My friend Mary Ellen has a nine-year-old daughter, Amelia, who is naturally funny, although I’m not certain she’s funny on purpose.

Each year, the grade school Amelia attends holds a celebration to recognize the 100th day of school. The students in her grade class were to complete a writing assignment telling what they believed they’d be doing when they were 100. This is Amelia’s.

“When I am 100, I will be playing bingo at the Greenlodge Nursing Home. I will be married with one child who never comes to visit.”

Mary Ellen told me about another time, when Amelia was just three years old, they went to a Friendly’s Restaurant for lunch, where they each ordered a hot dog. When Amelia’s hot dog arrived, there was a large dill pickle next to it on the plate. Amelia, looking thoroughly disgusted, and said, “A salad! I didn’t order a salad!”

(Says Mary Ellen, “I guess you can tell there aren’t many green things eaten at our house.”)

Last winter, another of my friends was helping the children at her daughter’s kindergarten class get their coats at the end of the day. She said a tiny blonde girl came up to her and asked, “Have you seen my gloves? They’re pink.” The little girl paused, seemed to be considering something, then added, “And they’re kind of shaped like my hand.”

My own nine-year-old daughter, Celeste, comes up with funny lines on a regular basis. The other day, she was showing her stepdad a very loose tooth, then mentioned that she needed to run over to our neighbor Carolyn’s house so she could pull it for her. (She’s better at it than me.)

Geoff said, “It’s getting late. If you’re going to go, you’d better go now.”

Celeste looked him in the eye and said, “Not this second.” She allowed there to be a long, silent pause, then said. “Not this second either.”

“You’re a strange kid,” said Geoff.

“I’m not strange,” she said quickly. “I’m unique.”

Geoff and I recently moved our bedroom down to our basement, right before he left town for a few days. With him gone, Celeste decided to sleep downstairs with me. At bedtime, I put her hair in two braids to help keep it from tangling, then I told her it made her look like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. The next morning, she was awakened by her shaggy, little dog standing on her chest, tugging her braid. She looked around at the unfamiliar room and said, “Hey, Toto. I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.”

Celeste has more than her fair share of hair, and when allowed to hang loose, it can wind up looking like a brown bush–something that drives her father (who has personal hair retention issues) up the wall.

One day last week, when Celeste was looking especially primitive, Mitch complained, “Your hair is a mess.”

She looked up at her father’s aerodynamic noggin, squinted hard, then said, “And so are both of yours.”

I’m proud that my girl never curses. In fact, I suspect she sees herself as the self-appointed head of the profanity patrol. If she hears one of us slip and say a bad word, she makes us apologize to God for being offensive.

So it came as a huge surprise when, after she banged her head while jumping on the bed, I heard her say, “Man, if I cursed right now, I’d probably say sh**.”

Because of the rain early Saturday morning, the V100 yard sale has been postponed until next Saturday, October 7.

Of course, we decided to load the van last night. *sigh*

Remember earlier this year when I swore I’d never have another yard sale? Well, I lied. I’m having one tomorrow (Saturday, Sept. 30) along with scads of other people at V100’s big yard sale at the Kanawha Mall from 8 am until noon.

Much as I hate going through this again, I could really use the money, especially with Christmas not that far away. I still have the attic and one closet to go through tonight, as well as some clothes to price. I don’t have anywhere near as much stuff as I did the last time around, but it’s still amazing how fast it accumulates, especially considering how seldom I shop. Where does it all come from?

Wish me luck!

I occasionally have trouble with insomnia. It’s something I’ve mentioned it in my columns and on my Gazz blog a few times in the past. After a day or two without sleep, I’m not all that bad. But by several days in, I’m a nut. I do stupid things.

For instance, it was a lack of sleep that once prompted me to believe it was a good idea to use a box of (extremely expired) hair color I found while cleaning a bathroom cabinet at 2 am.

It’s what caused me to alphabetize our spices, Superglue two fingers to a Popsicle stick, and get so angry with Stephen King over how he ended Pet Sematary that I got rid of all of his books.

Thankfully, my insomnia bouts don’t usually last more than a week or so at a time. Whatever stressor kindled my curse will soon have weakened or passed, and I’ll be back to getting my usual five or six hours of z’s.

Determined to squeeze something positive from these aggravating times, I started recording the bits of wisdom I’ve learned during my middle-of-the-night meanderings.

For instance, I’ve learned it’s not smart to take an opinionated dog for a middle-of-the-night walk around homes occupied by easily offended, light-sleeping dogs.

I’ve learned that at 2 a.m., if you can’t tell the difference between ivory, eggshell and off white, it’s best to wait until daylight to paint rather than trust that your choice truly is “close enough.”

And I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to attempt to trim tangles out of the hair of the neighborhood cat without having a potential donor matching your blood type close by.

Those without sleep shouldn’t attempt to tweeze their eyebrows, cut their own bangs, or be allowed anywhere near a home bikini wax kit.

