I’m writing a short note now about loving where you are. Before you jump to conclusions that I’m going to throw out something in a big hurry just to fill in for those missed days and I’m not going to even try to be funny, let me put your mind at ease. You are absolutely correct. That is my intention.
However, I’ve been giving something some thought the last couple of days, and I’m going to unleash the torrent of my ideas, be they only about a paragraph long, because I feel they are profound.
But first excuse me while I go to the kitchen and get a heaping fistful of that chocolate cherry trail mix I wrote about in my last post. Boy was that stuff tasty.
Well drat the luck, as somebody amusing once said. It’s gone! I searched everywhere – in the cabinets, on the nightstand, in the bonus room, but that little treasure trove of trail mix has disappeared. Doggone it! Thank goodness I found a Ghiradelli semi-sweet chocolate bar the size of a greeting card that hit the spot. No, I didn’t eat it all, I left a couple of squares to the rightful owner so they’d know they hadn’t imagined putting it in the cupboard. After all, I’m a considerate person.
So we were visiting friends over in Central Oregon (my excuse for getting behind in my blogs) and the sun was shining the whole time and nary a cloud in the sky. It’s hard to complain about warm sunshine after living in Portland during this incredibly cool summer we’re having (to find out why – SHAMELESS PLUG – get the global warming book I mentioned in my previous blog).
One morning we came out of the bedroom to be greeted by blue, sunny skies through every window, and our host said, “Another day in paradise.”
Didn’t Jimmy Buffet sing a song about another day in paradise? Somebody did. Anyway, I got to thinking about it and I concluded **** PROFOUND SAYING ALERT***** that:
PARADISE IS WHERE THE HEART IS
This might sound a whole lot like another saying, “Home is where the heart is,” but that one isn’t centered and in all capital letters, which means it’s not nearly as good as the one I just coined. I wonder if I can copyright that and get royalties when the world starts using it? Because, you know, paradise is sometimes where the money is, too.
All things considered, I think I’ve done very well to coin this phrase and write an entire blog doing it. I have far exceeded my expectations. That should be enough for you, but I know you’re greedy for more, and since you’ve asked nicely and added “pretty please with a cherry on top,” I will elaborate.
Blue skies and sunshine might certainly be a formula for paradise, but I’ve had a taste of paradise when I’ve been on the side of a mountain in the freezing cold and hit a bump on my skies that should have sent me flailing end over end but miraculously recovered without falling and breaking a leg. It’s exhilarating. But how come skies and skies is spelled the same? Isn’t the world confusing enough?
I’ve also been in paradise when my teenage daughter asks me to go to a movie with her. OMG I will drop anything to spend time with either of my kids because they are scattered like my Uncle Vance’s ashes all over the trunk of my cousin Nancy’s car. That’s a funny story I’ll try to remember to tell one day. My kids rarely light in one place long enough except to say, “Mom, you already asked me what I’m doing today and I’ve already told you.” I’m not so sure I DID ask, and I certainly don’t remember what they said. They make stuff up to drive me crazy. Even so, I love when they’ll forsake their friends and hang out with me, even when I know it’s because none of their friends can do anything right that minute and also I’ll pay for their movie ticket. Still, it’s more of a paradise to hang out with them than being in the tropics sipping vodka and POG while swinging in a hammock on the beach. I think.
The point is that paradise is in our heads. If it weren’t, then everyone in warm places would be happy, and everyone else would be miserable. That may pan out in many cases, but not all. There are many, many cranky shop clerks in those little beach stores in Lahaina. In fact, there are few things crankier than a middle-aged Hawaiian woman in a t-shirt shop during the heat of the day in Maui. I’ve heard them mumble, “I got your paradise RIGHT HERE!” and though I’m not sure what that means, it didn’t sound happy.
So, gentle readers of my gentle humor, you probably don’t need to look any further than your own back yard for your little patch of paradise. And if you find it in the form of money, send me some!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
A Naturally Happy Day
First my apologies for missing a few days. I was out of town on vacation with no easy internet. I’m going to post a couple of blogs to help catch up. BTW for anyone who cares, this is my 265th blog, which means I only have 100 more blogs to meet my 365-blog goal. Yippee!!!!
Yesterday I had a naturally happy day. By natural I mean uncontrived - a day that was happy on its own merit and not one I have to cajole myself into believing it was happy.
I’ll give you an example. When it’s raining and cold and I’m freezing to my bones I can say, “At least I’m cozy inside and not out in a leaky tent with no bathroom.”
Or I can say, “I’ve got a sore tooth but I could be relatively tooth-less like my cousin in Tennessee who ate hard candy even as a baby.”
These things are designed to make me feel better by comparison. If I see myself in more pitiful circumstances, then I’ll feel better about my current plight and even silver-lining myself up a couple of notches on the happiness scale.
This method of happiness works, but every now and then things go so well I’m not forced to look at the miserable side of life to get pumped up, and yesterday was one of those.
First, I found a swimsuit that doesn’t make me look fatter than I am, and it was ON SALE! Next, I found a couple of tops that don’t make me look fatter than I am, and they were ON SALE too!
This in itself would have been enough to make for a pretty happy day, but I also went hiking in a wilderness area at the base of Three Finger Jack, a central Oregon mountain with jagged peaks that look more like a bunch of jagged peaks than three fingers. I’ve seen that mountain from every angle and still can’t find the fingers, but this did not make me unhappy because it was gorgeous up there, with snow-fed streams and wildflowers blooming in every direction. We hiked for four hours, which wore me out and therefore must have burned a lot of calories. Lucky for me because I had a bag of chocolate cherry trail mix that a genius invented. S/he stuck some peanuts in there to make it “official” but for the most part it was chocolate and more chocolate. Could a wilderness hike be any better?
Then I dozed all the way home while my husband drove which was great because I was unconscious as he passed extra-long RV’s on curves and risked our lives in other creative ways that usually give me a heart attack.
But the real happiness came when I got home and read my emails. Not only did I have several new site members (thanks and welcome!), but also the book I helped to write about global warming got an endorsement from James E. Hansen, the world’s foremost authority on global warming. HOW EXCITING!
Hansen is a NASA scientist who has written a couple of books about global warming as well as teaching at Columbia University and being called to testify before Congress. He is no slouch. So having his endorsement is such a wonderful thing even though you have never heard of him.
You can see the endorsement on the website www.thebookfootprint.com and/or order the book on amazon.com (www.amazon.com/Footprint-Funny-Thing-Happened-Extinction/dp/0984509003/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1279605711&sr=8-1
Riding on the high of all this, my daughter’s boyfriend had left the movie, “Big Fish” at our house and I watched it. What a delight! That Tim Burton is a very interesting director, and I was sucked into that movie like a lollipop into my toothless cousin’s mouth. By the time I went to bed I was bubbling. A wonderful day never hurt anyone.
Yesterday I had a naturally happy day. By natural I mean uncontrived - a day that was happy on its own merit and not one I have to cajole myself into believing it was happy.
I’ll give you an example. When it’s raining and cold and I’m freezing to my bones I can say, “At least I’m cozy inside and not out in a leaky tent with no bathroom.”
Or I can say, “I’ve got a sore tooth but I could be relatively tooth-less like my cousin in Tennessee who ate hard candy even as a baby.”
These things are designed to make me feel better by comparison. If I see myself in more pitiful circumstances, then I’ll feel better about my current plight and even silver-lining myself up a couple of notches on the happiness scale.
This method of happiness works, but every now and then things go so well I’m not forced to look at the miserable side of life to get pumped up, and yesterday was one of those.
First, I found a swimsuit that doesn’t make me look fatter than I am, and it was ON SALE! Next, I found a couple of tops that don’t make me look fatter than I am, and they were ON SALE too!
This in itself would have been enough to make for a pretty happy day, but I also went hiking in a wilderness area at the base of Three Finger Jack, a central Oregon mountain with jagged peaks that look more like a bunch of jagged peaks than three fingers. I’ve seen that mountain from every angle and still can’t find the fingers, but this did not make me unhappy because it was gorgeous up there, with snow-fed streams and wildflowers blooming in every direction. We hiked for four hours, which wore me out and therefore must have burned a lot of calories. Lucky for me because I had a bag of chocolate cherry trail mix that a genius invented. S/he stuck some peanuts in there to make it “official” but for the most part it was chocolate and more chocolate. Could a wilderness hike be any better?
Then I dozed all the way home while my husband drove which was great because I was unconscious as he passed extra-long RV’s on curves and risked our lives in other creative ways that usually give me a heart attack.
But the real happiness came when I got home and read my emails. Not only did I have several new site members (thanks and welcome!), but also the book I helped to write about global warming got an endorsement from James E. Hansen, the world’s foremost authority on global warming. HOW EXCITING!
Hansen is a NASA scientist who has written a couple of books about global warming as well as teaching at Columbia University and being called to testify before Congress. He is no slouch. So having his endorsement is such a wonderful thing even though you have never heard of him.
You can see the endorsement on the website www.thebookfootprint.com and/or order the book on amazon.com (www.amazon.com/Footprint-Funny-Thing-Happened-Extinction/dp/0984509003/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1279605711&sr=8-1
Riding on the high of all this, my daughter’s boyfriend had left the movie, “Big Fish” at our house and I watched it. What a delight! That Tim Burton is a very interesting director, and I was sucked into that movie like a lollipop into my toothless cousin’s mouth. By the time I went to bed I was bubbling. A wonderful day never hurt anyone.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Carpet Man Wore Me Out
Sorry I missed a day. I was exhausted! I had a carpet man come to clean my carpets and he wore me out.
First thing he said to me was, “I could also do your kitchen tile after I clean the carpet.” I looked down to see if the kitchen tile needed cleaning and - GASP – it was atrocious. “See the difference between the grout under your cabinet here and the rest of the floor?” he said.
See the difference? It was like black and white. Literally. Under the cabinet, where no one but the spiders go, the grout was a nice pale grey. Two inches out into the real world, it was a rusty black – the color of dirt ground into grease. All that fried food my husband loves was bad for our arteries, I knew that, but it’s even worse for grout.
I was embarrassed to crimson. “Well,” I stuttered, “I used to get down on my hands and knees with a toothbrush every year after we first moved in, but I’ve been busy the last decade,” I said in my pitiful, “I’m such a bad homemaker” voice.
“I can do this and the front hallway for $400,” he said.
“Or I could get down on my hands and knees and do it in three hours,” I said, shocked at the price.
“But isn’t your time worth something?” he asked.
“It’s worth about $133 an hour, apparently,” I said. “I think I’ll hold off on the kitchen floor until I win the lottery or have three extra hours, whichever comes first.”
We have the good fortune of living in a house surrounded by deciduous trees so it’s somewhat dark in the summer, even with all the windows. A dark house hides many horrors. He started going through the house turning on every single light. With all those bright lights the rug looked like someone had dropped dark grey stains everywhere. “Oh my,” I said. “My little dog throws up a lot and I didn’t realize they were staining the carpet with it so dark in here.”
“Yeah, all the Scotchgard has worn off so even if you clean everything up right away they’re probably going to leave a little discoloration. I can add Scotchgard for an extra $75.”
Finally he offered his hefty price. I was in no position to turn it down because I couldn’t imagine having to go through this humiliation with another carpet cleaning guy. “That’s way more than I’ve paid before,” I said, hoping to talk him down. He started ranting about all his magnificent equipment and how many horsepower his German-made vacuum cleaner had and the torque of his suction thingy and I finally held up my hand and said, “Oh. Okay, well that sounds great! Let’s get started.”
He moved a chair and it was FILTHY under there. Candy wrappers featuring the first Star War movie were cocooned in carpet lint. “Those darn kids,” I laughed, cursing them under my breath. I scurried in front of him to move other things before he could get there and find a feminine hygiene product or something.
While he was cleaning, I had nowhere to go but the kitchen. I started looking at the cabinets and couldn’t remember when the last time I’d really cleaned them. When I was a stay-home mom, I’d soap and rinse and dry and polish them while the kids were playing with Flubber or doing art projects at the kitchen table – hanging out but being productive. Since I’ve been working, I spend as little time in that kitchen as possible. My husband cooks, and he’s sloppy. At that very moment, the sun streaming through the skylights reflected off of long streaks of shiny stuff not visible any other time of the year except about a month during the summer when the sun is high overhead and finds a peek-hole through the tree branches. Would my humiliation never end? I got out the cleaning stuff and went to work on the cabinets. When I got to the microwave I noticed years of dust in the little space between it and the built-in cabinet. Continuing on, I found similar nooks and crannies harboring grease and grime that I’d never noticed before.
One thing led to another, and I was covered in suds and dirt and grime and that’s my excuse for missing a blog day. You are all invited to my house today because it is sparkling clean. This is only today, though, because that mess will be right back tomorrow, which is why I don’t fret about cleaning like I used to. The dirt will still be there tomorrow, whether I clean today or not. That’s my new philosophy, and it works for me, except when the carpet guy comes. Thank goodness I won’t have to go through that for another decade!
First thing he said to me was, “I could also do your kitchen tile after I clean the carpet.” I looked down to see if the kitchen tile needed cleaning and - GASP – it was atrocious. “See the difference between the grout under your cabinet here and the rest of the floor?” he said.
See the difference? It was like black and white. Literally. Under the cabinet, where no one but the spiders go, the grout was a nice pale grey. Two inches out into the real world, it was a rusty black – the color of dirt ground into grease. All that fried food my husband loves was bad for our arteries, I knew that, but it’s even worse for grout.
I was embarrassed to crimson. “Well,” I stuttered, “I used to get down on my hands and knees with a toothbrush every year after we first moved in, but I’ve been busy the last decade,” I said in my pitiful, “I’m such a bad homemaker” voice.
“I can do this and the front hallway for $400,” he said.
“Or I could get down on my hands and knees and do it in three hours,” I said, shocked at the price.
“But isn’t your time worth something?” he asked.
“It’s worth about $133 an hour, apparently,” I said. “I think I’ll hold off on the kitchen floor until I win the lottery or have three extra hours, whichever comes first.”
We have the good fortune of living in a house surrounded by deciduous trees so it’s somewhat dark in the summer, even with all the windows. A dark house hides many horrors. He started going through the house turning on every single light. With all those bright lights the rug looked like someone had dropped dark grey stains everywhere. “Oh my,” I said. “My little dog throws up a lot and I didn’t realize they were staining the carpet with it so dark in here.”
“Yeah, all the Scotchgard has worn off so even if you clean everything up right away they’re probably going to leave a little discoloration. I can add Scotchgard for an extra $75.”
Finally he offered his hefty price. I was in no position to turn it down because I couldn’t imagine having to go through this humiliation with another carpet cleaning guy. “That’s way more than I’ve paid before,” I said, hoping to talk him down. He started ranting about all his magnificent equipment and how many horsepower his German-made vacuum cleaner had and the torque of his suction thingy and I finally held up my hand and said, “Oh. Okay, well that sounds great! Let’s get started.”
He moved a chair and it was FILTHY under there. Candy wrappers featuring the first Star War movie were cocooned in carpet lint. “Those darn kids,” I laughed, cursing them under my breath. I scurried in front of him to move other things before he could get there and find a feminine hygiene product or something.
While he was cleaning, I had nowhere to go but the kitchen. I started looking at the cabinets and couldn’t remember when the last time I’d really cleaned them. When I was a stay-home mom, I’d soap and rinse and dry and polish them while the kids were playing with Flubber or doing art projects at the kitchen table – hanging out but being productive. Since I’ve been working, I spend as little time in that kitchen as possible. My husband cooks, and he’s sloppy. At that very moment, the sun streaming through the skylights reflected off of long streaks of shiny stuff not visible any other time of the year except about a month during the summer when the sun is high overhead and finds a peek-hole through the tree branches. Would my humiliation never end? I got out the cleaning stuff and went to work on the cabinets. When I got to the microwave I noticed years of dust in the little space between it and the built-in cabinet. Continuing on, I found similar nooks and crannies harboring grease and grime that I’d never noticed before.
