1. People who post way too much $hit on Facebook, usually very large "funny" posters or pictures which take up half the page. Okay, the picture of the puppy sleeping with the lion was cute and all, but I don't need to see 43 others with similar themes. I also don't need to know that you're checking in at a local restaurant/Yankee's game/bordello. I do know some people who might be interested, though. They're called stalkers and burglars. Keep posting for them, I'm sure they'll "Like" it.
2. "Captcha" ridiculousness. You know, the little insidious box containing one or two words which must be reproduced at the bottom of a log in page? I had to hit "new words" FIVE TIMES today on one website, because I could not even determine if the letters in one of the words was from the English alphabet. And of course, the unidentifiable letters are always in the word which is a nonsense word, like, "chooberasku." You can always see the legitimate word just fine. I sit here in a panic, concerned that I'm going to be arrested or locked out of my own bloody account because of this annoying feature.
3. People who do not reply to emails nor make any attempt to tell you that they've read your mail but they're just too busy/tired/annoyed with you to reply.
4. Dirty dishes.
5. Cracked plastic ice cube trays. They leak all over, and you end up with 2 deformed ice cubes. They cost like 92 cents for a pack of three! Why do I keep them? I don't know. I threw one out today. Oh yeah, I'm on a rampage.
6. My cat, in a likely coup to re-claim his territory because of our temporary Pit Bull Family Member (who is in a new home, by the way), has pee'd somewhere, and I can't find the location. I have laundered every household item that can fit in the washing machine, and apart from hosing down the walls in the house, I'm at a loss.
7. Never breaking even or coming close to it, when I gamble. I mix my bets, take some risks but make some sensible decisions, and still. Nada. Or mostly nada. I'm not asking to win huge amounts, I don't expect that. I don't even mind taking a loss. But most times, if I walk into a situation with $50, I'm leaving with $0. And it's not because I won $200 and put it all back into more gambling. Fortunately, I do enjoy the whole process, I am genuinely pleased for those around me who hit it big, and even wining $5.10 is exciting to me, but some day, just once, I'd like to win more than what I wagered. Or walk out with $10 of my original $50 spent. I know I will never have an addiction to gambling, because I never win enough to get me salivating for more. I guess I should be happy for that small blessing.
8. Facebook apps/games and the amount of crap that they post on your Wall. Which must be posted on your wall or you can't waste er, enjoy, the time you spend growing your crops and feeding your pigs. What's even more annoying is people who stalk your Wall and accuse you of not replying instantly to the mail they sent at 1:44 a.m. when they know you were on because you reached the 23rd Mastery Level of flax growing.
9. Dirty dishes. I know I said that already.
10. I'm sure I could eventually come up with something else to put here, but I am done with my rant for now. I just didn't feel it was appropriate to leave the list at just nine items.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Mourning Rituals
Earlier this year, my family encountered the task of planning the wake and funeral for my father. When it came to the topic of music selection, we discussed the standard choices, and further discussed the fact that many of these songs did not feel "uplifting." The main reason being the fact that you only hear these songs sung at funerals; thus, your present sad occasion is now linked to every other sad occasion you have experienced throughout your lifetime. I could be at a circus, and if I heard the strains of "Here I Am, Lord" somewhere, it would bring on instantaneous sadness and tears.
The best Funeral Mass I have ever attended was that of my friend's father. It's interesting that the speeches you always hear at such occasions is that we should be celebrating the life of the person who has passed, but there is never anything that really appears to be celebratory, in my eyes. Yes, there is the idea that it is glorious that the person is now in Heaven, and I think that is what the stock song selections are supposed to impart, but to me, there is absolutely no comfort in that. At the Mass I mentioned above, there was a gospel choir. There were people dancing at the Mass. It was sad, but it was uplifting. This particular congregation really got the idea of celebrating a person's life, and being sad yet joyful about the whole Heaven thing. The entire time I was thinking, "This is what I want for my Mass... this is how it should always be done.."
Now, I do not consider myself an overly religious person, but I do have my own ideas about death and the afterlife. I am not uncomfortable with the idea of death, or of kneeling before bodies, and I am generally at peace with the idea of what happens when a person leaves this Earth. I honestly do not need anything extra for comfort (you already know my stance on hugging), and truly, most of the things surrounding our mourning rituals and traditions harbor quite the opposite effect. I am "okay" with our current rituals, but I think there could be some improvements.