And they should know to never hit “send” even though they’re certain the recipient of their cleverly worded email will not only understand, but appreciate, the bizarre tome for the wittily sarcastic masterpiece that it is.

I’ve learned that bad lunchmeat can smell just fine at 2 a.m.
And that one’s judgment over whether the contents of the dishwasher are clean or dirty can be grossly wrong.

I’ve learned Dirty Dancing is on practically 24 hours a day, that David Oreck never sleeps, that Tom Bosley must be down on his luck, and that it’s terribly important to Wilford Brimley that his diabetic supplies be delivered right to his door.

I’ve learned sleep deprivation can make one incapable of following story lines involving anything more complicated than, “Mr. Brown can moo. Can You?”

And that rearranging furniture while the rest of the family is sleeping can bring about entertaining results.

I’ve learned there are long infomercials that run all hours of the night featuring young women who can’t restrain themselves from lifting their shirts while yelling out, “Woo!”

And that writing down the many stupid things one does after several days without sleep can fill up a column.

It’s never easy to lose a dog, but Mac did what he could to make it easier for my folks. On Wednesday night, he waited until Mom went upstairs to talk to Dad, then he died. He was a gentleman right up to the end.

A little over 15 years ago, when I still lived on the next ridge over from my parents, Mac was dumped at the end of our road. I spotted him as I drove past on my way to work. He was sitting there, very straight, like a sentry on duty, his posture perfect. Almost rigid.

Around 6 that evening, as I drove home from work, the Shepherd-Chow pup was still there. He looked stubbornly certain that whoever left him was going to return. Dad and I talked about stopping, but decided the pup probably belonged with a truck parked nearby. At 9:30 that night, I went out again. The truck was gone, but the pup was still there. His loyalty to the people who abandoned him in such a dangerous place broke my heart. I called Dad. He brought him home.

At the time, my parents already had Molly, Mitzi, Millie, Jade and Shorty (shepherd, sheepdog, elkhound, shepherd and dustmop, respectively). What was one more?

Mac was pretty much the most perfect pet you could ask for–intensely intelligent and terribly proud. But he had a few quirks–he was very sensitive about his hygiene, and he growled a lot. The two went together.

If you told Mac he smelled funny, he’d growl. If you sniffed the air the way you might at an strange smell, he would growl. Even if you happened to be in a different room from him and casually remarked about an offensive odor: “Grrr “

The first time my ex-husband, Mitch, ever visited my parents’ house, Mac was having a hard time deciding if Mitch was friend or foe. He (Mac, not Mitch) was under the table at the time, head between Mitch’s knees, teeth bared, poised dangerously close to Mitch’s manhood.

I couldn’t resist. I sniffed.

Mitch could never quite get the humor in that.

It just occurred to me that I could use this blog space to fish for ideas for future columns.
I’d love to hear your suggestions, funny anecdotes, embarrassing moments (I doubt I’ll ever run out of my own personal supply of those). Was there something that touched you that you’d like me to help share? Some adventure or endeavor?

I’m not a reporter, so I can’t get into anything investigative or terribly complicated (the latter because I write the columns on my own time rather than the company clock, and I’m spread far too thin right now to devote many hours), but I’d love to hear your suggestions. The quirkier, the better.

If you don’t want to post here on the blog, you can send me at email at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

I’ve been so sleep deprived I decided to take a week off from the column. Got an hour of sleep one night, nearly two hours the next. Wasn’t up for trying to pull something together after a few days of that. The insomnia seems to have finally broken, as I’ve slept the past two nights, so I’m feeling worlds better.

This afternoon, Geoff and I went to see The Black Dahlia. He liked it, I hated it. At first, I thought the whole film noir thing was cool, but it wasn’t enough to make up for shallow characters and an implausible, coincidence-dependent plot.

Celeste and I went to the American Idol concert in Huntington last night with our across-the-street neighbor Trish and her son, Jordan. We had such a great time. Celeste said it was one of the best nights of her life. (Perhaps not so much a good thing as it is a sad reflection on the rest of her life.)

I don’t really follow the show like most people there did, and I’m certainly not the huge fan Celeste is. I didn’t know the names of most of the singers so Celeste helped me with these names. I apologize if I get one wrong.

Mandisa was the first act, and a good one to start with. What a powerful voice. Lisa and Paris were next–both entertaining and competent, although not terribly memorable. I don’t remember the order after that. I think the next one out was Ace. I can’t honestly say how good a singer Ace was because I was too distracted by his purty arms and the glare from his teeth. He’s just too darn cute. Who cares if he can sing?

I think Kellie was next and she seemed like such a genuinely nice person. She knew how to get the crowd to love her. She should consider a career in politics or PR. She’d be a natural. Somewhere in there was Elliott and Chris. I thought Chris was very impressive and seemed the most professional singer of the bunch (and the one with the most star potential).

Finally, Katherine took the stage. She was (and still is) Celeste’s favorite. Such a beautiful woman with such perfect everything–hair, body, voice–but something seemed to be missing from her performance, although I can’t say what. She didn’t stay on stage as long as the other singers. Maybe that’s all it was.