One thing led to another, and I was covered in suds and dirt and grime and that’s my excuse for missing a blog day. You are all invited to my house today because it is sparkling clean. This is only today, though, because that mess will be right back tomorrow, which is why I don’t fret about cleaning like I used to. The dirt will still be there tomorrow, whether I clean today or not. That’s my new philosophy, and it works for me, except when the carpet guy comes. Thank goodness I won’t have to go through that for another decade!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Woe Is Me
How did I get this far behind in my life? I’ll tell you how. Computers. They may speed everything up, but they sure slow everything down when they don’t cooperate. A program I have to use to get something done for a client keeps closing itself if I add data too fast. If I didn’t want to do it FAST, I’d do it by hand. I’m not going to mention the program because I bought a smidgen of stock in the company and I don’t want the price to go any lower because of my complaining, but I’m very VERY frustrated that I have to type slowly or risk losing everything. I Save about every 30 seconds to make sure that, when the program crashes, I don’t lose too much. Grrrr!
I love computers, and I love the internet. But I hate it when my computer won’t let me get on the internet because my router is throwing a hissy fit for no good reason. It decides out of the blue that my laptop (a PC) and my desktop (a Mac) shouldn’t speak to each other. They were cooperating and enjoying each other’s diversity a few minutes ago, but now they’re slamming the door in each other’s faces. In order to share files, I get out my trusty little Toshiba thumb drive, but it’s just not the same. It’s like sending carrier pigeons from one to the other.
I could go on and on if I could think of anything else computer-related to gripe about, but I’m too preoccupied with the lousy golf game I played today. I got invited to be in a tournament and I don’t play that great so I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn and trying to practice so as not to embarrass myself.
Why don’t I JUST SAY NO to golf? I would have played just as well today if I’d taken a broom and tried to sweep the ball toward the green. On the fairway my ball would not go more than a few feet, but on the green I’d barely tap it and it would streak across the whole green, roll up over the little mound in the back and bounce into a sand trap. I had 8’s and 9’s and 10’s and even an 11 all over my scorecard.
This public humiliation went on for 18 holes, or nearly 5 hours. The course marshal kept asking us to hurry along, but you can’t go fast with scores like that. I lost enough balls to start a driving range.
The hardest part was trying to keep up a cheery front, because it just makes everyone else miserable when a golfer moans and whines about how bad they’re playing. Or they say something like, “I played a great game yesterday, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” Or, “I parred this hole last time I played.” Nobody gives a flying rip what you did every other time you played. It does not make your partner feel better to know you played your “A” game yesterday but brought your “B” game to the tournament.
My partner and I would have gotten the boobie prize if there had been one. She stunk as bad as I did, and she’s a much better golfer. My lousy shooting was rubbing off on her. I’m sorry to go on and on, but I just needed to mope a little.
If that wasn’t enough, I had to take my dog to the vet where I dropped a hundred bucks because she is itching so much she’s leaving tufts of hair all over the floor. It looks like we have black shag carpet. Turns out she’s got seasonal allergies, which meant I needed a bunch of special shampoos and a subscription to doggy Benadryl.
Remember me blogging about giving the dog butter a while back? She LOVES it, so someone is always giving her a little butter treat. The vet looked at her blood work and said, “Your dog’s cholesterol is elevated.” Nobody told me dogs get clogged arteries. Do they get strokes and heart attacks? Wonder how much that will cost.
I have other whining but this is one downer of a blog, and at the risk of running you all off with my tales of woe, I’m gonna stop now and see if I can get the internet to cooperate and allow me to post.
Then I’m going to drown my sorrows in a bag of Cheetos. That’s the company I should be investing in, especially if I get invited to golf anymore.
I love computers, and I love the internet. But I hate it when my computer won’t let me get on the internet because my router is throwing a hissy fit for no good reason. It decides out of the blue that my laptop (a PC) and my desktop (a Mac) shouldn’t speak to each other. They were cooperating and enjoying each other’s diversity a few minutes ago, but now they’re slamming the door in each other’s faces. In order to share files, I get out my trusty little Toshiba thumb drive, but it’s just not the same. It’s like sending carrier pigeons from one to the other.
I could go on and on if I could think of anything else computer-related to gripe about, but I’m too preoccupied with the lousy golf game I played today. I got invited to be in a tournament and I don’t play that great so I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn and trying to practice so as not to embarrass myself.
Why don’t I JUST SAY NO to golf? I would have played just as well today if I’d taken a broom and tried to sweep the ball toward the green. On the fairway my ball would not go more than a few feet, but on the green I’d barely tap it and it would streak across the whole green, roll up over the little mound in the back and bounce into a sand trap. I had 8’s and 9’s and 10’s and even an 11 all over my scorecard.
This public humiliation went on for 18 holes, or nearly 5 hours. The course marshal kept asking us to hurry along, but you can’t go fast with scores like that. I lost enough balls to start a driving range.
The hardest part was trying to keep up a cheery front, because it just makes everyone else miserable when a golfer moans and whines about how bad they’re playing. Or they say something like, “I played a great game yesterday, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” Or, “I parred this hole last time I played.” Nobody gives a flying rip what you did every other time you played. It does not make your partner feel better to know you played your “A” game yesterday but brought your “B” game to the tournament.
My partner and I would have gotten the boobie prize if there had been one. She stunk as bad as I did, and she’s a much better golfer. My lousy shooting was rubbing off on her. I’m sorry to go on and on, but I just needed to mope a little.
If that wasn’t enough, I had to take my dog to the vet where I dropped a hundred bucks because she is itching so much she’s leaving tufts of hair all over the floor. It looks like we have black shag carpet. Turns out she’s got seasonal allergies, which meant I needed a bunch of special shampoos and a subscription to doggy Benadryl.
Remember me blogging about giving the dog butter a while back? She LOVES it, so someone is always giving her a little butter treat. The vet looked at her blood work and said, “Your dog’s cholesterol is elevated.” Nobody told me dogs get clogged arteries. Do they get strokes and heart attacks? Wonder how much that will cost.
I have other whining but this is one downer of a blog, and at the risk of running you all off with my tales of woe, I’m gonna stop now and see if I can get the internet to cooperate and allow me to post.
Then I’m going to drown my sorrows in a bag of Cheetos. That’s the company I should be investing in, especially if I get invited to golf anymore.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Heroics to Stop a Baby Crying
That inconsolable baby at church yesterday reminded me of the extremes I used to go to to quiet my colicky baby. But first notice that I used to and to right beside each other in the last sentence. Amazing, huh?
My son started crying at one month and didn’t stop until seven months. Maybe I should rephrase that. His default mode was crying, but I knew how to get him to stop.
If I stood up and did this little “mommy” step (instinctive to all mothers except that one in church yesterday), he’d stop crying. If, however, I sat down and continued the same exact motion with my upper body, he’d cry. How could he tell the difference? It was like a music box. Open the door, it started playing. Close the door, it quit. I would stand and gently bounce him until my legs ached, then I’d sit and he’d automatically commence crying like someone had flicked a switch. Stand up – stop. Sit down – cry.
I used to sit in the back seat with him while my husband drove us to wherever we were going. He DID NOT want to be in that car seat, but it was the law. Crying, when it’s inside a giant metal box such as an SUV, is irritation times two. It’s like having an amplifier – like someone recorded a baby having a screaming fit and cranked the volume all the way up to 32.
It was weird being chauffeured, but I made the best of it. I’d snap my fingers and say, “Drive on, James.” My husband’s name isn’t James, and he never thought it was funny. He’d give me dirty looks in the rear view mirror. When I wasn’t playing rich society lady, I’d attend to my duties as the keeper of the crying at bay. I would hold a Binkie in my son’s mouth – not by force or anything. He’d just “misplace” it every five seconds, which was reason enough to start squalling. I’d fish it out of the valley between him and the car seat and put it back in his mouth, which made him happy until he’d do whatever he did that caused it to fall out. If I simply held it in place – no pressure - I’d let my hand hover just off of the Binkie. It wouldn’t fall out and we’d have peace and quiet for a few minutes.
If we were going on a road trip, eventually he’d fall asleep in the car. Sometimes the baby would fall asleep, too. Ha Ha – a little joke to show how exhausted my husband and I were. When the crying stopped and that sweet peace descended on the vehicle, nobody moved. If we had to go to the bathroom, we held it. There was NO WAY we were going to cut the quiet short by stopping the car. If we were lucky, we’d get up to two hours without noise.
At home I had all kinds of tricks to temporarily have cryless interludes. One was to run water. I put the baby in the little baby carrier on the kitchen counter and turned on the tap water. He could be twisted and contorted in the awfulest misery – eyes squeezed shut, fists in tight balls, legs kicking – and when the water started, he’d stop cold. He’d get this look of calm wonderment, like “ooo, what IS that marvelous sound? I LOVE IT!” Meantime I’m freaking about the water running, but I figured it was a small price to pay. After about five minutes, the calm would disappear just as quick and the crying would start.
He had this wind up swing someone gave me for a baby shower gift. I’d turn the crank several times - it sounded like rusty gears grinding against each other, then the swing would start. He’d go forward – click – and then back – click – and forward – click and back – click. It was like a giant windup grandfather clock. Whether it was the motion or the steady clicks, he’d soon be asleep. I’d put the swing in front of the bathroom with the door open and dash in there to take the fastest shower on earth. I’d dry off, wiggle into whatever fat clothes I had that were clean, and dash back, just in time for the swing to wind down. If I was lucky, I could wind it back up for another fifteen minute reprieve, but usually all the racket from winding woke him up and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Oh he’d cry!
Another thing I did was put him in his carrier and rest him on top of the dryer. That was good for loading the dishwasher and wiping down the kitchen counters – if I moved like a Tasmanian devil.
If we were out in public and I forgot his Binkie, I learned an emergency move from his pediatrician, Dr. Ferre. I’d put the tip of my little finger in his mouth and he’d latch onto it like an octopus. Really, I don’t know how something so small could Hooverize a fingertip like that. Sometimes I worried he’d suck a hickey on my finger.
I had all sorts of carry positions. His face facing forward was his favorite. Again let me use my verbal pointer to show you another cleverness on my part – face facing together plus the alliteration on the three F’s. What do you mean, big f-ing deal? If you’re going to be that way I’m going to stop right here and now. Don’t like that, huh? Well why don’t you CRY about it! Go ahead, see if I give YOU a pinkie to suck on. Suck on this. Yo momma!
Sorry, I’m getting a little hostile – probably because I’m remembering how TIRED I was from all that baby pacifying I used to do. My gosh I was always exhausted. If that baby fell asleep I’d curl up right next to him and try to make up for the ZZZZ’s I lost nursing him or walking him in the night so my husband could get some sleep. It’s making me feel cranky. I can’t even keep my eyes open. I was always in a daze in those days. Now I’m going to doze. More clever wordplay – oh, forget it.
My son started crying at one month and didn’t stop until seven months. Maybe I should rephrase that. His default mode was crying, but I knew how to get him to stop.
If I stood up and did this little “mommy” step (instinctive to all mothers except that one in church yesterday), he’d stop crying. If, however, I sat down and continued the same exact motion with my upper body, he’d cry. How could he tell the difference? It was like a music box. Open the door, it started playing. Close the door, it quit. I would stand and gently bounce him until my legs ached, then I’d sit and he’d automatically commence crying like someone had flicked a switch. Stand up – stop. Sit down – cry.
I used to sit in the back seat with him while my husband drove us to wherever we were going. He DID NOT want to be in that car seat, but it was the law. Crying, when it’s inside a giant metal box such as an SUV, is irritation times two. It’s like having an amplifier – like someone recorded a baby having a screaming fit and cranked the volume all the way up to 32.
It was weird being chauffeured, but I made the best of it. I’d snap my fingers and say, “Drive on, James.” My husband’s name isn’t James, and he never thought it was funny. He’d give me dirty looks in the rear view mirror. When I wasn’t playing rich society lady, I’d attend to my duties as the keeper of the crying at bay. I would hold a Binkie in my son’s mouth – not by force or anything. He’d just “misplace” it every five seconds, which was reason enough to start squalling. I’d fish it out of the valley between him and the car seat and put it back in his mouth, which made him happy until he’d do whatever he did that caused it to fall out. If I simply held it in place – no pressure - I’d let my hand hover just off of the Binkie. It wouldn’t fall out and we’d have peace and quiet for a few minutes.
If we were going on a road trip, eventually he’d fall asleep in the car. Sometimes the baby would fall asleep, too. Ha Ha – a little joke to show how exhausted my husband and I were. When the crying stopped and that sweet peace descended on the vehicle, nobody moved. If we had to go to the bathroom, we held it. There was NO WAY we were going to cut the quiet short by stopping the car. If we were lucky, we’d get up to two hours without noise.
At home I had all kinds of tricks to temporarily have cryless interludes. One was to run water. I put the baby in the little baby carrier on the kitchen counter and turned on the tap water. He could be twisted and contorted in the awfulest misery – eyes squeezed shut, fists in tight balls, legs kicking – and when the water started, he’d stop cold. He’d get this look of calm wonderment, like “ooo, what IS that marvelous sound? I LOVE IT!” Meantime I’m freaking about the water running, but I figured it was a small price to pay. After about five minutes, the calm would disappear just as quick and the crying would start.
He had this wind up swing someone gave me for a baby shower gift. I’d turn the crank several times - it sounded like rusty gears grinding against each other, then the swing would start. He’d go forward – click – and then back – click – and forward – click and back – click. It was like a giant windup grandfather clock. Whether it was the motion or the steady clicks, he’d soon be asleep. I’d put the swing in front of the bathroom with the door open and dash in there to take the fastest shower on earth. I’d dry off, wiggle into whatever fat clothes I had that were clean, and dash back, just in time for the swing to wind down. If I was lucky, I could wind it back up for another fifteen minute reprieve, but usually all the racket from winding woke him up and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Oh he’d cry!
Another thing I did was put him in his carrier and rest him on top of the dryer. That was good for loading the dishwasher and wiping down the kitchen counters – if I moved like a Tasmanian devil.
If we were out in public and I forgot his Binkie, I learned an emergency move from his pediatrician, Dr. Ferre. I’d put the tip of my little finger in his mouth and he’d latch onto it like an octopus. Really, I don’t know how something so small could Hooverize a fingertip like that. Sometimes I worried he’d suck a hickey on my finger.
I had all sorts of carry positions. His face facing forward was his favorite. Again let me use my verbal pointer to show you another cleverness on my part – face facing together plus the alliteration on the three F’s. What do you mean, big f-ing deal? If you’re going to be that way I’m going to stop right here and now. Don’t like that, huh? Well why don’t you CRY about it! Go ahead, see if I give YOU a pinkie to suck on. Suck on this. Yo momma!
Sorry, I’m getting a little hostile – probably because I’m remembering how TIRED I was from all that baby pacifying I used to do. My gosh I was always exhausted. If that baby fell asleep I’d curl up right next to him and try to make up for the ZZZZ’s I lost nursing him or walking him in the night so my husband could get some sleep. It’s making me feel cranky. I can’t even keep my eyes open. I was always in a daze in those days. Now I’m going to doze. More clever wordplay – oh, forget it.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Crying Naked Babies in Church
Today we went to Mass and there were six babies that needed to be baptized. When it’s baptismal Sunday a lot more people show up (extended family of the babies) so the church was packed.
