fall

Our raspberries have gone wild.  I picked a bucket before the rightful owners of our raspberry bushes (the bumblebees) shooed me away.  The second blooming of the season is even more appreciated than the first, I think because it takes me by surprise.

 OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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Ways To Make Myself Feel Both Old and Young at the Same Time

I went to a Fun. concert, with MH and Belle and three of Belle’s friends.  It had been some time since I’d been to an outdoor/festival seating style concert.  McMenamin’s Edgefield’s amphitheatre is a nice venue, even when you’re sitting at the way way way way back of the lawn (nasty traffic getting there – Portland at rush hour, grrrrr).

We staked out our site, set our tarp and lawn chairs down, got dinner from the concessions area (the usual McMenamin’s grub, plus some variations) and managed to enjoy the last few songs of the opening act. Before the headliner came on Belle & friends decided to go up to the standing-in-front-of-the-stage area, where they stayed for the remainder of the show.

MH and I stood up for the last few songs of the Fun. set, as did most of the people around us.  Two men standing behind us made a comment about how it seemed that we’d been deserted by the teens who’d helped us stake out our spot. I began to banter with Standing Dudes.  We commiserated on how it isn’t cool for teens to be seen with their parents at a concert, and shared our mutual hatred for auto tune [1] , which is featured in too many Fun. songs, IMHO.  One Standing Dude offered to go sneak up on Belle and friends and say something disparaging about auto tune.  , offered to describe my daughter & her friends so that he could do so, but warned him that she would probably turn around and say, “Did my mother send you?”

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So, you’re enjoying the night and music and food and drink at an outdoor concern, and Nature places her inevitable call.  Three words for your consideration:

Gender. Neutral. Bathroom.

WHICHEVER

Except, it was an outhouse.  Outhouse, bathroom, let’s not quibble, but what the heck — why the need for any kind of sign?  Can outhouses even have a gender?

Thousands of concertgoers = dozens of outhouses, lined up in a row, in the designated area.  It was all neat and orderly.  People waited in line in front of outhouses which appeared to be identical, save for the hand-scrawled, Gender Neutral Bathroom signs taped to four of the outhouses’ doors .

Taking advantage of the kind of camaraderie possible only between persons with full bladders, I asked the gent standing next to me if he knew what was special about a “gender neutral bathroom” and pointed toward the nearest one, a mere four Honey Buckets away from the facilities gent & I were waiting for.  He said he had no idea, but I could tell I’d piqued his curiosity.  We both watched as a gender specific (female) person exited the nearest GN outhouse.  The woman, displaying impeccable outhouse manners, held the door open for its next occupant (another gender specific person – this one male), which allowed the gent and I a peek inside the GN outhouse.  A central (pit) toilet, a side urinal and a wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser – it was the same as all the others.

There were no gender specified outhouses; everyone stood in line and took the next available facility.  I was mystigasted.[2]  I thought all outhouses were for all genders.  Silly moi. I guess all outhouses are equal, but some outhouses are more equal than others.

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A Good Thing to Find 

Walking to the Max station, on my way to meet MH & Belle at the Zoo, I passed a family (mom, dad & three young girls) frolicking on the Washington County Fairgrounds playground structures.  One of the girls little girl jumped off of the jungle gym and picked up a quarter she’d spotted on the ground.  She waved her clenched fist triumphantly and squealed to her mother, “Money!  I found a money!”

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Back to School = Back to Work

K is back at college and Belle is back to high school – for her senior year.  As usual, I salute the arrival of September, and look forward, this September, to begin serious work on The Book That Will Not Be Called a Sequel to The Mighty Quinn. But…whose desk is this?  This is not my desk.  How did this happen? I am, in general, a tidy, organized person.  This is not my desk. This is my desk.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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Callous and yet heartfelt commentary section

Good riddance to a depraved, monstrous coward, was my gut reaction when I heard about the suicide of That Cleveland Man.  That man, who kidnapped three women and imprisoned them in his home, apparently couldn’t abide for thirty days what he forced them to endure for over ten years. [3]

There shall be little commentary from moiself, at this time, re a certain no-win international situation.  The army/government, the rebels…six of one, half a dozen of everybody else.  Syria, Schmyria: there are no good dogs in that fight.

