KatyDid—That was awesome!  Applause!

barrett etc—That was a great spoof—very funny!

SA—I sang Rubber Ducky with my niece when she was a baby—(she’s in her mid-30s now) I know the exact words to that song.  It’s very catchy—see there, now I cannot get it out of my head!  Rubber Ducky, you’re the one. ...

James—Didn’t know what a terrific singer I was, did ya?

I miss the genius that was Jim Henson.

I saw an ad on TV for Chiller Theater on Halloween Night.  Now that’s a blast from the past.  I used to love Chiller Theater on Saturday Nights when I was a kid.  My brothers and sisters and I would make a huge bowl of popcorn, shut off the lights (atmosphere) and watch the absolute worst B movies—oh, the horror!  (I was the youngest, so I usually fell asleep before the movie was over, but I still remember it fondly.)  The network should bring back Chiller—the kitsch value alone is better than most TV offerings.  Bring it back! 

As long as size 10 is considered "plus size" there will be women with body issues. 

More women die every day from heart attacks than breast cancer.  Breast cancer has become a recognizable "industry" project in pink, for women, because heart attacks are thought of as male, breasts, female.  When two women close to me had heart attacks they did not know what was happening, because women know the male signs of heart failure, not the female signs, which can be much different.  Making a market for pink products has its place—but education on the health problems women face is severly lacking. 

Both letters are about a man who is uncommunicative about his feelings to a woman.  I grew up with a father and brothers who never spoke, literally.  I know how frustrating this can be—if you love the person give him time to get the emotions out of his system, on his own timetable.  Let him know you are there for him, care about what he is going through, then walk away.  Or talk about something innocuous, like his favorite hobbies.  This kind of man is the toughest to get through to, but he will appreciate your leaving his problems alone until he is ready to deal with them. 

He is making himself the center of the universe by not speaking—something women, who are raised to talk out everything—find difficult to understand.  It took me a lifetime to understand my brothers.  It is worth the trouble.

When I entered college in 1974, out-of-town Freshmen (they tried "Frosh" as a gender-free term, but it never caught on) had to live on campus for the first year, by law.  After that we could move into student housing in town.  (I had no choice but to move into student housing—I had no place to go when campus was closed for holidays—I hated the smug assumption that everyone had a home and parents somewhere.)

I was assigned to the last all-female dormitory on campus.  It was also the only dorm with a "house mother"—quite an antiquated notion then.  She had a little apartment right there on the first floor of the dorm, clearly had lived there for a long time, and she used to invite us in for tea and conversation on a nightly basis. 

This was a generation that smoked pot and drank (the drinking age was 18 then) before leaving high school, so we thought the whole idea was quaint, that is, until we visited her. 

We quickly realized she was an older woman, far from elderly, who had devoted her entire life to her "girls" who came and went, new faces every year, faces that grew more and more bewildered by her presence.  

We were her purpose for being there, and even though the RAs helped us navigate registration (all done by hand on punch cards back then), she helped us with something much more important—respect for how far she had come in her time. 

We didn’t own little white gloves to wear to tea, but we visited her frequently, and listened to her stories of how much the campus had changed over the years.  She was an integral part of our education as women. 

All of the dormitories turned co-ed my sophomore year, and I heard she had moved.  Over that summer I moved downtown to a communal house that was like night and day compared to that dorm.  I recall thinking how confusing the times were to me then, and how incredibly confusing the times must have been to our house mother who lost her home, her job, and her purpose, in the span of a few turbulent decades. 

Linda—Yes, I agree.  He was the world’s best cat (no offense to other cats—but he really was) and can never be forgotten.   In the dreams he is a healthy kitten, full of joy and magic.

I sincerely doubt that Mr. 100 Conquests is capable of love.  He has serious self-esteem issues that he deals with by blatantly insulting the one woman who would have him.  There is no future with this toxic man.

I have a vivid recurring dream where my cat jumps up on my bed, runs around the perimeter three times, and finally settles into a puddle next to my head, purring loudly. 

This cat died five years ago, of old age and deteriorating health.  I rescued him when he was a kitten, and we had over 17 happy years together.  I am aware in the dream that he is dead, but I am thrilled to have him back.  Actually, it seems very real, not like a dream at all.

I think he is protesting the new coop rule in my building—no one is allowed to have pets unless they were already there before the rule came into effect.  I believe he is telling me to move.

Leanette—2007!  I’m so sorry.  You are right.  We just have to hang in there until…well, until. 

I’ll be excited when decent jobs are available.   I’ve been laid off for 10 months and counting.