We’re used to a lot of crying on baptismal Sundays, mostly from parishioners because the service lasts a lot longer (ha ha), but this morning there was one very distraught 7 or 8 month-old baby with a high, raspy cry that had all the kids cupping their hands over their ears.
This baby would not stop crying. Most mothers would have the good sense to get up and take the child out of there, but for some reason his mother just kept trying frantically to make him stop by bouncing him harder or shifting him from one arm to another.
Any mother of a crier can tell you this will not work. A crier wants you to GET UP… NOW!!! A crier wants a boob, and if that’s not handy, a Binkie…and MAKE IT SNAPPY! A crier wants to be entertained – he wants to be facing forward so he can see the world and he wants you to spend every second telling him how exciting it is. “Ooo, ooo, see the pretty statue! Oooo, ooo, see the little girl in the pink dress, isn’t she pretty? Oooo, ooo, see the drool stain on mommy’s shirt? I wonder where that drool stain came from – did you make that drool stain? I think you did. Yes you did. I’m going to GET YOU. I’m going to tickle you right behind the knee for making that drool stain, yes I am,” and so on. These are the tools mothers of criers turn to when their babies are annoying the public. It may require 100% of your attention, but at least everybody won’t be staring at you and wondering why you are pinching that baby or why you aren’t rushing him to the emergency room.
The whole congregation was staring at this mother who (1) did not have a Binkie, (2) kept turning the child toward her even when it was twisting around to see something besides the same old one foot square of her shirt and face, and (3) was not whispering and distracting the child from his crying fit. I wanted to go knock the woman down and grab the baby and soothe him, but that seemed un-Christian.
Even the priest stopped talking and made a joke. He had just started his sermon and he must have realized no one was paying any attention to him even though he was practically shouting into the microphone trying to be heard. About two minutes into the sermon he tried to make a joke, “Well, I see somebody’s trying to tell me this sermon has gone on long enough.” We all laughed but the mom didn’t get the hint. Then he stopped again a couple of minutes later, and said, “I should have made this sermon short enough to post on Twitter.” Again we laughed, and the mom finally got up, which made the baby happy and the church got quiet enough that I noticed the ringing in my ears. It was worse than being at a rock concert between the bellowing baby and the shouting priest.
I knew the quiet was temporary. My son had colic, and I couldn’t stand the crying. I had about 20 tricks I used to make it stop. You give me a colicky baby right now and I can keep him quiet for two hours straight – without child abuse, mind you, although there were plenty of times I wanted to use duct tape.
Sure enough, the bellowing started up again, and didn’t stop when they called the parents up for the baptisms midway through the service. A video guy positioned his camera over to the side so that everyone in the packed church could see the babies on the big screen above the altar while they were getting dunked into the baptismal font.
Maybe it was thinking about these parents watching a video with non-stop screaming in the background, or maybe it was wondering how the new priest would perform, but for some reason I started thinking about these families gathering around the TV watching this years from now.
As I was musing on this, and thinking they’d surely turn the sound down, the first parents handed over their naked baby to the priest so he could lower the baby into the baptismal font that was waist high. I’ve never liked this naked baby thing, especially when they have those little swim diapers. A naked baby is just a loaded water pistol ready to be fired. Plus, they don’t baptize adults naked, so why do babies have to be naked? Why is it okay to show a baby’s privates in public but not an adult’s?
The cameraman zoomed in on the babies, and from his angle, the babies’ privates were at the forefront the picture, with their faces receding in the background. The angle may have caused some distortion, but every parent of a baby boy knows that for some reason their privates are way out of proportion to the child’s size. If the baby boy weighs 15 pounds, 10 of that is privates. From that angle they looked even bigger.
One baby was a spreader, and if I’d been a doctor I could have done a visual colonoscopy. Baby cheeks might be cute, but a gaping baby poo-poo on the big screen is another story.
Anyway, I’m thinking of the family all gathered around watching this video with the grandparents and little brothers and sisters and maybe even the girlfriend, who insists she wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Then he’s up there on a 60” HD 3D TV with those giant testicles filling the whole screen, and his girlfriend shouts out, “Oh my gosh, what happened to you? You were bigger as a baby than you are now!” Everyone will hear her because they’ve got the sound turned down due to the screamer. It will cause a scandal. Grampy and Grammy will know the teenagers are sleeping together, which could be all it takes to give one or both of them a stroke. The poor kid with the testicles as big as watermelons will be marred for life because he’ll forever have his girlfriend’s voice in his head reminding him what a shrimp he has become in the manhood department. It may be THE defining moment in his entire life. All because of some silly tradition at our church that says the babies need to be baptized in the buff.
Back to the story. After they were baptized, the babies were dressed in their cute little white baptismal gowns and were presented to the church, which takes a lot of praying and blessings and congregation welcoming. Through it all, the crier never let up. The dad tried to stop him, the mother tried, the Godparents tried, but handing him around did nothing. Finally his grandmother ran up on the altar and snatched the child from his mother. He shut up immediately. She gave him a hair barrett, which he immediately put in his mouth to gnaw on, and that was all the entertainment he needed. The grandmother never turned him loose, even when they all went back to the pew. After communion I noticed he’d fallen asleep in her arms.
Well, this story has taken up two blogs, but it needed to be told in the hopes that if you’re a mother of a screamer, take that child outside and stop tormenting us. Better still, learn the tricks of dealing with criers. And/or always keep a grandmother close by in case of emergency.
Oh, and do your child a favor – destroy those naked baby baptismal videos. Oooo, ooo, I just got a great idea. Hold on to them and use them to blackmail your child. I bet you could get him to clean his room, mow the grass, AND get all A’s if you threaten to show it to his girlfriend. Doggone it – why didn’t I think of that?
We’re used to a lot of crying on baptismal Sundays, mostly from parishioners because the service lasts a lot longer (ha ha), but this morning there was one very distraught 7 or 8 month-old baby with a high, raspy cry that had all the kids cupping their hands over their ears.
This baby would not stop crying. Most mothers would have the good sense to get up and take the child out of there, but for some reason his mother just kept trying frantically to make him stop by bouncing him harder or shifting him from one arm to another.
Any mother of a crier can tell you this will not work. A crier wants you to GET UP… NOW!!! A crier wants a boob, and if that’s not handy, a Binkie…and MAKE IT SNAPPY! A crier wants to be entertained – he wants to be facing forward so he can see the world and he wants you to spend every second telling him how exciting it is. “Ooo, ooo, see the pretty statue! Oooo, ooo, see the little girl in the pink dress, isn’t she pretty? Oooo, ooo, see the drool stain on mommy’s shirt? I wonder where that drool stain came from – did you make that drool stain? I think you did. Yes you did. I’m going to GET YOU. I’m going to tickle you right behind the knee for making that drool stain, yes I am,” and so on. These are the tools mothers of criers turn to when their babies are annoying the public. It may require 100% of your attention, but at least everybody won’t be staring at you and wondering why you are pinching that baby or why you aren’t rushing him to the emergency room.
The whole congregation was staring at this mother who (1) did not have a Binkie, (2) kept turning the child toward her even when it was twisting around to see something besides the same old one foot square of her shirt and face, and (3) was not whispering and distracting the child from his crying fit. I wanted to go knock the woman down and grab the baby and soothe him, but that seemed un-Christian.
Even the priest stopped talking and made a joke. He had just started his sermon and he must have realized no one was paying any attention to him even though he was practically shouting into the microphone trying to be heard. About two minutes into the sermon he tried to make a joke, “Well, I see somebody’s trying to tell me this sermon has gone on long enough.” We all laughed but the mom didn’t get the hint. Then he stopped again a couple of minutes later, and said, “I should have made this sermon short enough to post on Twitter.” Again we laughed, and the mom finally got up, which made the baby happy and the church got quiet enough that I noticed the ringing in my ears. It was worse than being at a rock concert between the bellowing baby and the shouting priest.
I knew the quiet was temporary. My son had colic, and I couldn’t stand the crying. I had about 20 tricks I used to make it stop. You give me a colicky baby right now and I can keep him quiet for two hours straight – without child abuse, mind you, although there were plenty of times I wanted to use duct tape.
Sure enough, the bellowing started up again, and didn’t stop when they called the parents up for the baptisms midway through the service. A video guy positioned his camera over to the side so that everyone in the packed church could see the babies on the big screen above the altar while they were getting dunked into the baptismal font.
Maybe it was thinking about these parents watching a video with non-stop screaming in the background, or maybe it was wondering how the new priest would perform, but for some reason I started thinking about these families gathering around the TV watching this years from now.
As I was musing on this, and thinking they’d surely turn the sound down, the first parents handed over their naked baby to the priest so he could lower the baby into the baptismal font that was waist high. I’ve never liked this naked baby thing, especially when they have those little swim diapers. A naked baby is just a loaded water pistol ready to be fired. Plus, they don’t baptize adults naked, so why do babies have to be naked? Why is it okay to show a baby’s privates in public but not an adult’s?
The cameraman zoomed in on the babies, and from his angle, the babies’ privates were at the forefront the picture, with their faces receding in the background. The angle may have caused some distortion, but every parent of a baby boy knows that for some reason their privates are way out of proportion to the child’s size. If the baby boy weighs 15 pounds, 10 of that is privates. From that angle they looked even bigger.
One baby was a spreader, and if I’d been a doctor I could have done a visual colonoscopy. Baby cheeks might be cute, but a gaping baby poo-poo on the big screen is another story.
Anyway, I’m thinking of the family all gathered around watching this video with the grandparents and little brothers and sisters and maybe even the girlfriend, who insists she wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Then he’s up there on a 60” HD 3D TV with those giant testicles filling the whole screen, and his girlfriend shouts out, “Oh my gosh, what happened to you? You were bigger as a baby than you are now!” Everyone will hear her because they’ve got the sound turned down due to the screamer. It will cause a scandal. Grampy and Grammy will know the teenagers are sleeping together, which could be all it takes to give one or both of them a stroke. The poor kid with the testicles as big as watermelons will be marred for life because he’ll forever have his girlfriend’s voice in his head reminding him what a shrimp he has become in the manhood department. It may be THE defining moment in his entire life. All because of some silly tradition at our church that says the babies need to be baptized in the buff.
Back to the story. After they were baptized, the babies were dressed in their cute little white baptismal gowns and were presented to the church, which takes a lot of praying and blessings and congregation welcoming. Through it all, the crier never let up. The dad tried to stop him, the mother tried, the Godparents tried, but handing him around did nothing. Finally his grandmother ran up on the altar and snatched the child from his mother. He shut up immediately. She gave him a hair barrett, which he immediately put in his mouth to gnaw on, and that was all the entertainment he needed. The grandmother never turned him loose, even when they all went back to the pew. After communion I noticed he’d fallen asleep in her arms.
Well, this story has taken up two blogs, but it needed to be told in the hopes that if you’re a mother of a screamer, take that child outside and stop tormenting us. Better still, learn the tricks of dealing with criers. And/or always keep a grandmother close by in case of emergency.
Oh, and do your child a favor – destroy those naked baby baptismal videos. Oooo, ooo, I just got a great idea. Hold on to them and use them to blackmail your child. I bet you could get him to clean his room, mow the grass, AND get all A’s if you threaten to show it to his girlfriend. Doggone it – why didn’t I think of that?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
ADD and the Naked Cowboy
I heard a couple of funny things on satellite radio. One comedian sang a song he’d written for his son who has ADD about a cowboy with ADD. The one part I can remember is the ADD cowboy says he’ll brand some of the cows but he won’t brand them all. I’m going to Google to see if I can find the rest of the lyrics because it was amusing, especially since the cowboy sounds so much like me.
Well, Google was no help at all. I came up will all kinds of lyrics but not for this song. BUT, I found something that intrigued me – an article about a Naked Cowboy.
You could see how this would distract me from my mission. There’s a cowboy whose claim to fame is belting out country western songs wearing nothing but a white cowboy had, white BVD’s (or whatever they’re called – those white underwear little boys wear and some grown men also wear although they look ridiculous.
I like my men in boxers or nothing at all – and if they must be naked, the lights better be down low because the male body is much, much less attractive when it is all exposed. Leave THOSE PARTS to the imagination, please. I’m sure it’s the reason why natives are always pictured wearing a loincloth. Even Tarzan understood this. He went out and bought himself one of those triangle leopard cover-ups that are so popular in the jungle. Tarzan was no fool!).
This naked cowboy, who is no Tarzan judging from his pictures, is wearing BVD’s, cowboy hat and cowboy boots. But now he’s got his panties all wadded up in a knot (they aren’t really panties, but it sounds funnier than “underpants”) because a naked cowgirl is trying to hone in on his territory. She’s an ex-stripper who sings songs like, “Tits My Party,” wearing a hat, boots, and a bikini.
The Naked Cowboy, like all astute businessmen, wants to protect his trademark, which is, uh, the Naked Cowboy. He’s fresh from negotiating a settlement with M&M’s because one of the M&M’s – I think it said the blue one – dressed up in cowboy boots and a hat and underwear and was playing a guitar – JUST LIKE the Naked Cowboy. The Naked Cowboy did not take kindly to this, and he and the blue M&M strutted out to the middle of Main Street. All the townsfolk of New York City ran off screaming to duck for cover when these two faced off, scowls on their faces because the strutting had given them both wedgies, but their hands were full of guitars so they couldn’t do anything about it. Fortunately, there wasn’t any bloodshed because lawyers crawled out of the woodwork waving their legal briefs and settled the matter in a professional and gentlemanly manner. They sued and countersued and counter countersued, and so forth until the judge rode them all out of town on a rail. (PS I’m taking a little be of literary license here. I had to stand in line half the morning to get it, but it was worth it.)
Just when the Naked Cowboy had gotten his life back to normal, along comes this she-devil. Their lawyers are, are at this very moment, trying to keep these two from wrestling in the mud and dunking each other in the horse trough.
The root o the problem is that the Naked Cowgirl wanted the Naked Cowboy to sing on a record she was making, but the Naked Cowboy wanted $5,000. The Naked Cowgirl did not have that kind of money. She claimed she was lucky to get a hundred bucks a day on a good day, and that was only part of the year because her work is seasonal. She also appeared to have issues with the Naked Cowboy’s hygiene, saying, and I quote, “When he wakes up, how does he know which way to put on his underwear? Yellow in front, brown in back.”
This mud slinging and catter walling is probably going to continue until she can come up with the bucks to buy into the Naked Cowboy franchise. In the meantime, you can go to the link below and see a short video of her getting ready to perform in New York. She’s got on fishnet hose, an “Apache” bikini bottom (“rides ups behind you and wipes you out”) and a push-up bra or bikini top. She takes pains to make that bikini bottom reveal as much cheek as possible, and she’s bending completely over to pull on her boots. Now that’s talent!
I’ve got to wonder, how does a person decide on this particular career path? Does it require a degree? Are the benefits good? Do you get dental? What about the hours? How much paid vacation? Is there profit sharing?
Or are you just wandering around in your underwear strumming a guitar and hoping some blind old man mistakes a twenty for a dollar? Who can say what drives people to pursue a life in show business?
It is a crazy world we live in, and maybe it’s better to be ADD. And who knows, one of these days maybe I’ll hear those lyrics again and be able to write the blog I intended today.
FYI: To read the Naked Cowboy article and see the video, go here:
www.aolnews.com/weird-news/article/naked-cowboy-robert-burck-whips-out-his-legal-briefs-against-naked-cowgirl-sandy-brodsky/19526441
Well, Google was no help at all. I came up will all kinds of lyrics but not for this song. BUT, I found something that intrigued me – an article about a Naked Cowboy.
