Fun With Smut

books, etc., funny things, humor, literature, NSFW, writing, , ,

I may get in trouble for either the picture (no one I know) or the topic, but it’s an aspect of writing and reading that I have just a wee bit of experience with.

How do I feel about “dirty books”? I’m tempted to quote Tom Lehrer from his song “Smut”: “Dirty books are fun. That’s all there is to it.” He also said, “I do have a cause, though. It’s obscenity. I’m for it.” The song contains not one “dirty word.” ( You can find it online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSwYID-u71M. But I digress.)

Reading Smut

I must admit that I did read Fifty Shades of Grey when it first came out, just to see what the commotion was all about. (My advice: Don’t bother. It’s miserably written. And unrealistic. Any couple having that much sex that often would be too chafed to carry on carrying on. But I digress again.)

When I was an editor for an early childhood magazine, I was frequently given books to review. One was an illustrated sex education book for young children, written by a doctor. I don’t remember the title, but the book was written in a style meant to emulate Dr. Seuss. I also don’t remember much of the content, except for this metaphor for some body parts, which he supplied the location of:

The towns are both called testicle

And they look like two round eggs.

They’re not located on a map

But between your Daddy’s legs.

(The conception scene was a meeting of Stanley Sperm (who wore a top hat) and Essie Egg (who wore a bow) in front of an ornate gate. I did not write a review of the book. It was my theory that it could be read aloud at a party to great amusement. But I digress some more.)

Reviewing Smut

I’ve recently gotten a gig reviewing books. Most of the books I’ve reviewed were in a category called “steamy romances.” This means that the couple must overcome obstacles to get together, but when they do, they have sex. This means about two realistic sex scenes per novel. (They’re short. The books, that is. The sex scenes go on for a number of pages.)

Personally, I’m grateful that these books (there’s a series) use neither clinical names nor cutesy euphemisms for body parts. (I still remember in the movie The Naked Gun when someone used the term “throbbing purple-headed warrior.” Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) has been known to refer to her “lady garden,” a euphemism she created when not allowed to say “vagina” on TV. But I digress some more.)

Writing Smut

Once during my ghostwriting career, I had to write a piece of smut (erotica, if you prefer). It was the adventures of a woman who was connected (sorry) with various men. The men were all gorgeous and rich, and they bought the main character extravagant gifts. The woman gave me an outline describing her (and their) escapades, which I didn’t believe for a moment. I would call it “wish fulfillment porn.”

This time, I was in the position (sorry) of having to come up (sorry) with words to describe body parts and sex acts without being cutesy or clinical. I guess I succeeded. The customer was satisfied (sorry) with it, and I got paid for it (sorry), so I guess I did okay. (I’ve never been tempted (sorry) to look it up on Amazon and read the reviews. We will not discuss whether or how much I had to conduct research for the book. But I digress even more.)

The only other thing I know about writing sex scenes is that a writer friend of mine once wrote one that went on for multiple pages (and orgasms). My husband read it and was impressed.

To the Adriatic and the Alps

books, etc., travel, , , , , , ,

Eastern Europe isn’t a vacation destination that many people would choose these days, given the uncertainty in that part of the world. But in the past (those days as opposed to these), we did.

It started one day when I called Dan at work and asked, “So, do you want to go to Croatia?”

Dan is pretty much used to anything that pops out of my mouth, but this had him stumped. How did I come up with such an outlandish notion?

The answer is fairly simple. I belong to a website that advertises low-cost vacations. We had used them to arrange a trip to Mexico for us, which was very nice. So when they offered a trip to Eastern Europe for an unbelievably low price, I was ready to jump on it. And I hoped Dan would be, too.

“I can get us a deal that includes a vacation in Croatia, with days in Venice and Slovenia, and excursions to Bosnia/Herzegovina and Montenegro. It’s a great price. But I need an answer right away. At this price, it will fill up fast.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why the hell not?” (Did I mention I love him?) I booked the trip.

Venice, of course, isn’t in Eastern Europe, but it is a gateway. To get to the region easily, you fly into Venice and transfer by bus to Croatia. We had a jet-lagged afternoon in Venice to spend seeing the sites, including some off the tourist map like the tower with a spiral staircase named El Bovolo (the snail). We took a gondola ride around the city and a water taxi to the island of Murano, where we got to see glass blown and many examples far too expensive for us. Then on to Croatia.