I have to say that I am conflicted about the whole idea of an "open" casket at a wake. We have all heard the jokes of how strange it is to hear the comment that someone "looks good" while lying in state, when in fact, they are dead. I'm really not sure the purpose of having viewing hours. I'm guessing that it is to provide the opportunity for folks to have one last look at a loved one, and perhaps it provides comfort in some way. Often, though, the person in the casket looks nothing like the photos or memory reels that play back in one's head. When I think of my father, I think of his days in his garden, of him dancing with my mother, of him sitting on the couch with his dark farmer's tan shown off by a contrasting white shirt. I didn't need a "one last look," because I already knew him in my heart and in my mind. I can't imagine that seeing the shell of the person you love is comforting, in any way. It's really rather strange, and maybe even a little morbid.
I understand that older generations have different feelings on this subject, and of course, I mean no disrespect of any sort. I just know, though, after years of this particular type of experience, that I want something different for myself, when I go. I have given explicit instructions to my son that there must be a gospel choir around somewhere, and that I'm pretty sure I don't want anyone looking at my dead body which will probably be sporting some weird hairdo, too much makeup, and a double chin. I have threatened to haunt him or anyone who suggests "On Eagle's Wings" or "Here I am Lord" to be sung at my services. If we absolutely have to do the whole walking behind my coffin into church thing, the song better be a good one.
I'm not saying we have to be happy and cheerful when a person dies, but I'm not sure that singing these horrible songs and having the open casket is helpful. It's certainly not comforting nor uplifting. Not to me, at least. I know that I will have more of these sad occasions to attend in my lifetime (I have hit my quota for this year, though, so I forbid anyone else in my family to die), and I will always be okay up until the point when one of those songs are sung, but I do take some comfort in the fact that when I'm attending my own wake and funeral, I won't be depressed and using an entire box of tissues.
The best Funeral Mass I have ever attended was that of my friend's father. It's interesting that the speeches you always hear at such occasions is that we should be celebrating the life of the person who has passed, but there is never anything that really appears to be celebratory, in my eyes. Yes, there is the idea that it is glorious that the person is now in Heaven, and I think that is what the stock song selections are supposed to impart, but to me, there is absolutely no comfort in that. At the Mass I mentioned above, there was a gospel choir. There were people dancing at the Mass. It was sad, but it was uplifting. This particular congregation really got the idea of celebrating a person's life, and being sad yet joyful about the whole Heaven thing. The entire time I was thinking, "This is what I want for my Mass... this is how it should always be done.."
Now, I do not consider myself an overly religious person, but I do have my own ideas about death and the afterlife. I am not uncomfortable with the idea of death, or of kneeling before bodies, and I am generally at peace with the idea of what happens when a person leaves this Earth. I honestly do not need anything extra for comfort (you already know my stance on hugging), and truly, most of the things surrounding our mourning rituals and traditions harbor quite the opposite effect. I am "okay" with our current rituals, but I think there could be some improvements.
I have to say that I am conflicted about the whole idea of an "open" casket at a wake. We have all heard the jokes of how strange it is to hear the comment that someone "looks good" while lying in state, when in fact, they are dead. I'm really not sure the purpose of having viewing hours. I'm guessing that it is to provide the opportunity for folks to have one last look at a loved one, and perhaps it provides comfort in some way. Often, though, the person in the casket looks nothing like the photos or memory reels that play back in one's head. When I think of my father, I think of his days in his garden, of him dancing with my mother, of him sitting on the couch with his dark farmer's tan shown off by a contrasting white shirt. I didn't need a "one last look," because I already knew him in my heart and in my mind. I can't imagine that seeing the shell of the person you love is comforting, in any way. It's really rather strange, and maybe even a little morbid.