You could see how this would distract me from my mission. There’s a cowboy whose claim to fame is belting out country western songs wearing nothing but a white cowboy had, white BVD’s (or whatever they’re called – those white underwear little boys wear and some grown men also wear although they look ridiculous.
I like my men in boxers or nothing at all – and if they must be naked, the lights better be down low because the male body is much, much less attractive when it is all exposed. Leave THOSE PARTS to the imagination, please. I’m sure it’s the reason why natives are always pictured wearing a loincloth. Even Tarzan understood this. He went out and bought himself one of those triangle leopard cover-ups that are so popular in the jungle. Tarzan was no fool!).
This naked cowboy, who is no Tarzan judging from his pictures, is wearing BVD’s, cowboy hat and cowboy boots. But now he’s got his panties all wadded up in a knot (they aren’t really panties, but it sounds funnier than “underpants”) because a naked cowgirl is trying to hone in on his territory. She’s an ex-stripper who sings songs like, “Tits My Party,” wearing a hat, boots, and a bikini.
The Naked Cowboy, like all astute businessmen, wants to protect his trademark, which is, uh, the Naked Cowboy. He’s fresh from negotiating a settlement with M&M’s because one of the M&M’s – I think it said the blue one – dressed up in cowboy boots and a hat and underwear and was playing a guitar – JUST LIKE the Naked Cowboy. The Naked Cowboy did not take kindly to this, and he and the blue M&M strutted out to the middle of Main Street. All the townsfolk of New York City ran off screaming to duck for cover when these two faced off, scowls on their faces because the strutting had given them both wedgies, but their hands were full of guitars so they couldn’t do anything about it. Fortunately, there wasn’t any bloodshed because lawyers crawled out of the woodwork waving their legal briefs and settled the matter in a professional and gentlemanly manner. They sued and countersued and counter countersued, and so forth until the judge rode them all out of town on a rail. (PS I’m taking a little be of literary license here. I had to stand in line half the morning to get it, but it was worth it.)
Just when the Naked Cowboy had gotten his life back to normal, along comes this she-devil. Their lawyers are, are at this very moment, trying to keep these two from wrestling in the mud and dunking each other in the horse trough.
The root o the problem is that the Naked Cowgirl wanted the Naked Cowboy to sing on a record she was making, but the Naked Cowboy wanted $5,000. The Naked Cowgirl did not have that kind of money. She claimed she was lucky to get a hundred bucks a day on a good day, and that was only part of the year because her work is seasonal. She also appeared to have issues with the Naked Cowboy’s hygiene, saying, and I quote, “When he wakes up, how does he know which way to put on his underwear? Yellow in front, brown in back.”
This mud slinging and catter walling is probably going to continue until she can come up with the bucks to buy into the Naked Cowboy franchise. In the meantime, you can go to the link below and see a short video of her getting ready to perform in New York. She’s got on fishnet hose, an “Apache” bikini bottom (“rides ups behind you and wipes you out”) and a push-up bra or bikini top. She takes pains to make that bikini bottom reveal as much cheek as possible, and she’s bending completely over to pull on her boots. Now that’s talent!
I’ve got to wonder, how does a person decide on this particular career path? Does it require a degree? Are the benefits good? Do you get dental? What about the hours? How much paid vacation? Is there profit sharing?
Or are you just wandering around in your underwear strumming a guitar and hoping some blind old man mistakes a twenty for a dollar? Who can say what drives people to pursue a life in show business?
It is a crazy world we live in, and maybe it’s better to be ADD. And who knows, one of these days maybe I’ll hear those lyrics again and be able to write the blog I intended today.
FYI: To read the Naked Cowboy article and see the video, go here:
www.aolnews.com/weird-news/article/naked-cowboy-robert-burck-whips-out-his-legal-briefs-against-naked-cowgirl-sandy-brodsky/19526441
Thursday, July 08, 2010
A Day at the Driving Range
Today I went to the driving range to practice golf because a friend invited me to play in a tournament and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of her friends. I practiced for an hour and a half today and observed a few interesting things.
One girl must have been dropped off by her parents for a lesson. As soon as the pro got done with her, she hit three or four balls that barely cleared the driving range mat and then sat down on a bench and started texting. I found it curious that someone at the driving range, after forking over $60+ for a private golf lesson, would spend her time holding a cell phone rather than a golf club. She sat on a bench for an hour without taking another swing, and then mosied away, walking like some zombie hypnotized by the object in her hand that she could not put down.
Speaking of cell phones, a golfer was sitting on a far away bench talking on his phone. I thought he was waiting for his golf partner to show up or something. All of a sudden he broke into a country music song. He wasn’t just singing to himself, he was belting out soulful lyrics like, “You left me all alone, now all I’ve got’s a cell phone” or some such.
For crying frigging out loud! Didn’t he know that a golf course is a place of quiet concentration. There are so many things that can go wrong with a golf swing, people try to focus completely and still hit balls all over creation. Having noise just makes a bad situation worse. That’s why announcers WHISPER during golf tournaments on TV.
This Kenny Chesney wannabe was belting his song out to a cell phone. He was holding a phone to his ear singing. None of us on the driving range said anything, but I was getting pretty irritated, and not just because my balls were going everywhere except where I aimed them. The guy’s voice was probably okay, but I dislike country music. But that didn’t annoy me as much as the idea that he was singing to a cell phone. Who was on the other end listening?
I am not exaggerating – it went on for over a half hour. I don’t know if he was singing the same song or what – it all sounds the same to me. As much as the noise was distracting me, I was more preoccupied thinking of WHO he was singing to. Someone who dumped him? But if she dumped him, she surely wouldn’t stay on the phone all that time listening to him wailing out his sorrows. Maybe he was really some country music star and had just written some songs for a new CD and was singing it over the cell phone so his record company could get the musicians lined up to make a new record. I mean, what on earth would possess an adult male to sit on a golf course bench and sing at the top of his lungs?
I am still befuddled, and I know it will cause me sleepless nights for many days to come.
But the oddest thing I saw today was the guy on the golf course riding one of those Seqway’s. It’s a one-person vehicle that seems to be built for people who prefer to keep their calories stored up in their guts rather than burning them off walking. This man on the golf course was standing on the unit, his belly hanging over the handle, rolling up to his golf ball while the other three guys he was playing with were walking. I found it ludicrous. There are golf carts for people who either can’t or don’t want to walk. If you can stand up, why not just take a cart? What a jerk.
I’m starting to sound like a curmudgeon who resents new-fangled gadgets that detract from the established way of doing things. I admit it’s true. I think idiots should leave their cell phones, Segways, and nasally country voices at home when they come to the golf course. Where is the decorum these days?
If God had wanted us to behave this way, he would have given us a Bluetooth for an ear and wheels instead of legs.
Here’s the lyric I’m going to sing next time these people start annoying me – sung in a whining voice like all country songs:
If you came here to play
Put your cell phone away
How can you sit there and sing?
When it’s messin’ with my swing?
If you’re lazy and must ride
Get the hell out of my sight
Chorus: If I have to plant my club in your head
Give you a lump that turns all red
To make you straighten up and act right
Then I can’t wait to start that fight.
One girl must have been dropped off by her parents for a lesson. As soon as the pro got done with her, she hit three or four balls that barely cleared the driving range mat and then sat down on a bench and started texting. I found it curious that someone at the driving range, after forking over $60+ for a private golf lesson, would spend her time holding a cell phone rather than a golf club. She sat on a bench for an hour without taking another swing, and then mosied away, walking like some zombie hypnotized by the object in her hand that she could not put down.
Speaking of cell phones, a golfer was sitting on a far away bench talking on his phone. I thought he was waiting for his golf partner to show up or something. All of a sudden he broke into a country music song. He wasn’t just singing to himself, he was belting out soulful lyrics like, “You left me all alone, now all I’ve got’s a cell phone” or some such.
For crying frigging out loud! Didn’t he know that a golf course is a place of quiet concentration. There are so many things that can go wrong with a golf swing, people try to focus completely and still hit balls all over creation. Having noise just makes a bad situation worse. That’s why announcers WHISPER during golf tournaments on TV.
This Kenny Chesney wannabe was belting his song out to a cell phone. He was holding a phone to his ear singing. None of us on the driving range said anything, but I was getting pretty irritated, and not just because my balls were going everywhere except where I aimed them. The guy’s voice was probably okay, but I dislike country music. But that didn’t annoy me as much as the idea that he was singing to a cell phone. Who was on the other end listening?
I am not exaggerating – it went on for over a half hour. I don’t know if he was singing the same song or what – it all sounds the same to me. As much as the noise was distracting me, I was more preoccupied thinking of WHO he was singing to. Someone who dumped him? But if she dumped him, she surely wouldn’t stay on the phone all that time listening to him wailing out his sorrows. Maybe he was really some country music star and had just written some songs for a new CD and was singing it over the cell phone so his record company could get the musicians lined up to make a new record. I mean, what on earth would possess an adult male to sit on a golf course bench and sing at the top of his lungs?
I am still befuddled, and I know it will cause me sleepless nights for many days to come.
But the oddest thing I saw today was the guy on the golf course riding one of those Seqway’s. It’s a one-person vehicle that seems to be built for people who prefer to keep their calories stored up in their guts rather than burning them off walking. This man on the golf course was standing on the unit, his belly hanging over the handle, rolling up to his golf ball while the other three guys he was playing with were walking. I found it ludicrous. There are golf carts for people who either can’t or don’t want to walk. If you can stand up, why not just take a cart? What a jerk.
I’m starting to sound like a curmudgeon who resents new-fangled gadgets that detract from the established way of doing things. I admit it’s true. I think idiots should leave their cell phones, Segways, and nasally country voices at home when they come to the golf course. Where is the decorum these days?
If God had wanted us to behave this way, he would have given us a Bluetooth for an ear and wheels instead of legs.
Here’s the lyric I’m going to sing next time these people start annoying me – sung in a whining voice like all country songs:
If you came here to play
Put your cell phone away
How can you sit there and sing?
When it’s messin’ with my swing?
If you’re lazy and must ride
Get the hell out of my sight
Chorus: If I have to plant my club in your head
Give you a lump that turns all red
To make you straighten up and act right
Then I can’t wait to start that fight.
America's Stupidest Video Stars
I’m watching America’s Funniest Videos while I’m writing this, so if it’s incoherent, it’s because I can’t keep from being distracted by the dumb stuff people do.
The guy I just watched crammed himself into one of those one-piece plastic cars for little kids. His arms were hanging out both sides and one of his legs was out a window and the other was out the windshield area. He started down the hill and hit a dip in the road which made him take a nosedive. The car rolled nose over end several times, and this guy just had to go with it because he was wedged in there so tight he couldn’t even be thrown from the vehicle.
You gotta wonder what goes through a grown man’s mind in this kind of situation. Here’s what I imagine:
“You kids today have so many cool toys. We never had stuff like this. We had tricycles or wagons but no little molded plastic cars. I’m going to go for a ride in this thing just to see how fun it would have been if I’d had one of these when I was a kid. Here, I’m going to just cram my 185 pounds into this toy made for a 40 pound toddler, then point it down a steep, bumpy hill and let ‘er rip. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do, because it’s going to be so much fun!”
There are also those young men who ride skateboards down stairs. I know in advance every single time what’s going to happen, but when it does I laugh anyway. The kid loses contact with the skateboard, it flips up, the kid’s legs flail open and he looks like he’s doing a jumping jack, then the skateboard lands end up, and the kid crashes down on top of it a split second later – with the skateboard pointing straight up at his crotch. The kid gets the equivalent of a karate chop between the legs, and he rolls over on the sidewalk holding his privates and moaning while everyone around him laughs.
There’s a lot of humor to be had at the expense of a man’s privates. There are so many videos of toddlers jumping off a couch directly onto a man’s most sensitive area. What I can’t understand is that all men KNOW this area is sensitive, and yet they put themselves in positions that are obviously going to end with them curling up in the fetal position and rolling from side to side with hands cupped over the injured area as if trying to protect himself. He should have done that in the first place. Tonight two toddlers were taking turns jumping off a couch onto their dad’s stomach. Wonder where this is going?
How is it that someone is always holding a video camera at the right time? I’ll tell you. Because the person holding the camera is the mom. She knows what’s going to happen, and rather than warn the dad of the pain he’s about to suffer, she’s thinking, “I know it’s just a matter of time. If I can hold this camera pointed at his privates, he’s going to be rolling on the floor any second now, and we might have a chance at $10,000.”
Tonight they also had bike riders going over jumps. Does any male in America ever make it over a homemade jump on a bike? I don’t think so. Either they break the ramp on the way up, or they get to the end of the ramp and nose dive, throwing the rider over the handlebars and smacking his face in the pavement. Or he makes it over the jump and crashes on the landing.
Notice I said “he,” because 99% of the time it’s men doing this stuff. One could jump to conclusions and think that men or just stupid, but on looking closer at the issue, you’ll see that men aren’t just stupid, they also appear to enjoy pain. Take, for instance, the guy who caught a crab and let it clamp its claw to his nipple. He started screaming in agony as the crab dangled from his second most sensitive body part, and when he tried to pull the crab off, it wouldn’t let go. He finally got it loose, and then DID IT AGAIN while one friend stood there bent over double laughing at the girl screaming like a girl, and another friend holding the video camera. I have a feeling that guys would do this stuff even if they weren’t trying to get on TV.
The women, on the other hand, are usually the victims of some practical joke, or are in the wrong place at the wrong time – like the obese woman who steps off the dock toward the boat, but doesn’t quite step far enough and belly flops into the water. Another walks into a room and gets terrified when a man wearing a gorilla mask pops out of a garbage can.
So when men aren’t busy torturing themselves, they torture the women. This all leads me to the conclusion that men being stupid and mean is what keeps America’s Funniest Videos on the air – and just about any time of day you’ll find it on one station or another. Thank goodness we Americans have bred so many idiots, because this show always makes me laugh out loud.
Men, keep up the good work.
The guy I just watched crammed himself into one of those one-piece plastic cars for little kids. His arms were hanging out both sides and one of his legs was out a window and the other was out the windshield area. He started down the hill and hit a dip in the road which made him take a nosedive. The car rolled nose over end several times, and this guy just had to go with it because he was wedged in there so tight he couldn’t even be thrown from the vehicle.
You gotta wonder what goes through a grown man’s mind in this kind of situation. Here’s what I imagine:
“You kids today have so many cool toys. We never had stuff like this. We had tricycles or wagons but no little molded plastic cars. I’m going to go for a ride in this thing just to see how fun it would have been if I’d had one of these when I was a kid. Here, I’m going to just cram my 185 pounds into this toy made for a 40 pound toddler, then point it down a steep, bumpy hill and let ‘er rip. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do, because it’s going to be so much fun!”
There are also those young men who ride skateboards down stairs. I know in advance every single time what’s going to happen, but when it does I laugh anyway. The kid loses contact with the skateboard, it flips up, the kid’s legs flail open and he looks like he’s doing a jumping jack, then the skateboard lands end up, and the kid crashes down on top of it a split second later – with the skateboard pointing straight up at his crotch. The kid gets the equivalent of a karate chop between the legs, and he rolls over on the sidewalk holding his privates and moaning while everyone around him laughs.