Croatia, like Venice, is on the Adriatic, and the coast shares the Mediterranean climate and many features. There are Roman ruins in the Istrian Peninsula and olive and citrus trees everywhere. The whole of the coastline consists of beaches on the Adriatic Sea, harbors, and quaint houses with red tiled roofs. On the inland side of Croatia, where it nears Bosnia/Herzegovina, you are in the Dinaric Alps. A gorgeous National Park, called Plitvice Lakes, features lakes (of course), waterfalls, cliffs, stone trails, and rainbows. It’s particularly lovely in the snow. This side of Croatia is definitely not Mediterranean.

Zagreb is the capital, and there we saw, in the Old Town, a 15th-century clock tower 31 meters tall. I went into a bookstore, found a science fiction novel I dearly love, and bought it. “It’s in Croatian,” the proprietor said, looking puzzled. “I know,” I replied. I wanted it for a souvenir.

Another entertaining sight in Zagreb was a public festival celebrating contraception and safe sex, which featured a number of people in large sperm costumes dancing around. I wish I had gotten a picture of it. And in a town called Split, Dan and I split a banana split in a restaurant.

We also visited Slovenia and a city there, Ljubljana. There is a Tolkien-themed bar there where we had a beer to celebrate one of our favorite works of fiction. And there are castles, one of which we tried to geocache at (see my post on geocaching), but were stymied. We knew exactly where the cache was, but it was underneath a large mound of snow.

We made a side trip to Montenegro, a small, mountainous country (the name means Black Mountain) at the tip end of Croatia. It’s famous (to mystery fans, anyway, of which I’m one) for being the birthplace of detective Nero Wolfe. The country is quite mountainous, with little taverns strewn about and rockslides that looked like Wile E. Coyote might be trapped under them.

Eventually, we made our way back to Venice, where we spent another night before flying out. It was my birthday the day we left, so Dan sneaked out in the morning and bought me an orchid, which I had to carry all through the airport. Strangers kept asking, “Is that for me?” and I always replied, “I don’t know. Is it your birthday?” (It never was.) The orchid made it home with us, no more disheveled than we were.

With all the metaphoric clouds hanging over the area (the weather was pleasant the whole time we were there), I’m not sure I’d want to visit Eastern Europe right now. But Dan says he wants to retire in Montenegro. I’m thinking Costa Rica. We’ll see.

PT Can Be Fun. No, Really.

etc., fun and games, funny things, health, humor, ,

If, like me, you’ve had to recover from an operation or injury, you’ve probably been introduced to professional physical therapy. Many people in a rehab facility refuse to participate. I felt it was an unwelcome chore that I had to push myself to do. But I did learn that PT can be entertaining as well as strenuous.

One of the most common exercise machines is the bike or reclining stepper. While working out on this can seem dull and repetitive, there are ways to make it more interesting. I worked out on one that had a small screen in front of it. (Did it provide videos of scenic places you’d like to cycle? It did not. But I digress.)

It was like a video game. On the screen were representations of a road and assorted cars and trucks, which scrolled downward into your path as you pedalled. The idea was to avoid the cars by shifting the pressure you exerted with each leg to steer your own car from lane to lane. Your score was based on the number of cars you managed to avoid.

The first time I tried it, I wasn’t very successful. All along the way, I crashed into cars rather than going around them.

Then I realized that when you crashed, the machine produced an appropriate noise of rending metal (Not the screams of any imaginary drivers or passengers. But I digress again.).

Instead of trying to avoid the cars, I made it my personal quest to hit as many as I could. (The PT staff were amused by all the crashing noises and my chortles of glee when I smashed yet another vehicle. But I digress some more.) The last time I used the machine, my score was 45 crashes, with only one car avoided. I couldn’t have smashed that one. It was two lanes over, and I couldn’t make the machine do a Tokyo Drift.

I also liked the bouncy ball exercise. I parked my walker a few feet in front of what looked like an exercise trampoline tipped up at about 40 degrees, so it was impossible to jump up and down on. (At least I never figured out a way, not being up to parkour, even before my injuries. But I digress even more.)

Instead, I was given a ball about the size of a softball. I threw the ball at the trampoline, and somehow the ball bounced back to me, and I caught it. At least that was the idea. It was meant to improve my balance, as I was standing within my walker and leaning in various directions to snag the ball.