I understand that older generations have different feelings on this subject, and of course, I mean no disrespect of any sort. I just know, though, after years of this particular type of experience, that I want something different for myself, when I go. I have given explicit instructions to my son that there must be a gospel choir around somewhere, and that I'm pretty sure I don't want anyone looking at my dead body which will probably be sporting some weird hairdo, too much makeup, and a double chin. I have threatened to haunt him or anyone who suggests "On Eagle's Wings" or "Here I am Lord" to be sung at my services. If we absolutely have to do the whole walking behind my coffin into church thing, the song better be a good one.
I'm not saying we have to be happy and cheerful when a person dies, but I'm not sure that singing these horrible songs and having the open casket is helpful. It's certainly not comforting nor uplifting. Not to me, at least. I know that I will have more of these sad occasions to attend in my lifetime (I have hit my quota for this year, though, so I forbid anyone else in my family to die), and I will always be okay up until the point when one of those songs are sung, but I do take some comfort in the fact that when I'm attending my own wake and funeral, I won't be depressed and using an entire box of tissues.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Creepy Crap After Midnight
So, if you haven't already guessed, we are still the temporary owners of a seven month old Pit Bull. She is, fingers crossed, going to a new and permanent home today and henceforth I shall be able to concentrate on things other than fleas, murderers at the door, shoulders being ripped out of sockets (from her bad pulling habit when walking), and guilt-ridden tears.
I was going to write a post entitled, "Thank You, Sara McLachlan" with much dripping sarcasm, as all I could think of for the past two weeks was that #@&(@!! commercial with the homeless pets and her little ditty in the background. Every time this dog would rest her head on my leg (ahhh... heartstrings!), or just let out a long sigh, the strains of that damned "Angel" song could be heard in the background of my mind. But, I've moved past the guilt (plus, she's not going to a shelter), and have a different tale to tell today.
Apart from the fact that "Mimi" (my son spells it "Meme"... not sure if that's intentional..?) is a complete couch/bed hogger, is ready to jump into action at any small sound, snores, and is totally "intrigued" by Mario and Penelope (cat and guinea pig), she's generally a good dog. She did, however, have a tummy ache during the week, which caused her to poop three times in the house. And not the easy kind of poop, but, diarrhea (sorry to get gross here), which is not easily picked up by a plastic bag. Anyway, since I am always very concerned with the bodily functions of my canine friends, I decided to take her for one last walk before attempting to settle in for the night.
It was just after Midnight, and, much to your surprise, I'm sure, I do not normally carouse the streets of my neighborhood at such an hour. Now, I happen to live on a very busy street, which is pretty active with loud cars and emergency vehicles at all hours of the day. Our side street leads to a cul-de-sac neighborhood, which is where we traveled for our evening constitutional. It was strangely quiet. I happen to be one of those (demented cat ladies) people who talks to pets, and I felt a little like Ichabod Crane as I was talking to Mimi as she pulled me down the street.
About half way down the block, I smelled and then spotted a sort of "campfire" over to our left. Now, there are some woodsy areas around, but nothing that would attract any local campers. I didn't think much of it at first, as I had seen a tent outside of a home (in the front of the house....???) in that general area, and had kind of presumed that maybe some local Dad was doing a pretend camping thing with his kid. It struck me as odd that the fire seemed pretty far away from the house, and, if there was room for a campfire back there, that weird tent should have been back there, too. And further, was I hearing the sounds of chopping? Why would someone be chopping $hit after Midnight? In a neighborhood?
The chopping noise stopped temporarily, and my companion and I hurried past the area. Towards the part of the street with no streetlamps, close to a cemetery. Of course, this is the area where Mimi wants to frolic and play, which I was having none of. She had already done her business, and I was just going to finish the block and turn around, in case she had anything else to get rid of. We turned and approached the serial wood chopper's area again, the chopping had recommenced. And you know, it didn't sound like wood that was being chopped. It actually kind of sounded like someone pounding a metal post or perhaps murdering a neighbor, something like that. Of course, I'm thinking in my head, "What if something bad is going on there? What if someone is in trouble? You always hear on the news 'well, we did hear someone screaming and some sounds of gunshots, but we didn't think nothin' of it.' Should I investigate? Call the police? What if the weirdo is watching me now and follows me home? WTF is he doing chopping stuff after Midnight!?"