There’s a lot of humor to be had at the expense of a man’s privates. There are so many videos of toddlers jumping off a couch directly onto a man’s most sensitive area. What I can’t understand is that all men KNOW this area is sensitive, and yet they put themselves in positions that are obviously going to end with them curling up in the fetal position and rolling from side to side with hands cupped over the injured area as if trying to protect himself. He should have done that in the first place. Tonight two toddlers were taking turns jumping off a couch onto their dad’s stomach. Wonder where this is going?
How is it that someone is always holding a video camera at the right time? I’ll tell you. Because the person holding the camera is the mom. She knows what’s going to happen, and rather than warn the dad of the pain he’s about to suffer, she’s thinking, “I know it’s just a matter of time. If I can hold this camera pointed at his privates, he’s going to be rolling on the floor any second now, and we might have a chance at $10,000.”
Tonight they also had bike riders going over jumps. Does any male in America ever make it over a homemade jump on a bike? I don’t think so. Either they break the ramp on the way up, or they get to the end of the ramp and nose dive, throwing the rider over the handlebars and smacking his face in the pavement. Or he makes it over the jump and crashes on the landing.
Notice I said “he,” because 99% of the time it’s men doing this stuff. One could jump to conclusions and think that men or just stupid, but on looking closer at the issue, you’ll see that men aren’t just stupid, they also appear to enjoy pain. Take, for instance, the guy who caught a crab and let it clamp its claw to his nipple. He started screaming in agony as the crab dangled from his second most sensitive body part, and when he tried to pull the crab off, it wouldn’t let go. He finally got it loose, and then DID IT AGAIN while one friend stood there bent over double laughing at the girl screaming like a girl, and another friend holding the video camera. I have a feeling that guys would do this stuff even if they weren’t trying to get on TV.
The women, on the other hand, are usually the victims of some practical joke, or are in the wrong place at the wrong time – like the obese woman who steps off the dock toward the boat, but doesn’t quite step far enough and belly flops into the water. Another walks into a room and gets terrified when a man wearing a gorilla mask pops out of a garbage can.
So when men aren’t busy torturing themselves, they torture the women. This all leads me to the conclusion that men being stupid and mean is what keeps America’s Funniest Videos on the air – and just about any time of day you’ll find it on one station or another. Thank goodness we Americans have bred so many idiots, because this show always makes me laugh out loud.
Men, keep up the good work.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Sleepless Nights? Try Tater Tots and Beer
I went to the Willamette Writer’s meeting tonight after having dinner with four members of my writing group. We drank beer – a big mistake for me since it makes me very sleepy. I’ve been known to fall asleep and knock teeth out on the beer mug.
The presentation tonight was on writing mysteries. My group likes to sit in the front row, which meant that I was forced to keep my eyes open and not doze off. Unfortunately, I was not up to the challenge. I had also eaten a whole basket of tater tots, which are often used in primitive cultures as a sleep aid. Fight as I might, my eyes were shut tight.
That’s right. Luckily others around me were taking notes so they couldn’t see my head bobbing, but I know the speaker saw me. She was not blind, after all. The sad thing is that she was quite interesting. Her name was April Henry, in case you want to get her books.
I think I missed out on quite a bit, but here’s the part I heard. If you want to make sure readers will stay glued to your mystery plot, you need to apply a special contact cement to the cover (available at fine publishing houses everywhere). That way they CAN’T put the book down.
If you’re not able to do this for moral or ethical reasons, then you’d better write an interesting story, which is easier than you think. All you have to do is pick out one of your characters and make him your protagonist (the good guy), and then make everyone else act suspicious, and then have an antagonist (bad guy) or two. The bad guys have to do mean things to the good guy in order for the story to be interesting. And one mean thing is not nearly enough – they have to spatter the good guy with so many mean things it would be like getting shot with a shotgun and every little shot would be a bad thing, if you know what I mean.
The presentation was very well done and progressed nicely. In fact, it whizzed by but that could have been due to the tots. Forty-five minutes later, the speaker asked if anyone had questions. This is the part I hate. The auditorium was full, which meant there were quite a few people who needed to demonstrate their writing acumen by asking questions they probably already knew the answer to just to show off their writing jargon.
For example, one woman said, “In your genre, when do you decide who is going to be the antagonist? Is that during your opening scenes or do you wait until the dénouement?”
The WHAT? The speaker was pretty cool. She wasn’t about to be sucked into such foolishness. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Unfortunately, this was exactly what the woman wanted to hear, because she elaborated in such contrived babble that I took another ten-minute snooze. When I woke up, she was still spewing jargon like a shaken up Coke.
“I don’t approach my writing that way,” said the speaker. “So I really don’t know how to answer your question. Anyone else have a question?”
I loved it! These long-winded misanthropes waste everyone’s time, and most speakers end up being too embarrassed or compassionate to cut them off. Although I’ll say one thing about them, their sophisticated mumbo jumbo is great background white noise for sleeping.
I have barely been able to keep my eyes open this whole evening. Tots and beer will do this to you, so the moral of this story is – shovel all the crap you can in front of your protagonist and sit back and take a nap while s/he figures out what to do about it. And if you want a best seller, be sure to weave tater tots into the plot. They could put the protagonist to sleep while the antagonist ties little knots in her hair. The possibilities are endless.
The presentation tonight was on writing mysteries. My group likes to sit in the front row, which meant that I was forced to keep my eyes open and not doze off. Unfortunately, I was not up to the challenge. I had also eaten a whole basket of tater tots, which are often used in primitive cultures as a sleep aid. Fight as I might, my eyes were shut tight.
That’s right. Luckily others around me were taking notes so they couldn’t see my head bobbing, but I know the speaker saw me. She was not blind, after all. The sad thing is that she was quite interesting. Her name was April Henry, in case you want to get her books.
I think I missed out on quite a bit, but here’s the part I heard. If you want to make sure readers will stay glued to your mystery plot, you need to apply a special contact cement to the cover (available at fine publishing houses everywhere). That way they CAN’T put the book down.
If you’re not able to do this for moral or ethical reasons, then you’d better write an interesting story, which is easier than you think. All you have to do is pick out one of your characters and make him your protagonist (the good guy), and then make everyone else act suspicious, and then have an antagonist (bad guy) or two. The bad guys have to do mean things to the good guy in order for the story to be interesting. And one mean thing is not nearly enough – they have to spatter the good guy with so many mean things it would be like getting shot with a shotgun and every little shot would be a bad thing, if you know what I mean.
The presentation was very well done and progressed nicely. In fact, it whizzed by but that could have been due to the tots. Forty-five minutes later, the speaker asked if anyone had questions. This is the part I hate. The auditorium was full, which meant there were quite a few people who needed to demonstrate their writing acumen by asking questions they probably already knew the answer to just to show off their writing jargon.
For example, one woman said, “In your genre, when do you decide who is going to be the antagonist? Is that during your opening scenes or do you wait until the dénouement?”
The WHAT? The speaker was pretty cool. She wasn’t about to be sucked into such foolishness. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Unfortunately, this was exactly what the woman wanted to hear, because she elaborated in such contrived babble that I took another ten-minute snooze. When I woke up, she was still spewing jargon like a shaken up Coke.
“I don’t approach my writing that way,” said the speaker. “So I really don’t know how to answer your question. Anyone else have a question?”
I loved it! These long-winded misanthropes waste everyone’s time, and most speakers end up being too embarrassed or compassionate to cut them off. Although I’ll say one thing about them, their sophisticated mumbo jumbo is great background white noise for sleeping.
I have barely been able to keep my eyes open this whole evening. Tots and beer will do this to you, so the moral of this story is – shovel all the crap you can in front of your protagonist and sit back and take a nap while s/he figures out what to do about it. And if you want a best seller, be sure to weave tater tots into the plot. They could put the protagonist to sleep while the antagonist ties little knots in her hair. The possibilities are endless.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Red, White, and Blues
We went to Waterfront Park this evening to see the band, Little Feat, at the Portland Blues Festival, which has been going on all this July 4th weekend. What fun! The people watching was awesome.
At the fresh Mexican stand were a pair of women with spiked black hair, tank dresses, and black boots. Not matching outfits, they just had the same Goth uniform. They were both dappled in bright tattoos – along their arms, on their shoulders and legs. They looked shocking, but colorful. I always wonder what’s in a person’s mind when they get a tattoo. “Hmmm, I could decorate myself by wearing rings and bracelets and scarves I can switch out every day, or I could let someone stick pins in me and have permanent dye injected beneath my skin that will go with me to the grave. Hmmm, decisions, decisions.”
There were plenty of time-warped hippies who continue to be locked in the 60’s. What’s interesting, though, is that there were no fat people in the 60’s. Really, if you watch the Woodstock documentaries or movies made during then, it is very rare to see anyone overweight. How they stayed skinny I don’t know because everyone back then was also smoking pot, and pot makes you hungry (as in the munchies), or so I’ve been told. I remember spending as much time as I could at all-you-can-eat buffets sloshing down hush puppies with cheap beer, and I was skinny as a rail.
The male hippies I saw today had the requisite stringy ponytails, but they also sported potbellies. The female hippies had hips that made circus tents out of their crinkly skirts. These women were dancing around with their long, grey-streaked hair forming frizzy waves down their peasant shirts. One thing is for certain – these are not the same clothes they wore back then. They’ve purchased them new and added a few sizes. My friend and I were mesmerized watching them. If they could have fast-forwarded from back then and seen that the only rd thing that changed about them over the decades was the addition of layers of additional sizes, I wonder if they would have thought, “Hmmm, when I grow up I want to look exactly like I do now except much larger and very old.”
I should be one to talk. I have eaten enough to stuff a horse in the last couple of days. I made brownies and sampled several to make sure they were good enough to share at the potluck, I scarfed down a magnificent bean dip and snarled at others who came close to it with a corn chip. And tonight my stomach is howling from having WAY too much hummus.
Some of the other sights we were treated to at the festival were young people wearing headbands with pink feathers sticking up. I saw one woman in short shorts, a tank top, and pink spike heels. She was walking along the sidewalk like her feet were killing her, and I know she had to be freezing because I had on long pants, a long sleeved shirt and a jacket. I wondered what her story was. Did she hope to attract some new beau in that garb? Did she have new shoes and couldn’t wait to wear them so decided to walk along the waterfront promenade and then was too cold to take the bone crushing things off to walk back to her car barefoot? Was she from Siberia and, compared to there, our 66 degrees with a cool breeze off the water seemed balmy to her?
We will never know, because even though I wanted to, I didn’t go up to her and say, “What the hell are you thinking?”
Thus brings to a close a very nice 3-day weekend spent doing things I very much enjoyed. Except for going to Sears and trying to find a refrigerator that will fit in the space we have for it. Our current refrigerator of 15 years was one of the biggest models available when we got it, but the new ones are even bigger, so I’m going to have to spend many hours researching to find one that will fit. Other than that, it was a great 4th of July, and makes me thankful to be an American because we get to celebrate July 4th. So thanks, founding fathers, for picking a good time of year to declare independence. We’re all proud of you.
At the fresh Mexican stand were a pair of women with spiked black hair, tank dresses, and black boots. Not matching outfits, they just had the same Goth uniform. They were both dappled in bright tattoos – along their arms, on their shoulders and legs. They looked shocking, but colorful. I always wonder what’s in a person’s mind when they get a tattoo. “Hmmm, I could decorate myself by wearing rings and bracelets and scarves I can switch out every day, or I could let someone stick pins in me and have permanent dye injected beneath my skin that will go with me to the grave. Hmmm, decisions, decisions.”
There were plenty of time-warped hippies who continue to be locked in the 60’s. What’s interesting, though, is that there were no fat people in the 60’s. Really, if you watch the Woodstock documentaries or movies made during then, it is very rare to see anyone overweight. How they stayed skinny I don’t know because everyone back then was also smoking pot, and pot makes you hungry (as in the munchies), or so I’ve been told. I remember spending as much time as I could at all-you-can-eat buffets sloshing down hush puppies with cheap beer, and I was skinny as a rail.
The male hippies I saw today had the requisite stringy ponytails, but they also sported potbellies. The female hippies had hips that made circus tents out of their crinkly skirts. These women were dancing around with their long, grey-streaked hair forming frizzy waves down their peasant shirts. One thing is for certain – these are not the same clothes they wore back then. They’ve purchased them new and added a few sizes. My friend and I were mesmerized watching them. If they could have fast-forwarded from back then and seen that the only rd thing that changed about them over the decades was the addition of layers of additional sizes, I wonder if they would have thought, “Hmmm, when I grow up I want to look exactly like I do now except much larger and very old.”
I should be one to talk. I have eaten enough to stuff a horse in the last couple of days. I made brownies and sampled several to make sure they were good enough to share at the potluck, I scarfed down a magnificent bean dip and snarled at others who came close to it with a corn chip. And tonight my stomach is howling from having WAY too much hummus.
Some of the other sights we were treated to at the festival were young people wearing headbands with pink feathers sticking up. I saw one woman in short shorts, a tank top, and pink spike heels. She was walking along the sidewalk like her feet were killing her, and I know she had to be freezing because I had on long pants, a long sleeved shirt and a jacket. I wondered what her story was. Did she hope to attract some new beau in that garb? Did she have new shoes and couldn’t wait to wear them so decided to walk along the waterfront promenade and then was too cold to take the bone crushing things off to walk back to her car barefoot? Was she from Siberia and, compared to there, our 66 degrees with a cool breeze off the water seemed balmy to her?
We will never know, because even though I wanted to, I didn’t go up to her and say, “What the hell are you thinking?”
Thus brings to a close a very nice 3-day weekend spent doing things I very much enjoyed. Except for going to Sears and trying to find a refrigerator that will fit in the space we have for it. Our current refrigerator of 15 years was one of the biggest models available when we got it, but the new ones are even bigger, so I’m going to have to spend many hours researching to find one that will fit. Other than that, it was a great 4th of July, and makes me thankful to be an American because we get to celebrate July 4th. So thanks, founding fathers, for picking a good time of year to declare independence. We’re all proud of you.
Musings on Freedom
Happy 4th of July. I hope it is warm and sunny at your picnic because it is FREEZING here in Portland and no sun to be found anywhere. We are getting ready to go to a barbecue and I’m bundling up in socks and long underwear. Just kidding. The socks won’t fit in the shoes I’m wearing.
I should probably wax poetic about freedom, but what I really want to talk about is the new priest at our church – and the old woman’s handbag. Can I squeeze it all in? I’ll give it a try.
I’m thankful for our freedom here in America. Sometimes I wonder that we might have too much freedom, but that is so much better than having no freedom at all. For the most part, I am very thankful for our government, our highways and parks and schools and public buildings that our freedom (and taxes) allow us to enjoy.
Pressing on to our next stop, the new priest – I really like him. He’s from Washington DC, well-educated and well-spoken, and FUNNY. He told a story about a preacher who was teaching a group of pre-schoolers about the freedom they have as Christians. “Now I’ve told you all that you are free in Jesus. So everyone who is free, raise your hand.” All the kids raised their hands but one. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just told you that everyone in this room has the freedom of Jesus, so everyone who is free, raise your hand.” Again the one did not raise his hand. The preacher went over and asked him, “Johnny, I just said everyone was in this room was free, so why aren’t you raising your hand?” The little boy grinned real big and said, “I used to be free until yesterday, and then I turned four.”
The congregation laughed at this and several other jokes and asides. I didn’t drift off to sleep even once. I think I’m going to like Father Charles very much.
On to our final stop, the old woman’s purse. During Mass, when we got up to go to communion, I went out into the aisle, received communion and went back into the pew at the other end. That’s when I saw my purse, which threw me completely off, since I then noticed that my purse was down at the other end of the pew where I left it. Whoa! I felt like I was in a parking lot and trying to get into a car but the door won’t open, and then noticing my actual car a row away.