Sometimes, however, I would miss the catch. When that happened, I would exclaim, “Ack!” and the therapist had to chase the ball. (I won’t say I missed on purpose, but it was amusing to see her scramble. But I digress yet again.) I also saw some of my fellow therapees using a balloon-sized ball to play a game like volleyball without a net, with roughly the same results—catch or punch the ball so it returned to the therapist, or didn’t.

There were a number of other devices I used. Handles that hung from the top of a door for me to raise and lower alternately, to build up my arms, though all my injuries were below the waist. Jigsaw puzzles to solve or pegboards to fill. (There was nothing wrong with my hands. These activities were for distraction. The therapist timed me to see how long I could stand without tiring. Again, the balance thing. But I digress even again.)

In the rehab facility, I did PT every weekday. Alas, now I’m home and have outpatient therapy only once a week. They have boring equipment. No car crashes. No bouncy balls. No jigsaw puzzles. Only parallel bars and laps around the gym with my walker. PT may now help me grow stronger, but it’s not exercising my sense of humor.

Heliocentric Holiday

etc.

We made it! Another lap around the Sun, another year into the record books, and the cycle begins again. From an outside observer’s viewpoint, nothing much has changed. A few solar flares, maybe. But for the most part, the Earth keeps on rolling around the Sun in its elliptical orbit as the Sun continues its motion through the Milky Way Galaxy.

Accomplishing this is something we celebrate, even though we had no hand in making it happen. We’re just along for the ride. But every year, we have ceremonies, traditions, and rituals that mark the occasion.

My husband and I have settled into a pattern of New Year’s celebrations. On the Eve, we open a bottle of champagne and heat up some frozen hors d’ouevres. (This year I drank my bubbly from a “My Therapist Has Four Paws” mug. We had some champagne left over, so we had mimosas in the morning. But I digress.) Then Dan stays awake long enough to see the ball drop and wakes me up to see it, too. He calls his mother at midnight and sings “Happy New Year to You.” And we shake our purses or wallets at midnight, a tradition in Dan’s family meant to ensure prosperity in the coming year. (This has never been known to work, but we keep doing it anyway. Dan’s grandmother did it, and that’s good enough for him. But I digress some more.) Our only resolution? To do it all again the next year.

On New Year’s Day, Dan wants his pork and cabbage, and some years he even gets it. We’re not too strict about the form of these foods. One year, we had grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and cole slaw. This year, it was pork fried rice and kimchi, as we went to a Chinese restaurant, which we often do on holidays like New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. (Except for the years we get takeout sushi (I’ve never seen pork or cabbage sushi), and Dan has to rustle up some sausages and sauerkraut later, preferably when I’m not in the house. But I digress again.)

New Year’s Eve brought me a bit of good fortune to start off the year. I landed a ghostwriting assignment for a science fiction novel. I checked the list of posted projects and noticed one that had just gone up and had no one clamoring to be the writer yet. I pounced. I sent a request, assuring the customer that I was an avid sci fi fan and had written an sf novel before. Before I knew it, the customer accepted my request and I started on it Friday. (There will be no digressions in it. But I digress even more.)

This New Year’s Day was memorable for the Chinese lunch we shared with three friends, Kelly, Stewart, and Beth, at the China Garden Buffet. Beth pointed out that the group of us hadn’t been together since our friend Robbin’s funeral, almost five years ago. (Trips around the Sun often pass without our even noticing them. But I continue to digress.) We feasted and gabbed for 3 1/2 hours.

When you think about it, all holidays are anniversaries of a trip around the Sun. (Except for “moveable feasts” like Easter and Hannukah, of course. But I digress yet again.) Earth Day means one lap since the previous Earth Day. The Fourth of July, exactly one year since the last one. And of course, everyone’s birthday is a celebration of one more revolution.

The Sun and the Earth notice this not at all, but we notice them and their steady dance over each year’s time. Fortunately, we can expect many more.

Christmas Is Over. April Is Coming.

etc., family, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was November, and I was manic. I had just gotten paid for a freelance job, and I went on the internet. I instantly started seeing items for sale that my husband might like. So I started buying.

