I’m Allergic to Spelling Bees

Is the ability to spell an indication of intelligence? I certainly hope not.

I am the world’s worst speller. It’s embarrassing.

Thank goodness for spell-check on the computer. My spelling is so bad though, that sometimes I start a word and spell-check doesn’t know where to go with it. It suggests an entirely different word than the one I had in mind. Oh, dear.

I read a lot. You would think I would have an increased vocabulary- which I could also spell.

I think I basically see clumps of letters when I read. You’ve seen those games online, the ones where you can guess what the sentence says even though letters are reversed or left out. I suspect I read like that all the time, and consequently, spell like that too.

If I’m writing a note by hand, I often change the wording so it contains words I know I can spell correctly. Otherwise, I have to start into the “i before e” rhyme, plus figure out if I’m supposed to double the consonant before adding the ing. There are many pitfalls.

Here is a nightmare story for a bad speller:

A colonel from Albuquerque named Lincoln planned a rendezvous with his friend, a sergeant from the prairie named Isaiah. They acquired a reservation at a restaurant. (They had to maneuver their schedules to make the liaison. They feared a conundrum, but they found some leisure time). They gauged it well; there was no queue. The restaurant was in a building with columns. It was vacuumed clean and there was music with rhythm and rhyming words being played. A conscientious server brought them daiquiris and hors d’oeuvres, then some chili, broccoli, cauliflower and cantaloupe. There was no drunkenness, but they felt slightly nauseous. They camouflaged it well though.

If you have no problem with the words in this story, then you just don’t understand.

But, please, if we ever play scrabble, give me a break, okay?

My Triathlon

I am a middle-aged woman who is moderately fit and of average weight. Concerning the weight thing, I do fall into the average category, but I would really like to lose a few pounds in specific areas so that when I shop I can go to a rack and pull off an article of clothing and not have to worry about those aforesaid specific areas.

As for the moderately fit aspect, I work out and take fairly good care of myself. I have friends, though, who run marathons. I have friends who do triathlons. I’ve even heard of women doing “extreme” marathons and iron man races. I wanted to enter this world, but it seemed a bit excessive to me. So I came up with my own “civilized” triathlon, not the Iron Man, but the Pearl Woman. This is a non-competitive race for those of us slightly faint of heart.

For my Pearl Woman race I set my goals and began to train. I decided to do a standard mini-triathlon with a twist. So I began my training: running, swimming and biking.

When the big day came here is how it went:

At 8 o’clock I arrived at the gym and ran a 5k on the treadmill. I ran at exactly 5 miles an hour. Then I stretched and went home. I fixed myself a cup of tea and had a light snack (including a square of dark chocolate) while I watched the first half of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility by the BBC.

At noon I swam a mile at the local pool. After that I showered and returned home to part two of Jane Austen and more tea, another square of dark chocolate and a light snack. Here I must confess that I got a little off my game because I got caught up in one of the features, Miss Austen Regrets, and started my third event a little late.

So at 4:30 I went to a nearby (very flat) path and rode my bike for ten miles. I pedaled along at a leisurely rate and enjoyed the afternoon. A couple of my friends met me at the end and made a finish line for me -complete with orange slices and sparkling water.

One of the added benefits of a Pearl Woman race is that instead of feeling totally shot afterwards, one can join one’s friends in a celebration. Mine included wine, cheese, fruit and, well yes, more dark chocolate.

I found that I had actually challenged myself to more physical activity, but had not caused myself any injury or soreness. It was a great way to increase exercise with a reasonable goal in mind. The Pearl Woman race is indeed a “civilized” triathlon.

Let me share my thoughts about my race day:

1. I won.
2. I don’t mean to be haughty, but the competition was basically non-existent.
3. Willoughby is a jerk. Elinor keeps her composure.
4. Friends make everything more fun.
5. So does dark chocolate.

 

Warehouse Stores

I shop once or twice a month at one of the big warehouse stores. We’ll refer to it as CostClub or SamCo. There are certain products I buy there and continue my “membership” because of these items.

But sometimes I stop by for a couple of my favorite purchases and leave having spent $100. That’s pretty expensive for avocados and cheese. I realize I need a new toothbrush and a box of tissues. So, while I’m there…. I buy a set of 12 toothbrushes and a package of 10 boxes of tissues. I remember I should buy more toilet paper too. Suddenly my over-sized shopping cart is full.

I load up my car and head home. There it becomes apparent I really need a home-sized mini warehouse on this end. I have to store the 10 boxes of tissues and 24 rolls of toilet paper somewhere.