These two purses are run-of-the-mill black and white department store purses – not Coach or Prada or even a knock-off. Mine was not very expensive, but it’s practical and goes with everything and I’ve been quite pleased with it. Until today. Once I saw that someone else had my exact purse, I wanted to see who it was. I settled myself on my knees in the pew and watched the people filing in.
Oh my gosh! This very elderly woman with curly white hair like all elderly women wear, and elastic waist pants, baggy button up shirt, old woman orthotic shoes, etc. – she was the one who had the same purse as me.
I don’t know about you, but when you buy from big department stores you’re going to run into someone wearing the same thing.
When it’s someone really sharp and they look great in it, I think, “Okay, I’ve got really good taste.” But when it’s someone my total opposite, then I think, “Oh my gosh, how could SHE and I pick the same thing? I have horrible taste!”
Now I’ve got to get rid of the purse. I’m not one to switch purses but carry the same one until it falls apart or I get really tired of it. Luckily I was getting tired of this one. If you think I’m being petty or high schoolish, that’s your prerogative.
After all, it is a free country.
I should probably wax poetic about freedom, but what I really want to talk about is the new priest at our church – and the old woman’s handbag. Can I squeeze it all in? I’ll give it a try.
I’m thankful for our freedom here in America. Sometimes I wonder that we might have too much freedom, but that is so much better than having no freedom at all. For the most part, I am very thankful for our government, our highways and parks and schools and public buildings that our freedom (and taxes) allow us to enjoy.
Pressing on to our next stop, the new priest – I really like him. He’s from Washington DC, well-educated and well-spoken, and FUNNY. He told a story about a preacher who was teaching a group of pre-schoolers about the freedom they have as Christians. “Now I’ve told you all that you are free in Jesus. So everyone who is free, raise your hand.” All the kids raised their hands but one. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just told you that everyone in this room has the freedom of Jesus, so everyone who is free, raise your hand.” Again the one did not raise his hand. The preacher went over and asked him, “Johnny, I just said everyone was in this room was free, so why aren’t you raising your hand?” The little boy grinned real big and said, “I used to be free until yesterday, and then I turned four.”
The congregation laughed at this and several other jokes and asides. I didn’t drift off to sleep even once. I think I’m going to like Father Charles very much.
On to our final stop, the old woman’s purse. During Mass, when we got up to go to communion, I went out into the aisle, received communion and went back into the pew at the other end. That’s when I saw my purse, which threw me completely off, since I then noticed that my purse was down at the other end of the pew where I left it. Whoa! I felt like I was in a parking lot and trying to get into a car but the door won’t open, and then noticing my actual car a row away.
These two purses are run-of-the-mill black and white department store purses – not Coach or Prada or even a knock-off. Mine was not very expensive, but it’s practical and goes with everything and I’ve been quite pleased with it. Until today. Once I saw that someone else had my exact purse, I wanted to see who it was. I settled myself on my knees in the pew and watched the people filing in.
Oh my gosh! This very elderly woman with curly white hair like all elderly women wear, and elastic waist pants, baggy button up shirt, old woman orthotic shoes, etc. – she was the one who had the same purse as me.
I don’t know about you, but when you buy from big department stores you’re going to run into someone wearing the same thing.
When it’s someone really sharp and they look great in it, I think, “Okay, I’ve got really good taste.” But when it’s someone my total opposite, then I think, “Oh my gosh, how could SHE and I pick the same thing? I have horrible taste!”
Now I’ve got to get rid of the purse. I’m not one to switch purses but carry the same one until it falls apart or I get really tired of it. Luckily I was getting tired of this one. If you think I’m being petty or high schoolish, that’s your prerogative.
After all, it is a free country.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Too Much Spice in My Life
I just went to put something away in the kitchen and noticed a whole mess of new spices on an already overcrowded shelf.
This would not worry a normal person, and it doesn’t worry me either, but it bugs the crap out of me on so many levels this blog would overflow with them like a stopped up toilet.
Don’t even say the words, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” because I will fly right out of your computer screen and choke you to within an inch of your life.
It is these mild irritations in life that roll up into a giant wad of aluminum foil that bowls people over the edge. Yes, if you recycle the foil all the time (metaphorically speaking), then it won’t build up and will remain a small, manageable…oh for criminy’s sake, wherever this is going I’ve lost interest in it.
What I’m trying to say is that when someone in your house, for instance your husband, buys excess stuff, you’ve got to wonder what the hell gives? There is already a full bottle of Cream of Tartar in the nicely alphabetized spice drawer. Who even uses it? I once had a jar of Cream of Tartar for over 20 years. It’s not in a lot of recipes, and when I needed it, the old stuff worked just fine – it was still as pearly white as the day I bought it. In fact, I only discarded it to make room for the new jar my husband bought, and NOW THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!
You can probably read my frustration in the ALL CAP words above. At this rate, my children’s will pass on the jars to their children and their children’s children.
You’re asking, “What’s her problem, so what if there’s an extra little jar of spice? What’s the big freaking deal?” I’m warning you, I am THIS CLOSE to reaching out and poking you in the eyes. It’s not just the one bottle. There are at least 15 duplicate spices in the cabinet, with fresh ones being added daily – and these in addition to the 50 that are in the spice drawer. That’s why I had to alphabetize them – there are so many I could never find the one I was looking for.
What are these extra back up jars – spice insurance? Did my husband see some kind of spice commercial like this - “Did you ever go into your kitchen and whip up a batch of cinnamon cookies only to find that you are (Insert Stabbing Sounds from the Psycho Movie) OUT OF CINNAMON? (Homely actress brings her hands to her face like she’s discovered a dead body). Then you need SPICE INSURANCE! We will send you every spice known to the free world – all for the low cost of $249. When you get ready to run out, just notify us in advance and we’ll replace your spice FREE OF CHARGE (Voluptuous actress holds package of arriving spice next to her overflowing cleavage). Don’t ever disappoint your loved ones again with a spiceless recipe (Sad children). Order SPICE INSURANCE today! (Happy family beaming at their spices with a tray of fresh cookies in the background that you can smell right through the TV).”
Ever wonder why I’m not making millions doing TV commercials? I’m a natural, aren’t I? I’d be happy to produce something for you if you’d send money in advance, along with a nice video camera.
Here’s the problem. My husband likes to cook, and he likes to grocery shop. He does not like to be bothered with looking in the spice drawer to see what’s already in there. It’s easier for him just to buy a new bottle. He doesn’t care that it will sit on the shelf for the next eight years unopened. I understand that.
What I don’t understand is that, even in the worst-case scenario, we live at the virtual apex of at least 6 grocery stores – two are within a half-mile of our house. There is one 24-hour Albertsons about a mile and a half away. Would we ever be in such a bind that, if we ran out of a spice, we’d need a replacement faster than the ten minutes it would take to get to the store and back? Is this justification for twenty extra containers of spices taking up space on prime real estate panty shelves?
If you say, “Yes,” even in a whisper, I will creep out of your computer late one night and pour cake batter in your favorite shoe. You’ll know it was me by the jar of Cream of Tartar I’ll leave as a calling card.
This would not worry a normal person, and it doesn’t worry me either, but it bugs the crap out of me on so many levels this blog would overflow with them like a stopped up toilet.
Don’t even say the words, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” because I will fly right out of your computer screen and choke you to within an inch of your life.
It is these mild irritations in life that roll up into a giant wad of aluminum foil that bowls people over the edge. Yes, if you recycle the foil all the time (metaphorically speaking), then it won’t build up and will remain a small, manageable…oh for criminy’s sake, wherever this is going I’ve lost interest in it.
What I’m trying to say is that when someone in your house, for instance your husband, buys excess stuff, you’ve got to wonder what the hell gives? There is already a full bottle of Cream of Tartar in the nicely alphabetized spice drawer. Who even uses it? I once had a jar of Cream of Tartar for over 20 years. It’s not in a lot of recipes, and when I needed it, the old stuff worked just fine – it was still as pearly white as the day I bought it. In fact, I only discarded it to make room for the new jar my husband bought, and NOW THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!
You can probably read my frustration in the ALL CAP words above. At this rate, my children’s will pass on the jars to their children and their children’s children.
You’re asking, “What’s her problem, so what if there’s an extra little jar of spice? What’s the big freaking deal?” I’m warning you, I am THIS CLOSE to reaching out and poking you in the eyes. It’s not just the one bottle. There are at least 15 duplicate spices in the cabinet, with fresh ones being added daily – and these in addition to the 50 that are in the spice drawer. That’s why I had to alphabetize them – there are so many I could never find the one I was looking for.
What are these extra back up jars – spice insurance? Did my husband see some kind of spice commercial like this - “Did you ever go into your kitchen and whip up a batch of cinnamon cookies only to find that you are (Insert Stabbing Sounds from the Psycho Movie) OUT OF CINNAMON? (Homely actress brings her hands to her face like she’s discovered a dead body). Then you need SPICE INSURANCE! We will send you every spice known to the free world – all for the low cost of $249. When you get ready to run out, just notify us in advance and we’ll replace your spice FREE OF CHARGE (Voluptuous actress holds package of arriving spice next to her overflowing cleavage). Don’t ever disappoint your loved ones again with a spiceless recipe (Sad children). Order SPICE INSURANCE today! (Happy family beaming at their spices with a tray of fresh cookies in the background that you can smell right through the TV).”
Ever wonder why I’m not making millions doing TV commercials? I’m a natural, aren’t I? I’d be happy to produce something for you if you’d send money in advance, along with a nice video camera.
Here’s the problem. My husband likes to cook, and he likes to grocery shop. He does not like to be bothered with looking in the spice drawer to see what’s already in there. It’s easier for him just to buy a new bottle. He doesn’t care that it will sit on the shelf for the next eight years unopened. I understand that.
What I don’t understand is that, even in the worst-case scenario, we live at the virtual apex of at least 6 grocery stores – two are within a half-mile of our house. There is one 24-hour Albertsons about a mile and a half away. Would we ever be in such a bind that, if we ran out of a spice, we’d need a replacement faster than the ten minutes it would take to get to the store and back? Is this justification for twenty extra containers of spices taking up space on prime real estate panty shelves?
If you say, “Yes,” even in a whisper, I will creep out of your computer late one night and pour cake batter in your favorite shoe. You’ll know it was me by the jar of Cream of Tartar I’ll leave as a calling card.
Friday, July 02, 2010
My Great Deal
Boy did I get a deal yesterday! I don’t go shopping much because it means getting almost naked in front of a mirror that you can see your front and back sides practically at the same time. I live in denial that age and chocolate have taken their toll on me. But department store mirrors tell it like it is, and it’s a wonder I’m not still wearing hip hugger bell bottoms and a top made of shoelaces and a bandana. What do you mean they don’t make bandanas that big??????
I couldn’t wear something like that around here because, in spite of having a couple of days reprieve from the wettest June in Oregon’s history, and that’s saying a lot since this is Oregon and we are known for the size of the slugs we cultivate around here because they thrive in the wetness of this state. Slugs are snails without shells. I know I’ve told you this before, but I have NEW SITE MEMBERS (welcome to all of you, btw), and THEY may live next to the Dead Sea which probably doesn’t provide the perfect climate for slugs. Which is, btw, our state bird, reptile, mammal, fish, and flower. Or they might as well be, because they are EVERYWHERE.
I’m getting very good at typing BIG WORDS without even using the shift lock key on my keyboard. It’s because I PRACTICE. A LOT.
But you probably didn’t come here to learn about slugs or my typing skills. You are dying to know about me standing semi-naked yesterday, and I don’t blame you. I would describe to you what I saw but I tried not to look. I made my fingers into one of those things like Spock does on Star Trek. He puts those two fingers together and the other two – you know the ones. The little finger and the ring finger are together, and then the other two are together. The thumb stays out of it. Then you try to open and close them. It’s not easy at first, but you get the hang of it quick and then you’re looking at your hands opening and closing and start thinking about eating lobster.
Anyway, I used Spock’s hand trick to hold in front of my eyes so I only saw the clothes. And I never looked in between outfits. Personally I like to keep a little mystery in my relationship with myself. It’s better to leave something to the imagination, and mine is working overtime trying to get Barbie to appear in place of that – that THING in the mirror.
But again, you didn’t come here to listen to one of the many tricks I use to make myself more lovable to me. You want to know about the great deal I got yesterday, so here it is.
Yesterday I got a great deal. I play golf in a 9-hole group and I am the official photographer for us ladies, which means they run when they see me coming because they are so sick of me taking their pictures constantly and putting them on the bulletin board. Truth be told, I Photoshop their wrinkles and warts and buggers away so they should be happy, but they’re not. Therefore I feel it is my duty as representative of the creative arts to try and not look like a ragamuffin. Especially yesterday when our group had invited ladies from several other groups. I did not want to be standing up at the luncheon with my tacky old clothes trying to make people who despise the very sight of me smile. I needed a new golf skirt.
I went to the shop nearest my house, and also the most expensive, and found a skirt for $84! If I knew how to make that $84 into capital letters I would. That’s a lot to pay for a skirt or anything else. I didn’t pay that much for my first VW back in the day. But it was so cute – the skirt! I wanted it so bad, but I hung it back on it’s hanger, tucked my tail, and got my white trash ass out of there before that skirt forced me to hand over my credit card. I found a not-nearly-as-cute-but-way-cheaper skirt at another store and snagged. I got many compliments on it, mainly because people were saving up since nothing else I have is compliment-worthy.
Someone mentioned a sale at a sample store with racks of golf clothes 50% off. Whoo-wee! It just happened to be on my way home. I rushed out of there and elbowed several elderly ladies out of my way on the sidewalk and found that same exact skirt for $13 (BIG CAPITAL LETTERS)!!!!! And it was the only one left, and it was MY SIZE!!!
I didn’t buy it, though. I already had that other new skirt. How many new things does a girl need?
HA – of course I bought it! That’s my great deal, and I hope you can sleep after reading how exciting it all was. I just hope it stops raining long enough that I can wear it.
I couldn’t wear something like that around here because, in spite of having a couple of days reprieve from the wettest June in Oregon’s history, and that’s saying a lot since this is Oregon and we are known for the size of the slugs we cultivate around here because they thrive in the wetness of this state. Slugs are snails without shells. I know I’ve told you this before, but I have NEW SITE MEMBERS (welcome to all of you, btw), and THEY may live next to the Dead Sea which probably doesn’t provide the perfect climate for slugs. Which is, btw, our state bird, reptile, mammal, fish, and flower. Or they might as well be, because they are EVERYWHERE.
I’m getting very good at typing BIG WORDS without even using the shift lock key on my keyboard. It’s because I PRACTICE. A LOT.
But you probably didn’t come here to learn about slugs or my typing skills. You are dying to know about me standing semi-naked yesterday, and I don’t blame you. I would describe to you what I saw but I tried not to look. I made my fingers into one of those things like Spock does on Star Trek. He puts those two fingers together and the other two – you know the ones. The little finger and the ring finger are together, and then the other two are together. The thumb stays out of it. Then you try to open and close them. It’s not easy at first, but you get the hang of it quick and then you’re looking at your hands opening and closing and start thinking about eating lobster.
Anyway, I used Spock’s hand trick to hold in front of my eyes so I only saw the clothes. And I never looked in between outfits. Personally I like to keep a little mystery in my relationship with myself. It’s better to leave something to the imagination, and mine is working overtime trying to get Barbie to appear in place of that – that THING in the mirror.
But again, you didn’t come here to listen to one of the many tricks I use to make myself more lovable to me. You want to know about the great deal I got yesterday, so here it is.