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Frittering the summer away

I’ve discovered, via my visits to other blogs that either regularly or occasionally feature posts about culinary matters, that I’m not a true blogger until I have posted a picture a blogged-about meal along with the recipe.

pretend this is artfully arranged on the plate

pretend this is artfully arranged on the plate

Earlier in the week I made a pesto with basil and Italian parsley, no pine nuts, dab of ricotta, heavy on the lemon juice & light on the olive oil, a combination which might have prompted a visit from the PPP (Pesto Purity Police), but all was peaceful.  Forgot to take a picture of that concoction.

Thursday is pickup day at the CSA (farm). I’ve been experimenting with veggie fritter/pancakes all summer.  Here’s what I did with some of this week’s bounty.  You could vary the spics; I was going for a mildly Indian flavor.

Spaghetti squash and zucchini fritters (3-4 servings)

• Cooked spaghetti squash plus shredded & squeezed-dry zucchini (in whatever amounts you prefer, to equal ~ 2c)
•2 garlic cloves, minced
•1 egg
•1/2 cup tomatoes, cherry or any of your tastiest varieties, finely diced & drained
•1/4 cup crumbled paneer cheese [4] (or extra firm tofu, drained and pressed)
•spices: salt & black pepper to taste; ½ t each ground cumin and curry powder
• chopped fresh parsley or cilantro
-some chickpea flour, enough to help fritters bind (can use regular or gluten-free flour mix)

Mix all but oil together.  Heat large cast iron skillet, add some neutral (e.g. canola) oil, form your fritters in whatever shape floats your boat and do the sautéing  (not deep frying) thing for 6-7 m per side (longer than your usual fritters, because there is no gluten to help them stick together)

Serve plain, or with a yogurt sauce:  Greek yogurt whipped with lemon juice, a bit of ground cayenne, finely chopped scallion (green onion) tops

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Where’s my merit badge?

This week I, without the promised help from the afore-mentioned High School Senior Daughter (who did show up 10 m into the appointment and helped me soothe some anxious kitty nerves), [5] I survived was successful in corralling and crating our three indoor cats, and transporting them to their annual veterinary exam/vaccination appointment.

At least they were somewhat behaved during their exams.  There was much hissing from af certain white cat (Nova), but no behavior that would merit me outing them on a Public Cat Shaming Site [6]

o-I-flipped-out-i-jumped-on-my-sister-hissed-and-growled-then-i-hid-under-the-sink-and-pooped-on-the-floor-that-showed-him-he-had-to-use-a-net-to-hold-me-

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Damn, Now I have to Watch one of those Reality TV Shows

Yet Another Reason to go on Living: Bill Nye The Science Guy is hoofing it to the next (17th) season of Dancing with the Stars.

BILL      dancing BILLjpg

Put on your boogie shoes, and may the  hjinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!


[1] “(when I hear auto tune) It makes me want to kick a robot!”

[2] Mystified/flabbergasted

[3] Actually, he endured nothing like the treatment he gave them, as he had regular meals in prison and was not beaten, raped and impregnated by his guards.

[4] An Indian yogurt cheese. Can be purchased in some organic/specialty stores, or made at home – a fun and relatively easy process.  Try making paneer at least once before you die. But not right before you die.

[5] For some reason they really, really don’t like having their temperatures taken, despite the pretend exclamations of excitement – (“Oh, goody, it’s temp time!”) we emitted when the vet prepped the rectal thermometer).

[6] You must visit this site. Invaluable entertainment, for both cat lovers/owners and the feline-indifferent.