I decided to be the good samaritan and ignore the whole thing, and scurried quickly towards home. As we approached, Mimi went into freak out mode. There's something on the side of our house which always gets her attention for some reason, but this time, she was growling and pulling. Growling a lot. I was thinking it was perhaps a chipmunk or a skunk, but then I thought... I thought... I heard other growls. Growls separate from Mimi's. I started to pull her away, and, despite my intense upper arm workouts and the fact that I'm no delicate flower, I could not move her. Growl... growl..... pulling... growl..... other growl...... Catherine pulling and acting like all is well.... growl.... pulling.... other growl.... I finally had to lift the dog by the collar and shove her into the stairwell. And even as we were going up the stairs, I could swear I still heard other growling. It occurred to me that it may have been a human teenager, thinking it funny to taunt a Pit Bull after Midnight, but, why would someone be moronic enough to do that? Particularly when the dog's temporary owner is obviously courageous (deranged) enough to walk past axe murderers and cemeteries wearing some strange getup pulled from the laundry pile with no regard to fashion?
Anyway, by then I was pretty well into my watched-too-many-scary-movies mode, and retrieved a knife from the block and left the hall lights lit. Needless to say it was many hours before I was able to catch some sleep. I survived the night, and today the sun is shining, there are no police investigators knocking at my door, and I'll be going for my walk soon. If I come across any dismembered neighbors, I'll be sure to let you know.
I was going to write a post entitled, "Thank You, Sara McLachlan" with much dripping sarcasm, as all I could think of for the past two weeks was that #@&(@!! commercial with the homeless pets and her little ditty in the background. Every time this dog would rest her head on my leg (ahhh... heartstrings!), or just let out a long sigh, the strains of that damned "Angel" song could be heard in the background of my mind. But, I've moved past the guilt (plus, she's not going to a shelter), and have a different tale to tell today.
Apart from the fact that "Mimi" (my son spells it "Meme"... not sure if that's intentional..?) is a complete couch/bed hogger, is ready to jump into action at any small sound, snores, and is totally "intrigued" by Mario and Penelope (cat and guinea pig), she's generally a good dog. She did, however, have a tummy ache during the week, which caused her to poop three times in the house. And not the easy kind of poop, but, diarrhea (sorry to get gross here), which is not easily picked up by a plastic bag. Anyway, since I am always very concerned with the bodily functions of my canine friends, I decided to take her for one last walk before attempting to settle in for the night.
It was just after Midnight, and, much to your surprise, I'm sure, I do not normally carouse the streets of my neighborhood at such an hour. Now, I happen to live on a very busy street, which is pretty active with loud cars and emergency vehicles at all hours of the day. Our side street leads to a cul-de-sac neighborhood, which is where we traveled for our evening constitutional. It was strangely quiet. I happen to be one of those (demented cat ladies) people who talks to pets, and I felt a little like Ichabod Crane as I was talking to Mimi as she pulled me down the street.
About half way down the block, I smelled and then spotted a sort of "campfire" over to our left. Now, there are some woodsy areas around, but nothing that would attract any local campers. I didn't think much of it at first, as I had seen a tent outside of a home (in the front of the house....???) in that general area, and had kind of presumed that maybe some local Dad was doing a pretend camping thing with his kid. It struck me as odd that the fire seemed pretty far away from the house, and, if there was room for a campfire back there, that weird tent should have been back there, too. And further, was I hearing the sounds of chopping? Why would someone be chopping $hit after Midnight? In a neighborhood?
The chopping noise stopped temporarily, and my companion and I hurried past the area. Towards the part of the street with no streetlamps, close to a cemetery. Of course, this is the area where Mimi wants to frolic and play, which I was having none of. She had already done her business, and I was just going to finish the block and turn around, in case she had anything else to get rid of. We turned and approached the serial wood chopper's area again, the chopping had recommenced. And you know, it didn't sound like wood that was being chopped. It actually kind of sounded like someone pounding a metal post or perhaps murdering a neighbor, something like that. Of course, I'm thinking in my head, "What if something bad is going on there? What if someone is in trouble? You always hear on the news 'well, we did hear someone screaming and some sounds of gunshots, but we didn't think nothin' of it.' Should I investigate? Call the police? What if the weirdo is watching me now and follows me home? WTF is he doing chopping stuff after Midnight!?"