Yesterday I got a great deal. I play golf in a 9-hole group and I am the official photographer for us ladies, which means they run when they see me coming because they are so sick of me taking their pictures constantly and putting them on the bulletin board. Truth be told, I Photoshop their wrinkles and warts and buggers away so they should be happy, but they’re not. Therefore I feel it is my duty as representative of the creative arts to try and not look like a ragamuffin. Especially yesterday when our group had invited ladies from several other groups. I did not want to be standing up at the luncheon with my tacky old clothes trying to make people who despise the very sight of me smile. I needed a new golf skirt.
I went to the shop nearest my house, and also the most expensive, and found a skirt for $84! If I knew how to make that $84 into capital letters I would. That’s a lot to pay for a skirt or anything else. I didn’t pay that much for my first VW back in the day. But it was so cute – the skirt! I wanted it so bad, but I hung it back on it’s hanger, tucked my tail, and got my white trash ass out of there before that skirt forced me to hand over my credit card. I found a not-nearly-as-cute-but-way-cheaper skirt at another store and snagged. I got many compliments on it, mainly because people were saving up since nothing else I have is compliment-worthy.
Someone mentioned a sale at a sample store with racks of golf clothes 50% off. Whoo-wee! It just happened to be on my way home. I rushed out of there and elbowed several elderly ladies out of my way on the sidewalk and found that same exact skirt for $13 (BIG CAPITAL LETTERS)!!!!! And it was the only one left, and it was MY SIZE!!!
I didn’t buy it, though. I already had that other new skirt. How many new things does a girl need?
HA – of course I bought it! That’s my great deal, and I hope you can sleep after reading how exciting it all was. I just hope it stops raining long enough that I can wear it.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Cartoons No Laughing Matter
Tonight my daughter wanted to go see Toy Story 3 and I jumped at the chance. Mostly because she doesn’t find much time to spend with me between her job and friends and boyfriend. Although we live in the same house, a teenager’s priority list of things to do has “spend time with mom” way down there, after cleaning out her closet and doing her laundry. I wasn’t nuts about seeing Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, although I remember liking the first Toy Story many years ago.
It was in 3-D, and I was glad to be wearing the 3-D glasses because I got choked up toward the end and my eyes were misting like some foolish old woman getting sucked into a cartoon plot about a bunch of talking toys whose “boy” was all grown up and going to college.
I identified with those toys. When my son, my firstborn, was a baby, I used to look down at him in my arms and know that at that very second he was getting older. I could see him outgrowing one set of clothes after another until he packed them up and moved away. It broke my heart.
He’s moved out, but his closet is still full of clothes retained because of their memories. His Tae Kwon Do uniform is still there, plus all his snowboard tees and sweatshirts from his high school snowboard team. His Boy Scout shirt is there, even though he was only a scout in 4th and 5th grades. Every souvenir T-shirt he got at Disneyland or at Trailblazers basketball games is there.
What does this have to do with Toy Story? Beats the hell out of me. I’m just feeling sentimental about things changing. Life moves forward, for better or worse, and little boys spend an eternity playing with toys that one day will end up under the bed or in a container that will collect dust for years.
My son had this big stuffed parrot about the size of a real one that he took everywhere. He’d fly it around the back yard where it found every kind of adventure. Once he propped it up in a swing and took a picture of it, then made a wooden frame and put the picture in it and put that in his bookcase where it still sits to this day.
It’s obvious that this train of thought is not going to produce anything funny, is it? Since I’m on a roll, I might as well see this through. Remember that song, “Puff the Magic Dragon?” I used to sing the chorus when it came on the radio but never knew the words until it was on a tape of kid’s songs. I listened to the words in the car because those tapes played everywhere we went. I discovered that Puff was a toy, not a real magic dragon. Turns out there was a kid named Little Johnny Paper or something like that who played with Puff in a land called Hanalei. Who knows if I’m getting these names right because those tapes were scratchy. This little Paper boy played with Puff until one day he grew up and put Puff away, and Puff never got to come out and play again.
When I first figured out poor Puff’s fate, I was so sad. “What kind of story is that for a kid?” I thought. It ranks up there with Ole Yeller. Ever seen that one? About the sweet family dog that was so spunky and made you wish more than anything that you had a dog just like then and then… well you ought to rent it if you haven’t seen it, but buy a box of Kleenex.
Oh good grief, I’m bawling right now. Tears are dripping onto my hands and my fingers are slipping all over the keyboard. I exaggerate, but I’m whimpering and my eyes are watering. I could think of some more very sad things, but I can’t take it anymore. I have been on an emotional roller coaster ever since I saw that cartoon, and there’s no cure but chocolate. Thank goodness I made some of those no-bake chocolate peanut butter oatmeal cookies. That’s what I’m going to serve right now at my pity party. Wish you could come. We could have a regular bawl-fest as we stuffed cookies in like we were stuffing stuffing into a torn toy. Let the fun begin!
It was in 3-D, and I was glad to be wearing the 3-D glasses because I got choked up toward the end and my eyes were misting like some foolish old woman getting sucked into a cartoon plot about a bunch of talking toys whose “boy” was all grown up and going to college.
I identified with those toys. When my son, my firstborn, was a baby, I used to look down at him in my arms and know that at that very second he was getting older. I could see him outgrowing one set of clothes after another until he packed them up and moved away. It broke my heart.
He’s moved out, but his closet is still full of clothes retained because of their memories. His Tae Kwon Do uniform is still there, plus all his snowboard tees and sweatshirts from his high school snowboard team. His Boy Scout shirt is there, even though he was only a scout in 4th and 5th grades. Every souvenir T-shirt he got at Disneyland or at Trailblazers basketball games is there.
What does this have to do with Toy Story? Beats the hell out of me. I’m just feeling sentimental about things changing. Life moves forward, for better or worse, and little boys spend an eternity playing with toys that one day will end up under the bed or in a container that will collect dust for years.
My son had this big stuffed parrot about the size of a real one that he took everywhere. He’d fly it around the back yard where it found every kind of adventure. Once he propped it up in a swing and took a picture of it, then made a wooden frame and put the picture in it and put that in his bookcase where it still sits to this day.
It’s obvious that this train of thought is not going to produce anything funny, is it? Since I’m on a roll, I might as well see this through. Remember that song, “Puff the Magic Dragon?” I used to sing the chorus when it came on the radio but never knew the words until it was on a tape of kid’s songs. I listened to the words in the car because those tapes played everywhere we went. I discovered that Puff was a toy, not a real magic dragon. Turns out there was a kid named Little Johnny Paper or something like that who played with Puff in a land called Hanalei. Who knows if I’m getting these names right because those tapes were scratchy. This little Paper boy played with Puff until one day he grew up and put Puff away, and Puff never got to come out and play again.
When I first figured out poor Puff’s fate, I was so sad. “What kind of story is that for a kid?” I thought. It ranks up there with Ole Yeller. Ever seen that one? About the sweet family dog that was so spunky and made you wish more than anything that you had a dog just like then and then… well you ought to rent it if you haven’t seen it, but buy a box of Kleenex.
Oh good grief, I’m bawling right now. Tears are dripping onto my hands and my fingers are slipping all over the keyboard. I exaggerate, but I’m whimpering and my eyes are watering. I could think of some more very sad things, but I can’t take it anymore. I have been on an emotional roller coaster ever since I saw that cartoon, and there’s no cure but chocolate. Thank goodness I made some of those no-bake chocolate peanut butter oatmeal cookies. That’s what I’m going to serve right now at my pity party. Wish you could come. We could have a regular bawl-fest as we stuffed cookies in like we were stuffing stuffing into a torn toy. Let the fun begin!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Trashy Is As Trashy Does
My cousin in Memphis, Nancy, is so much fun and very funny. I call her every couple of weeks for a laugh fix.
She’s a jovial person, shaped like a barrel on top of a pair of gorgeous legs. She could be a model for nylons or socks, but only from the thighs down. It’s amazing how the body stores it’s excess. Mine is a muffin around my waist. Her’s is all in her torso so she looks like an Idaho potato on toothpicks. She’s got a mixed breed dog that also loves to eat, and she calls him “Fweet Tater” because he looks like a sweet potato on toothpicks. Must be genetic.
I’m trying to bring Nancy into the digital age. I set up Office Outlook for her over the phone, a task that took several hours. I’d be telling her to click here and click there, and she’d be reading me everything on the page. “It says File then Edit then….and there’s a box I just clicked on and it says….” She is an artist and notices all the details. I was just trying to get her to simply click on File…New, but that wasn’t going to happen for another ten minutes. I told my daughter it was like telling a child to go into the drug store and go directly back to the pharmacist without stopping, and the child happens to choose the toy aisle and stops to pick up every little thing along the way.
Just now she emailed me from Facebook and wanted to know how to upload pictures. This is a HUGE stretch for her, and I’m proud that she’s willing to make the attempt. I emailed her back from my Facebook and decided the tutorial shouldn’t be boring. So I said, “Go to the photos tab and create an album and name it something like, “Nancy holding a lit match to her bottom just before blasting gas.” Then describe the Location, like “At the Ladies Church Social” and then the Description: “Father didn’t really believe a match could become a torch.”
Once I’d posted it, I got to wondering whether that can be seen by the general public. I hope not because I’m trying to keep up a façade of couth.
Anyway, I hope my friends have a sense of humor if they read it. I know Nancy will laugh like a teenage boy watching “The Hangover.” I’m betting she’ll wet her pants. And maybe even pass some accidental gas.
I don’t know why I’m being so tacky. I should be ashamed. I laid around on the couch all day yesterday, and ate dinner with the family in front of the TV tonight, which according to Jeff Foxworthy is a sure sign of being a redneck. I pointed this out to my husband, and he said, “If the shoe fits.”
I apologize for being trashy, but this is my 250th blog and by golly I can say what I want. So there.
Oh, and to sum up my tutorial to Nancy, I said, “And just click on the pictures you want to upload and they’ll be on your Facebook page faster than you can say, “Who farted?”
I have sunk to the depths of white trashiness. I hope I haven’t offended, but if I have, you can kiss my rosy red toes (I just gave myself a pedicure). Now I look like a muffin on two carrots with a head and shoulders baked into the top and red sprinkles on the toes. Can’t you just picture it?
Please excuse me for rambling. How else could I get through 250 BLOGS! Think about it - TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY! Whoopee!
She’s a jovial person, shaped like a barrel on top of a pair of gorgeous legs. She could be a model for nylons or socks, but only from the thighs down. It’s amazing how the body stores it’s excess. Mine is a muffin around my waist. Her’s is all in her torso so she looks like an Idaho potato on toothpicks. She’s got a mixed breed dog that also loves to eat, and she calls him “Fweet Tater” because he looks like a sweet potato on toothpicks. Must be genetic.
I’m trying to bring Nancy into the digital age. I set up Office Outlook for her over the phone, a task that took several hours. I’d be telling her to click here and click there, and she’d be reading me everything on the page. “It says File then Edit then….and there’s a box I just clicked on and it says….” She is an artist and notices all the details. I was just trying to get her to simply click on File…New, but that wasn’t going to happen for another ten minutes. I told my daughter it was like telling a child to go into the drug store and go directly back to the pharmacist without stopping, and the child happens to choose the toy aisle and stops to pick up every little thing along the way.
Just now she emailed me from Facebook and wanted to know how to upload pictures. This is a HUGE stretch for her, and I’m proud that she’s willing to make the attempt. I emailed her back from my Facebook and decided the tutorial shouldn’t be boring. So I said, “Go to the photos tab and create an album and name it something like, “Nancy holding a lit match to her bottom just before blasting gas.” Then describe the Location, like “At the Ladies Church Social” and then the Description: “Father didn’t really believe a match could become a torch.”
Once I’d posted it, I got to wondering whether that can be seen by the general public. I hope not because I’m trying to keep up a façade of couth.
Anyway, I hope my friends have a sense of humor if they read it. I know Nancy will laugh like a teenage boy watching “The Hangover.” I’m betting she’ll wet her pants. And maybe even pass some accidental gas.
I don’t know why I’m being so tacky. I should be ashamed. I laid around on the couch all day yesterday, and ate dinner with the family in front of the TV tonight, which according to Jeff Foxworthy is a sure sign of being a redneck. I pointed this out to my husband, and he said, “If the shoe fits.”
I apologize for being trashy, but this is my 250th blog and by golly I can say what I want. So there.
Oh, and to sum up my tutorial to Nancy, I said, “And just click on the pictures you want to upload and they’ll be on your Facebook page faster than you can say, “Who farted?”
I have sunk to the depths of white trashiness. I hope I haven’t offended, but if I have, you can kiss my rosy red toes (I just gave myself a pedicure). Now I look like a muffin on two carrots with a head and shoulders baked into the top and red sprinkles on the toes. Can’t you just picture it?
Please excuse me for rambling. How else could I get through 250 BLOGS! Think about it - TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY! Whoopee!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wasting Away in Sofaville
I took a day off today from doing almost everything. Instead of gluing myself to the computer, catching up on filing, or planting the flowers I bought a week ago, I finished a mystery novel that I’ve been struggling through a page at a time in bed before I dropped off to sleep. I should feel wonderful making time for R and R, but I feel worthless.
How am I going to make up these lost leisure hours, I’d like to know? Tomorrow I will have to work extra hard and I won’t catch up. Things will be tabled until Tuesday, and then Wednesday. Is R and R really worth it?
I will leave the answer to the philosophers and people who make a living answering such questions (and please let me know if you hear of any job openings in the latter). All I know is that it felt pretty darn good.
One thing I noticed about reading while lying on the couch was that I kept dozing off. When I did, my mind would continue with the story. If I dozed off when the big strong man was approaching the petite detective lady, my semi-conscious mind would actually continue on like I was reading: “He took her in his arms and kissed her ravishingly. And then he scooped her up in his arms and walked toward the bedroom, bending down to kiss her along the way.”
I’d startle awake and look at the words on the page and this is what they’d say: “Lance walked toward Andrea. When he got within arm’s reach, she slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘You bastard!’ she hissed.”
Hmmm, my unconscious mind obviously didn’t pick up on the direction the plot was actually going. This happened over and over – with my half-asleep imagination completing scenes the second my eyes closed.
When I managed to stay awake, my conscious mind knew all too well what was coming, long before the author took the plot in that direction. I knew pages and pages earlier that the son was going to get kidnapped as if I’d already seen the movie. This was frustrating because I really wanted to be surprised. The writing style wasn’t that great, so the plot needed to be good to make up for it. This was a book someone had given me and said it was really good. As I was reading it, I kept thinking - compared to what?
But I finished it, wasting my entire Sunday on the couch, and now I’m going to have to work myself to death to make up for it. I think I’m going to go now and doze off so my mind can take me to a place where my inbox is empty, where all my good intentions have been carried out – every birthday card sent on time, every batch of cookies baked for the new neighbors – and life is carefree, plus there’s a magical box of chocolates that don’t have any calories. I’m going to dub this place “Sofaville” and it’s going to have a remote control that has commercial-free comedies all day long, and a sweet little dog to cuddle up to my feet and keep them warm. All the laundry will be done, dishwasher unloaded, bookshelves dusted, fish water changed, cobwebs knocked down, carpets with vacuum streaks, buttered popcorn that isn’t fattening, and a cheese platter.
OMG – this is so pathetic. Other people dream of changing the world or becoming rock stars. I’m dreaming of a day on the couch. Still, it sounds good. Hence, I’m off to bed where my rich fantasy life awaits me. Here’s wishing that all your dreams come true – at least in your dreams. Good night, my friends.