I go to put them in the basement storage area only to realize that I bought tissues the last time I went to CostClub. I now have 20 boxes of tissues. I don’t want anyone in the family to catch a cold, but if they do, I am prepared.

Once I went by SamCo on my scooter. The mental picture is odd, I know. I got a few stares from some of the other shoppers. But I only needed one thing and I put it at my feet and got it home safely.

If I buy on a whim, let’s hope it works out. Here is how the whim occurs. I am hungry. There are always lots of people offering tastes of various products, enough, in fact, for a midday meal. (Perhaps they spot a sucker as I approach). I taste something on my empty stomach. There is instant satisfaction. I buy the product.

At home the product does not taste nearly as good as it did in the store. It’s salty or sugary or just uninspiring. And we have to eat it for a number of days.

Recently I bought a huge amount of herbal tea. It is enough to last us a year. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Fortunately, my husband and I both like it.

I bought Dijon mustard. I like Dijon mustard. But I don’t really need two 20 ounce jars of it. I can’t very well say, “Dinner tonight is rice and mustard.” It’s not a main course.

I will probably keep shopping at the warehouse store. I just need to be careful. I should only go there after a big, healthy meal. Or on my scooter.

Learning French

Our daughter is married to a Frenchman. She is young and learned French while they were engaged. She had an incentive.

I am taking French lessons. Someday there will probably be “grand-enfants” and I don’t want them talking about the American grandmother behind her back.

Pour moi, French is coming very slowly. People acquire language more easily before the age of twenty or so. Needless to say, I am well past the window of easy language acquisition. The window is not only shut, it is also locked. I am trying to pry it open.

First of all, I must memorize all the vocabulary and conjugate the verbs. It’s like being in school again.

But it’s the pronunciation that is most difficult to me. I can’t seem to hear it or say it right. Here is what a lesson sounds like from my point of view. I try to say the French word for leaf.

Me: “Feuille”

Teacher: “Non, feuille”

Me: “Feuille”

Teacher: “Non. Non, feuille”

It all sounds the same to me.

I’m at the point, after three years, that I can read a little French and speak a lot less.

My teacher will greet me by rattling off a couple of sentences and questions.

There is a pause.

My mind is trying to catch up with what she just said. Ok, I think I got most of that. Then I have to consider how to form an answer. (She’s only talked about the weather and asked how I’m doing).

This is going to take many more years of work.

To be fair, French is much harder than Spanish. Spanish is easier to pronounce and seems to follow the rules more often. (At one point, I did mention to my daughter that it would have been easier if she had found someone from Spain to marry).

Meanwhile, I’m sticking with it. When I first started, I looked at the word “aujourd’hui” and thought that I’d never get this language. “Today” I can speak a little. I’ve learned the phrases, “Can you repeat that, please?” and “Can you speak more slowly, please?”.

Apparently, all this is good for my brain. It lets some air into those shut windows of my mind.

Pepe Le Pew is a Phony and How I Uncovered the Myth

Pepe Le Pew was a Warner Brothers cartoon creation. He lived in Paris and was a smelly skunk who was always enamored with female cats. They were understandably put off by his body odor. I have found out the truth about Monsieur Le Pew. There are no smelly skunks in France. Indeed, there are no smelly skunks in all of Europe. I found this out while spending time with a French friend.

I was driving our friend Simon from Denver, Colorado to Fort Collins, Colorado. He was there for a year’s internship. His English was fairly good and my French was nonexistent. We were able to carry on a pleasant enough conversation while only occasionally having to stop and explain words to one another.

As we drove along, the car was suddenly filled with that odor which is unmistakable to Americans, the smell of a skunk in the vicinity.

Simon looked across at me. I realized that he had smelled it also. But he had a quizzical, and slightly appalled, look on his face. So I attempted to explain.

“Skunk,” I said.

“What is skunk?” he asked, a little uneasily.

“Skunk, you know. Those animals with the stripe down their backs that make that smell. Pepe Le Pew and all that.”

“Pepe Le Pew?”

“Oh, never mind. You mean you don’t have skunks in France? You’ve never even heard of a skunk?”

“No.”

He sat there quietly while I tried to explain that skunks emit the terrible odor to ward off their enemies. I kept having this little doubt in the back of my mind. I kept thinking that he didn’t totally believe me, that he thought that somehow I was responsible for the smell. After all, it had suddenly appeared in my car and he knew he was not responsible. Had I only made up the idea of this animal? Was it some sort of American joke that he was missing?

Oh, Pepe Le Pew, where were you when I needed you? I never knew that smelly skunks only inhabited the Americas until that moment. I am still not sure whether Simon found out about these animals or whether he attributed that odor in my car that day to me.

Oh, well. C’est la vie.