Taylor Hicks was his usually passionate, strange-dancing self, but he also seemed tired at times (understandably). I thought his choice of “Country Roads” was a great idea, but it looked like he forgot the words and decided to just sing the one part he did know over and over again. The crowd didn’t care. They went wild over him. He was the obvious favorite.

My biggest thrill, though, was watching Celeste dancing on her chair, clapping her hands over her head, singing along. She was totally into it, thoroughly enjoying herself. She’s really putting that reserved side behind her.

I was on the phone with my mom, doing what I usually do when I’m at home on the phone-loading the dishwasher, unloading the dryer, folding clothes. In constant motion. Mom asked to speak with Celeste, who was quietly sitting on the couch, watching a show. As soon as I handed my daughter the phone, she immediately stood and started futzing around, moving things from here to there, her shoulder pinning the phone to her ear so she could use both hands like I do. It seemed as though she didn’t think it was possible to talk on the phone while sitting still.

Likely because it’s something she’s not once seen me do.

I recently read about a work-from-home mother, Alana Morales, who claims she’s the queen of multi-tasking, saying she “lacks the ability to do less than three things at a time.

“For me, torture would be to sit on the couch doing absolutely nothing, knowing my kitchen was messy and my kid’s clothes needed washed,” she wrote. “After about 19 seconds, I would begin to tremble. After a minute I would look like I was going through detox. After five minutes, you’d have to strap me to the couch because that’s the only way I would be able to not do anything.”

She admitted there’s a downside to her efficiency. “When I sit down to watch a movie or TV show, I’m still working or thinking about working or feeling guilty about not working.”

It’s a feeling with which I’m completely familiar.

I’m not sure when “multi-tasking” first joined our vocabulary, but the term now makes me wince, especially when I hear it used as though it’s a positive thing. Many businesses embraced the concept of employees who could perform many tasks at the same time and began “cross-training” their staff members so each was capable of performing the other one’s job. Once this cross-training was achieved, downsizing often occurred, with the responsibilities of the slashed positions being divvied up among those who remained.

And those who remained were forced to juggle more assignments and responsibilities than ever before, frequently switching from one project to another, forever prioritizing which is most urgent.

With fragmented thoughts and minds that, although still working on one task, have already moved on to the next, these employees are expected to give 100 percent (or, more likely, 110). They become so accustomed to juggling more and more pins at the same time they don’t notice multitasking spreading into other parts of their life.

They don’t notice that they’ve started to view a walk downtown or a drive in their car as intolerably unproductive unless they have a cell phone pressed to their head. Or that they have more eating utensils in their desk drawer than at home in their kitchen. Or that they’ve begun carrying separate calendars for each family member.

Instead, most multi-taskers seem proud of their productivity, rattling off their responsibilities with that same strange mixture of self-pity and glee as a four-year-old with a bandaged scratch. Instead of seeing it as a consuming distraction, they brag about how much they accomplish.

People who are compelled to fill every quiet moment with a phone call or some kind of e-stimulation are depriving themselves of a much-needed reprieve. I worry that habitual multitasking will condition our brains to an over-stimulated state, making it difficult to focus even when you want to. Thoughts are too fragmented. They come in short bits. Like a perpetually scrolling to-do list. Get milk. Get kids? Schedule meeting. Work out. Got shoes? Design ad. Cancel appointment. Call boss.

It can’t possibly be good. You can’t turn on the TV without seeing a commercial for an antidepressant or sleep aid. You can’t talk to a doctor without hearing about the dangers of stress. We flip through channels, skim the headlines, and hammer out emails so fast we don’t slow for punctuation or capitalization, resorting instead to acronyms and emoticons.

It’s like living an index.

Yet we keep piling it on, accepting it as our lot. And I can’t see it changing any time soon. We’ve become too good at it.

And our children, following our example, are becoming good at it, too.

Sorry I haven’t been posting much lately. I’m in the midst of one of my reclusive moods. I’m social enough when the need arises, but for some reason, I tend to withdraw every so often. This is one of those times. I’m well suited for being a hermit, I think, or one of those crazy old ladies with 43 cats. I’m not depressed so much as I am contemplative. (And terribly tired. Insomnia sucks.)

On the up-side, Celeste is loving school this year. She got the teacher she badly wanted, and her best friends are in her class. She also got a part in Hansel & Gretel, which is being put on by the Children’s Theater the last weekend in October at the Clay Center. She’s in the chorus, plays a townsperson and (she loves this part) a cookie. She doesn’t have any individual lines. She’s always part of a group, which is just fine with her. She loves being on stage, loves being around acting and singing and other kids who like those same things, but didn’t seem to care whether she got a big part or small. She just wanted to be there.

She’s coming out of her shyness in an amazing way. I imagine she’ll always be a quiet and somewhat reserved kid, but she’s trying hard not to be AS quiet and reserved as in the past. I need to follow her lead.