How am I going to make up these lost leisure hours, I’d like to know? Tomorrow I will have to work extra hard and I won’t catch up. Things will be tabled until Tuesday, and then Wednesday. Is R and R really worth it?
I will leave the answer to the philosophers and people who make a living answering such questions (and please let me know if you hear of any job openings in the latter). All I know is that it felt pretty darn good.
One thing I noticed about reading while lying on the couch was that I kept dozing off. When I did, my mind would continue with the story. If I dozed off when the big strong man was approaching the petite detective lady, my semi-conscious mind would actually continue on like I was reading: “He took her in his arms and kissed her ravishingly. And then he scooped her up in his arms and walked toward the bedroom, bending down to kiss her along the way.”
I’d startle awake and look at the words on the page and this is what they’d say: “Lance walked toward Andrea. When he got within arm’s reach, she slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘You bastard!’ she hissed.”
Hmmm, my unconscious mind obviously didn’t pick up on the direction the plot was actually going. This happened over and over – with my half-asleep imagination completing scenes the second my eyes closed.
When I managed to stay awake, my conscious mind knew all too well what was coming, long before the author took the plot in that direction. I knew pages and pages earlier that the son was going to get kidnapped as if I’d already seen the movie. This was frustrating because I really wanted to be surprised. The writing style wasn’t that great, so the plot needed to be good to make up for it. This was a book someone had given me and said it was really good. As I was reading it, I kept thinking - compared to what?
But I finished it, wasting my entire Sunday on the couch, and now I’m going to have to work myself to death to make up for it. I think I’m going to go now and doze off so my mind can take me to a place where my inbox is empty, where all my good intentions have been carried out – every birthday card sent on time, every batch of cookies baked for the new neighbors – and life is carefree, plus there’s a magical box of chocolates that don’t have any calories. I’m going to dub this place “Sofaville” and it’s going to have a remote control that has commercial-free comedies all day long, and a sweet little dog to cuddle up to my feet and keep them warm. All the laundry will be done, dishwasher unloaded, bookshelves dusted, fish water changed, cobwebs knocked down, carpets with vacuum streaks, buttered popcorn that isn’t fattening, and a cheese platter.
OMG – this is so pathetic. Other people dream of changing the world or becoming rock stars. I’m dreaming of a day on the couch. Still, it sounds good. Hence, I’m off to bed where my rich fantasy life awaits me. Here’s wishing that all your dreams come true – at least in your dreams. Good night, my friends.
My Brain Reveals Itself
Yesterday I went to see if any of my other photos had sold at the Lake Oswego Festival of the Arts and none had. Funny how you can be so excited about something one day – “YIPPEE! TWO OF MY PHOTOGRAPHS HAVE SOLD!!!! – to “yippee, two of my photographs have sold.”
By using those capital letters I hope you can hear the excitement in my voice and see the joy on my face, while the small words show that I’m being sarcastic, as if to say, “Big freaking deal, two have sold, but what about the other seven?”
My expectations the first day were that none of them might sale, and how awful that would be. But at the end of the first day, I was so excited that I’d made two sales because it validated me as a photographer and artist. I got the stamp of approval from the world.
By the end of the second day, however, the world had said to me, “You got lucky with those two, but we’re wise to you now and you won’t get away with fooling us anymore that you’ve got talent.”
Not that the world is actually saying this (or maybe they are. If you hear anything, let me know), but the little whining, insecure voice in my head is saying, “Why did you ever think you could be a photographer? How humiliating to have your stuff hanging in a festival with real artwork for the whole entire world to see and not have any little orange dots on your card except for a measly two.”
This voice hounds me day in and day out. It’s a wonder I can ever get anything done, because it questions everything I do.
“Why are you still using that frayed toothbrush? It’s embarrassing.”
“It works fine, and who’s going to see it?”
“I see it. It might work fine, but it’s an eyesore and you know you’re supposed to replace those things every few months.”
“I just got it about six weeks ago. Can I help it if the toothbrush companies make them so they get frayed really quick?”
“Oh, so now you’re going to blame it on the toothbrush companies?”
This conversation banters back and forth until I leave the bathroom, at which time the voice starts in about something else, like: “Why don’t you clean out this closet?”
The reason I actually accomplish anything is that another voice is in my head tells me how great I am. This one says, “Why are you only entering nine of your photographs? How can you pick just nine when they are all so beautiful?”
These guys are in there arguing like an umpire and a baseball coach, in each other’s faces, spit flying, while I’m trying to make a cup of tea:
“If you’d clean out this closet, you could find something to wear.”
“There’s plenty to wear, in fact, there are so many cute things in here it’s impossible to choose between them.”
“Cute? Cute? Did you say cute? Look at this shirt? When’s the last time anyone wore this thing? It’s got a stain on the front.”
“That stain is microscopic. Nobody except Superman could see that stain.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So how come you never wear it?”
By then I’m dressed and buttering toast”
“Are you going to put that much butter on your toast? I thought you were trying to lose weight?”
I don’t know if other people have to contend with this, but to me it’s like having two kids in the back seat bickering:
“She hit me!”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“He hit me first.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“That’s because she was looking at me.”
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
I can ignore them and go about my business, or pull over and threaten them within an inch of their lives to get them to stop, or reach back there are start flailing around trying to make enough contact to distract them so they stop. Even if any of these things work, I know it’s going to start back up again a few more miles down the road.
Georgia O’Keeffe, the artist who does those paintings of one part of a flower that is magnified and sometimes look like a vagina, once said something similar to this line: “I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” Actually, this was her exact line, because I asked Google and found that the line I typed (and had to delete) was nothing like this one. I also found I’d spelled her name with only one “f” (which I changed). And I found this interesting quote by her: “I hate flowers - I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move.” This makes her sound kindof crotchety, which seems like the perfect word except I’m not sure how to spell it and I’m not going to take the time to look it up. (Note: spell check fixed it.)
The point is that she must have had those two voices in her head all the time, too, and I know exactly what she means when she says she terrified every moment. I’m just like her, except not rich and famous. I’m afraid of my own shadow, which is the reason I live in Oregon where the sun rarely shines (that’s a joke, ha ha – get it? I don’t see my shadow to be afraid of it so much here in Oregon because….oh forget it.)
If you are still with me on this long, rambling journey through the workings of my inner brain, you are probably wondering how we got so far away from the topic about my photographs. You and me both. But I will bring this full circle by saying that I promised in my last blog to make my next one twice as long, and I think I’ve succeeded, so I can end this now. Aren’t I clever?
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
By using those capital letters I hope you can hear the excitement in my voice and see the joy on my face, while the small words show that I’m being sarcastic, as if to say, “Big freaking deal, two have sold, but what about the other seven?”
My expectations the first day were that none of them might sale, and how awful that would be. But at the end of the first day, I was so excited that I’d made two sales because it validated me as a photographer and artist. I got the stamp of approval from the world.
By the end of the second day, however, the world had said to me, “You got lucky with those two, but we’re wise to you now and you won’t get away with fooling us anymore that you’ve got talent.”
Not that the world is actually saying this (or maybe they are. If you hear anything, let me know), but the little whining, insecure voice in my head is saying, “Why did you ever think you could be a photographer? How humiliating to have your stuff hanging in a festival with real artwork for the whole entire world to see and not have any little orange dots on your card except for a measly two.”
This voice hounds me day in and day out. It’s a wonder I can ever get anything done, because it questions everything I do.
“Why are you still using that frayed toothbrush? It’s embarrassing.”
“It works fine, and who’s going to see it?”
“I see it. It might work fine, but it’s an eyesore and you know you’re supposed to replace those things every few months.”
“I just got it about six weeks ago. Can I help it if the toothbrush companies make them so they get frayed really quick?”
“Oh, so now you’re going to blame it on the toothbrush companies?”
This conversation banters back and forth until I leave the bathroom, at which time the voice starts in about something else, like: “Why don’t you clean out this closet?”
The reason I actually accomplish anything is that another voice is in my head tells me how great I am. This one says, “Why are you only entering nine of your photographs? How can you pick just nine when they are all so beautiful?”
These guys are in there arguing like an umpire and a baseball coach, in each other’s faces, spit flying, while I’m trying to make a cup of tea:
“If you’d clean out this closet, you could find something to wear.”
“There’s plenty to wear, in fact, there are so many cute things in here it’s impossible to choose between them.”
“Cute? Cute? Did you say cute? Look at this shirt? When’s the last time anyone wore this thing? It’s got a stain on the front.”
“That stain is microscopic. Nobody except Superman could see that stain.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So how come you never wear it?”
By then I’m dressed and buttering toast”
“Are you going to put that much butter on your toast? I thought you were trying to lose weight?”
I don’t know if other people have to contend with this, but to me it’s like having two kids in the back seat bickering:
“She hit me!”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“He hit me first.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“That’s because she was looking at me.”
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
I can ignore them and go about my business, or pull over and threaten them within an inch of their lives to get them to stop, or reach back there are start flailing around trying to make enough contact to distract them so they stop. Even if any of these things work, I know it’s going to start back up again a few more miles down the road.
Georgia O’Keeffe, the artist who does those paintings of one part of a flower that is magnified and sometimes look like a vagina, once said something similar to this line: “I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.” Actually, this was her exact line, because I asked Google and found that the line I typed (and had to delete) was nothing like this one. I also found I’d spelled her name with only one “f” (which I changed). And I found this interesting quote by her: “I hate flowers - I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move.” This makes her sound kindof crotchety, which seems like the perfect word except I’m not sure how to spell it and I’m not going to take the time to look it up. (Note: spell check fixed it.)
The point is that she must have had those two voices in her head all the time, too, and I know exactly what she means when she says she terrified every moment. I’m just like her, except not rich and famous. I’m afraid of my own shadow, which is the reason I live in Oregon where the sun rarely shines (that’s a joke, ha ha – get it? I don’t see my shadow to be afraid of it so much here in Oregon because….oh forget it.)
If you are still with me on this long, rambling journey through the workings of my inner brain, you are probably wondering how we got so far away from the topic about my photographs. You and me both. But I will bring this full circle by saying that I promised in my last blog to make my next one twice as long, and I think I’ve succeeded, so I can end this now. Aren’t I clever?
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
“Are not.”
“Am too.”
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Sold Two Pictures!
I have good news! I sold two of my framed photographs at the Lake Oswego Festival of the Arts. It runs for 2 more days so I’m hoping to sell another. I’m too excited to write. I’ll write twice as much tomorrow.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Commercial-free Radio?
Today I was listening to Blue Collar Comedy on my satellite radio that I got they renewed for the next 6 months for a very reasonable price.
I can’t find Laugh USA anymore, which was the station I really liked because the others are pretty raunchy. Many funny people say the f-word about six times in every sentence. In fact, it has become the new “you know.” You know how stoners talk, “Hey dude, you know, man, I went down to the you know store and you know I got some you know candy – a whole you know lot of candy like I, you know, practically bought out the whole you know candy aisle I was so you know hungry for a little you know something sweet.”
On these other comedy stations, they have announcers or interviewers or comediennes or chimpanzees - whoever is holding the microphone – talking like this except they substitute the gerund form of the f-word, as in f___ing, for every “you know.” I’m not a big fan of “you knows” and have tried to eliminate as many as I can, so this substitution irritates me even more because it’s as if they are deliberating trying to insert the word as much as possible rather than just normal rambling and filling in the pauses while they try to remember what they were saying.
Sometimes they liven the word up by adding “mother” in front of it.
Today, however, I had other irritants on the satellite radio. Namely, commercials. Correct me if I’m wrong (at your own risk), but isn’t satellite radio’s claim to fame the very absence of commercials? Isn’t that why we are supposed to prefer satellite stations over the ones we don’t have to pay for?
These commercials are awful, too. I think I blogged already about Prolixus – the male enhancer that sounds like it will add girth to the male member. I don’t know about you but I’m not sure I want a member the size of a can of pork and beans coming anywhere near me. I was not broke in by a horse, if you know what I mean. Men should just leave well enough alone unless they are dating a porn star. The rest of us, and I think I speak for most women endowed with a normal anatomy, are not too interested in being skewered by something that would make the Jolly Green Giant proud. When we say, “size doesn’t matter,” we actually mean it.
I’m dipping into crude territory, but I had a long drive this morning and got saturated with these comedy stations and their stupid commercials. One very excited man was breathlessly trying to tell me that I had better hurry and snap up a home loan because these interest rates would never happen again in my lifetime. I wonder how he knew. Is he psychic? More like psychotic the way he kept saying that the government has never allowed such low rates and I’d be pretty foolish not to jump on board and take advantage of his offer right this very second, because, as he kept saying, rates would never be this low again in my lifetime. Never ever. Ever.
The commercials are homemade without any fanfare or background music, just someone claiming to be a lawyer or doctor or millionaire telling the public the honest truth about the great deals they are hawking.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this whole commercial thing if I have to call the satellite station administrator personally, except that I live on the west coast and you can only call between 8 am and 11 am Eastern Standard time, meaning that I have to call between 5 am and 8 am. It’s enough to drive me, you know, crazy.
I can’t find Laugh USA anymore, which was the station I really liked because the others are pretty raunchy. Many funny people say the f-word about six times in every sentence. In fact, it has become the new “you know.” You know how stoners talk, “Hey dude, you know, man, I went down to the you know store and you know I got some you know candy – a whole you know lot of candy like I, you know, practically bought out the whole you know candy aisle I was so you know hungry for a little you know something sweet.”
On these other comedy stations, they have announcers or interviewers or comediennes or chimpanzees - whoever is holding the microphone – talking like this except they substitute the gerund form of the f-word, as in f___ing, for every “you know.” I’m not a big fan of “you knows” and have tried to eliminate as many as I can, so this substitution irritates me even more because it’s as if they are deliberating trying to insert the word as much as possible rather than just normal rambling and filling in the pauses while they try to remember what they were saying.
Sometimes they liven the word up by adding “mother” in front of it.
Today, however, I had other irritants on the satellite radio. Namely, commercials. Correct me if I’m wrong (at your own risk), but isn’t satellite radio’s claim to fame the very absence of commercials? Isn’t that why we are supposed to prefer satellite stations over the ones we don’t have to pay for?
These commercials are awful, too. I think I blogged already about Prolixus – the male enhancer that sounds like it will add girth to the male member. I don’t know about you but I’m not sure I want a member the size of a can of pork and beans coming anywhere near me. I was not broke in by a horse, if you know what I mean. Men should just leave well enough alone unless they are dating a porn star. The rest of us, and I think I speak for most women endowed with a normal anatomy, are not too interested in being skewered by something that would make the Jolly Green Giant proud. When we say, “size doesn’t matter,” we actually mean it.
I’m dipping into crude territory, but I had a long drive this morning and got saturated with these comedy stations and their stupid commercials. One very excited man was breathlessly trying to tell me that I had better hurry and snap up a home loan because these interest rates would never happen again in my lifetime. I wonder how he knew. Is he psychic? More like psychotic the way he kept saying that the government has never allowed such low rates and I’d be pretty foolish not to jump on board and take advantage of his offer right this very second, because, as he kept saying, rates would never be this low again in my lifetime. Never ever. Ever.
The commercials are homemade without any fanfare or background music, just someone claiming to be a lawyer or doctor or millionaire telling the public the honest truth about the great deals they are hawking.
I’m going to get to the bottom of this whole commercial thing if I have to call the satellite station administrator personally, except that I live on the west coast and you can only call between 8 am and 11 am Eastern Standard time, meaning that I have to call between 5 am and 8 am. It’s enough to drive me, you know, crazy.
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