(The mania was a part of my bipolar disorder and reckless spending is one of the known risks. At least I didn’t get into other risky behaviors like reckless driving. But reckless shopping is fun, and I hadn’t been able to do much recently. But I digress.)

The first thing I bought him was a t-shirt that said: Stay Groovy. I thought it was appropriate because any time a server in a restaurant asks, “How are you today?” he always says, “Groovy.” But then, he’s an old and unrepentant hippie.

Then I found another t-shirt, “Make America Grateful Again,” with the skull and lightning bolt symbol that the band The Grateful Dead used. I was off and shopping.

I found more t-shirts, all in the same vein, such as one with the lyrics to “In My Life” (Dan’s favorite Beatles song) and a shirt with a tie-dye hand missing one finger. (A reference to Jerry Garcia, the leader of the Grateful Dead, who actually had only nine fingers, despite the fact that he was the lead guitar player. Dan is frequently mistaken for Jerry Garcia, as his hair is the same wild, curly mass that Jerry had. Sometimes he tells people he is Jerry Garcia and in the Witness Protection program. And that he had the missing finger surgically replaced as part of his disguise. But I digress again, at length.)

Then I found what would turn out to be his main gift—a piece of the wooden stage from Woodstock mounted in a peace sign pendant—and relegated the shirts to being stocking stuffers. (It came with a certificate of authenticity, but who really knows? It’s the thought that counts. He put it on right away and has been wearing it ever since. But I digress yet again.}

It had become my turn to be Santa. (Dan is often accused of being Santa, especially (but not exclusively) in December. Again, it’s the hair and beard. He often plays along, telling children to mind their parents and play nicely with their siblings. This year, he even wore red sweats and a Santa hat to work on Christmas Eve, then went around the store handing out “Santa Bucks” coupons, “signed by Santa.” He even wore a nametag that said “Santa C.” It was all his idea; no one at the company put him up to it. But I digress even more.)

Was I done shopping? I was not.

While I was perusing t-shirts, I found one that showed layers of rock and said, “My Sediments Exactly.” Well, Dan studied geology in college, and heads to the fossils, petrified wood, and interestingly shaped rocks when we’re in a rock and gem shop. (He even brought home an “interesting rock” that he collected when we were in Ireland. He almost didn’t get it through Customs. But I keep digressing.)

So I pretended that the internet was a fossil and rock shop and fired up PayPal again. I bought basalt, various kinds of quartz, and several minerals that fluoresce under UV light. I also bought a UV light so he could appreciate them fully.

About that time (late November), it occurred to me that I couldn’t give him all these gifts for Christmas. It would be un peu de trop (a bit much). So I sorted the gifts into two piles: one for Christmas and the other to be saved for his birthday in April. I decided that the “hippie freak” gifts seemed more Christmasy, and the “rockhound” gifts more birthday-y. (Don’t ask me how I decided which was which. It seemed logical at the time.)

Anyway, on Christmas, I told Dan to get the pile of presents on the right-hand side of the closet. They proved to be a hit. In April, he gets the other stack.

Fortunately, there are no other present-giving holidays or occasions that occur until next Christmas. One never knows when mania and PayPal will take over. Or at least I don’t.

P.S. Dan never reads my blogs. Let’s keep this just between us.

Where Are the Fat Geese?

Christianity, Christmas, etc., food, funny things, holidays, humor, music, religion, ,

A little-remembered Christmas carol starts out: “Christmas is coming/The geese are getting fat.” In “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” there are six geese the first time around, with more to come, based on their a-laying and the repetition of all the presents ad nauseam.

But you hardly ever see a goose baked and broiled sunny-side-up on people’s Christmas tables, or as part of turgooducken. Turkey and ham are the popular choices. (Me, I go for something nontraditional, such as sushi, lasagna, ratatouille, or Chinese take-out. The Chinese food, I guess, is more traditional for Jewish people, pagans, Pastafarians (who might prefer the lasagna), and others with unconventional tastes. But I digress.)

Why does no one sing the carol about the fat geese anymore? Probably because the rest of the song is about charity to the poor—”Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat./If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do./If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you.” Carolers these days hardly ever accept a penny for their services, and ha’pennies went out with farthings. Carolers might get a cup of cocoa or a cookie with red and green sprinkles, but that’s about it. Maybe they need a union.

Modernizing the carol wouldn’t come easily either. “Please to put a penny in the Salvation Army Kettle” doesn’t fit the meter, and nobody carries around ha’pennies these days. (Indeed, soon, they won’t carry pennies, either, what with the mint doing away with them, and possibly the nickel, too. You’d be left with putting a quarter in the kettle and settling for a dime. But I digress again.)

But back to geese. I don’t think I’ve even seen them on the menu at a restaurant. Perhaps it’s because they’re fatty (hence “The geese are getting fat”). Maybe it’s because they’re big. No one would order a whole goose. A smaller party might order slices of goose, but that would leave the kitchen with a lot of extra goose. What to do with it? Serve goose hash the next morning? I somehow doubt that would be a big seller.

Live geese aren’t any prize, either. They’re mean. Big ones can weigh up to 20 pounds. Just imagine an easily enraged, 20-pound bird with a loud cry, a hard knob on the top of its head, a large beak, and much given to pecking, chasing you around the yard. (It’s my theory that the fad of concrete dress-up geese on the front step (which I hope has passed) was thought up by someone from an ad agency who had been hired to improve geese’s image. But I digress some more.)

(For that matter, swans are also not candidates for the Beast Congeniality crown. Yes, they’re stunning—at a distance—and (it’s said) monogamous. But they are geese with an even better ad agency. They’re really savage. The Stratford Canada Shakespeare Festival warns visitors to avoid the killer swans that roam the grounds. (Despite the swans, the Stratford Shakespeare Festival is well worth a visit. They present theater-in-the-round and frequently stage works not written by The Bard of Avon. The 2026 season includes Death of a Salesman, Waiting for Godot, and Guys and Dolls. But I digress yet again.))

Anyway, we started this ramble with geese and Christmas carols. Every year, I ask friends what their favorite and least favorite Christmas songs are in both religious and secular categories. My favorite religious one is “Mary, Did You Know?” Least favorite: “The Little Drummer Boy.” My favorite secular song is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Least favorite: “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” (Though there are some interesting parodies like “The Twelve Days of Star Wars” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHSEUAXDucw, if you want a change of pace. But I digress musically.)

No one has ever mentioned the one with the geese.

What’s So Funny?

blogs, etc., funny things, humor, writing

Recently, I fell in with a comedy site that has weekly online meetings where members are encouraged to submit their humor for feedback. My interactions with them have proved perplexing. I submitted for analysis a piece I was working on. The response was tepid at best, so I revised and submitted it again. Here’s the first draft:

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex was taken aback and, for once, clueless.

I have done the same. (The satellite/Tupperware thing, not flummoxing Alex Trebek. I wish. But I digress.)

What both I and the Jeopardy contestant had in common is “geocaching.”

It goes like this. One person hides a piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is also popular), usually in a natural environment but sometimes within a city or suburb. The container holds a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted trinkets, such as a postcard or a small toy. This is called the geocache.

***

Here’s a revision of the first section, rewritten according to what they suggested, or so I supposed.

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex should have replied, “So you’re some kind of kitchenware spy,” but missed the opportunity.

I have aspired to kitchenware spying myself.

It’s called “geocaching” to those in on the process. A piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is popular) is hidden, usually in a natural setting. The secrets within are a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted objects of unknown value. This is known in the trade as the geocache or “drop site.”

***

That second version was close to the one that you saw when I posted it. I think it was improved somewhat, but at the next meeting, they suggested even more changes.

I had trouble implementing their suggestions. The first one was “Lose the digressions,” which I was reluctant to do because of the name of my blog and a reasonably consistent shtick when I’m writing what I intend to be humorous pieces. They act like footnotes or record the meanderings of my mind while I write. But I ditched them for the second version, just to see. I also bumped up the spy references, using words like “agent,” “secret identity,” “tradecraft,” “the drop,” and “Ilya Kuryakin.”

On seeing the second version, they suggested that instead of describing how geocaching works, I should use “I” more: “I bait the drop,” “I decipher the clues,” etc. I agree that, in general, unless you’re writing an academic paper, “I” is preferable to “you.” So that was probably good advice.

They also told me I needed more hyperbole and more jokes. I already had some jokes in there: one clue being “Look under the big W” (a reference to It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World) and my secret identity as “DjangOH” (in honor of my cat Django, who was named after Django Reinhardt, the jazz musician). They thought that one was pretty good, but assumed I was referring to the movie Django Unchained, which has nothing to do with cats or jazz musicians. They were apparently too young to get the other references as well. I’m beginning to doubt they got the one about Ilya Kuryakin.

Anyway, based on their comments and critiques of other people’s work, I gathered that what they were looking for was zingers, punchlines, and an over-the-top tone, like a stand-up comedian’s.

But that’s not the kind of writing I prefer. I grew up on observational, story-telling humorists like Erma Bombeck, James Thurber, and Jean Kerr. And if I could write one-tenth as well as David Sedaris or The Bloggess, I would count myself a happy writer. Hyperbole, yes, but no punchlines.

So I ask you these questions:

• Should I keep doing what I’ve been doing, with digressions?

• Should I lose the digressions and rename my blog?

• Do you prefer a stand-up comedy-style writing or an observational one (but not like Steven Wright)?

• Do you want to see listicles? Shorter pieces of writing?

• Would you prefer no serious posts like the one last week about my father? Should I have a separate blog for them? (It would be occasional, as I don’t think I could write three blog posts a week.)

I sincerely want your opinions. Please feel free to sound off in the comments.

Apparently obligatory joke:

Ist old lady: My, it’s windy today.

2nd old lady: No, it’s Thursday.

3rd old lady: So am I. Let’s all go get a cup of tea.

Melvyn vs. Multiple Myeloma

etc., family, health, ,

This is my father. His name was James Robert, or Jim, or Jim-Bob in his native Kentucky. My friends and I all called him Melvyn. It was based on a line from a comedy show that none of us remembers.

This picture was taken at my wedding reception, after he had dispensed with his tie. It looked unnatural on him anyway, although I must say that all through my childhood, he worked a government job that required a suit. I remember the scents of Aqua Velva and Vitalis, and the shine on his black shoes.

Then, when I was a teenager, he took medical disability because he had multiple myeloma.

When that happened, he went back to his Jim-Bob roots. He wore sneakers, flannel shirts, and a cowboy hat. He spent his time rediscovering hobbies like reloading bullets. When he was bedridden, family friend and library worker Beth McCarty brought him sacks of Zane Grey and Louise L’Amour westerns. It was quite a surprise to me to see him reading.

The disease spread to his bones as well as his blood. His pancreas failed and had to be removed, so he needed drugs to replace its function. He had an operation to take a piece of bone from his hip and use it to support his neck.

He had chemo and radiation. He didn’t really have much hair to lose at that point, but he threw up a lot. The doctors gave him only a couple of years to live. But he beat them by a significant number of years—10, I think. I really don’t remember the exact total; I wasn’t counting then, just hoping it would last.

One thing he didn’t do was go to group therapy. The local hospital had one group for cancer patients called Make Today Count or some similarly upbeat name. He flatly refused to go. My guess is that he had that Kentucky take-care-of-your-own-problems, keep-it-in-the-family mindset. It’s unlikely that they could have given him something more than he found within his own resources. Melvyn was stubborn, which in his case, he could substitute for positivity.

My mother was his caregiver, and she went it alone, too, except one time when she asked me if she was doing a good job. She knew down deep she was; she just needed to hear it from someone else. But, like Melvyn, she kept it in the family.

Recently, however, the New York Times reported a story, “From No Hope to a Potential Cure for a Deadly Blood Cancer.” It was about multiple myeloma and how new therapies are extending life for people who have been given a death sentence. People like Melvyn.

It’s a new kind of immunotherapy, which wasn’t possible, or maybe even thought of, all those years ago. The study, the Times said, was a “last-ditch effort.”

And, somehow, it worked, at least better than expected. “A third responded so well that they got what seems to be an astonishing reprieve—to have made their cancer disappear.” And after five years, it still hadn’t returned in those patients — a result never before seen in multiple myeloma.

No doubt, before the human test, there were studies on rats. (Melvyn always said he hated being compared to a rat.) The immunotherapy isn’t cheap. One dose is all that’s needed, but it costs $555,310. Our family couldn’t have afforded that, even with government insurance.

The scientists hope that if they diagnose the disease early enough and give the treatment then, it could be a cure. As it is, immunotherapy still isn’t a cure, but the treatment “increased median survival from two years to 10.”

That was something Melvyn accomplished on his own.

I Use Satellites to Find Tupperware in the Woods

etc., fun and games, funny things, humor, ,


That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex should have replied, “So you’re some kind of kitchenware spy,” but missed the opportunity.

I have practiced kitchenware spying myself.

To make it sound less like spying, it’s called “geocaching.” A secret identity, if you will.

A piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is popular) is hidden, usually in a natural setting. The secrets within are a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted objects of unknown value. This is known in the trade as the geocache or “drop site.”

To get your mission started, go to a website that contains geographical coordinates. Sometimes there’s a cypher that offers an encrypted clue. (“It’s under a big W.”) You use the satellite coordinates and a sophisticated process called warmer/colder until you find the cache. Or not.

To prove you’ve succeeded in your mission, you sign the piece of paper, take an object another agent has left, and replace it with one of your own. This is known in tradecraft as “the drop.” Then you return to the website and report that you have found the cache and made the swap (or not).

The hiding places can be diabolical. One I was in charge of was attached to a statue celebrating sewer workers. Or you may need to locate a next-to-invisible “microcache” that contains only a tiny piece of paper. (BYO pencil.) One I found was a magnetic key holder. Another had an extremely cryptic encryption clue in a foreign language. It contained the expression “2d,” which I at first interpreted as two-dimensional or flat. Instead, the dropsite proved to be cylindrical, a tiny roll of paper wrapped around a nail inserted into a fencepost. The nail was known as a two-penny nail. 2d in British tradecraft means two-penny.

Another cache was the back of an official-looking magnetic sign on the side of an electrical box. To prove you had located it, you had to peel off the magnetic notice, sign the back, and then replace it.

One complication is that you must retrieve the cache without being seen by laypeople. It’s interesting trying to climb up a swing set in a park without looking like that’s what you’re doing. Once, to avoid blowing my cover, I had to mime losing my car keys and looking for them under an overpass where the Tupperware was hidden.

I haven’t hunted Tupperware lately, especially since I sustained an injury. And lost my GPS in a tornado. And need a GPS to find my motivation, which could be anywhere, but probably isn’t in my house. Maybe I lost that in the tornado, too. But I just went back to the website where you find the coordinates, and learned that I was still registered as an agent with a secret identity (DjangOH).

There is at least one cache very close to my home base that I could conceivably find with only the clue and no coordinates. I miss the thrill of the chase. Maybe I can even locate that cache while using my walker. And pretend my husband is Ilya Kuryakin.

Walkin’ the Walk

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Babies learn to walk by stumbling around with a Frankenstein gait and frequently falling on their padded butts. And people think it’s cute.

Me, not so much. (It’s true that I have an amply padded butt, but it’s not sufficient to cushion a fall from my height to the floor. Which has happened to me fairly frequently since I had my knee replacement in late April. But I digress.)

The reason this all occurs to me is that I have had to learn to walk all over again. And I don’t look cute as I waddle and toddle and go boom. The going boom part has necessitated stays in the hospital and the post-acute rehab facility (aka nursing home). At least there was someone there to pick me up when I did go boom.

(Dan did fairly well when I boomed at home. (Yes, we’re both boomers. Like that was any secret. But I digress parenthetically.) But he has to work and wasn’t available for eight hours a day, which made us both very nervous. Fortunately, he was home when I fell and broke one ankle in two places. But I digress some more.)

But everything has changed—or is, at least, back to what passes for normal here. I’m at home, doing PT on an outpatient basis, and getting around the house with the walker and a PT technique I learned called “stand and pivot.” (Sounds like a square dance move to me. Perhaps I should curtsy to the walker. But I digress yet again.)

Square dancing isn’t in my immediate (or, most likely, long-term) future. Nor are ballet, polka, and can-can. (Waltz, perhaps. It was probably invented by someone who could do the stand and pivot. But I digress even more.)

Regular walking, though—that may not be beyond my power. At PT last week, I walked 97 feet, and yesterday I walked 250 steps. Both with the walker, of course.

Dan is urging me to try trickier forms of ambulation—climbing stairs and walking up and down a ramp that we installed for my wheelchair. My PT people insist that I need better balance and stamina first. And I don’t want to do anything that involves going boom. Chair-dancing—that I can handle.