I decided to be the good samaritan and ignore the whole thing, and scurried quickly towards home. As we approached, Mimi went into freak out mode. There's something on the side of our house which always gets her attention for some reason, but this time, she was growling and pulling. Growling a lot. I was thinking it was perhaps a chipmunk or a skunk, but then I thought... I thought... I heard other growls. Growls separate from Mimi's. I started to pull her away, and, despite my intense upper arm workouts and the fact that I'm no delicate flower, I could not move her. Growl... growl..... pulling... growl..... other growl...... Catherine pulling and acting like all is well.... growl.... pulling.... other growl.... I finally had to lift the dog by the collar and shove her into the stairwell. And even as we were going up the stairs, I could swear I still heard other growling. It occurred to me that it may have been a human teenager, thinking it funny to taunt a Pit Bull after Midnight, but, why would someone be moronic enough to do that? Particularly when the dog's temporary owner is obviously courageous (deranged) enough to walk past axe murderers and cemeteries wearing some strange getup pulled from the laundry pile with no regard to fashion?
Anyway, by then I was pretty well into my watched-too-many-scary-movies mode, and retrieved a knife from the block and left the hall lights lit. Needless to say it was many hours before I was able to catch some sleep. I survived the night, and today the sun is shining, there are no police investigators knocking at my door, and I'll be going for my walk soon. If I come across any dismembered neighbors, I'll be sure to let you know.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Cheese Cream, Derodiant, Melonade, and Horbones
"Is that a cup of pee on the stove?"
"Huh?"
"Is that a cup of pee on the stove...?"
"A cup of what?"
"Pee."
"Pee?"
"Yeah, a cup of pee."
"Why the hell would there be a cup of pee on the stove??"
Real conversation encountered between my son and myself recently.
He was referring to a plastic cup on the stove which contained olive oil. Not pee. I'm not sure in which home he grew up, but we certainly don't have cups of pee on the stove, or lying around anywhere else, for that matter.
Today's post is going to be a quickie about the weird things kids come up with as they're growing up. Or even if they're already grown up.
Spenser used to confuse some words when he was very young, among them, the correct items known as cream cheese, deodorant, lemonade, and hormones. Interestingly enough, we still refer to these items by their incorrect names, though I think we've now moved on to actually saying "lemonade." (I actually had to re-type the correct spelling of "deodorant" because to me, it is "derodiant.")
The word "horbones" was invented/discovered in a unique way. Back when Princess Diana died, I was a sad mess. I know it seems ridiculous, but this is the lady who I watched and followed since I was young; read everything I could about her engagement, arose early to watch her wedding, followed her married life. Years later, as I was watching some more footage on the mind-boggling car crash which ended her life, I was, of course, crying. Spenser surprisingly noticed this, and asked, "What's a matter, Mommy? Is it your horbones?"
Now, I have a whole other post regarding horbones, but it's pretty damned amusing that a four year old boy already has a grasp on the idea of what hormones can do to a female and uses the word as part of his conversation. I never wanted a son who would be squeamish about "female things," so I guess he actually learned one lesson early on. Quite possibly the only lesson I ever taught, but, that's for another time.
We use these pet words in public, and I'm sure that anyone overhearing might wonder what kind of moron doesn't know that the proper phrase is "cream cheese" and not vice versa. Thankfully, I have never mistakenly asked anyone where the "derodiant" aisle was located. So, believe it or not, I sometimes give a little leeway if someone mispronounces or misspells an interesting word. Now, I'm not talking about two/too/to, you know me enough by now. No leeway for that.
But if I hear someone say they are making bisghetti (spaghetti) for dinner, I give them a break, and maybe even a smile. As long as they don't serve it with milk or melonade. Or pee.
"Huh?"
"Is that a cup of pee on the stove...?"
"A cup of what?"
"Pee."
"Pee?"
"Yeah, a cup of pee."
"Why the hell would there be a cup of pee on the stove??"
Real conversation encountered between my son and myself recently.
He was referring to a plastic cup on the stove which contained olive oil. Not pee. I'm not sure in which home he grew up, but we certainly don't have cups of pee on the stove, or lying around anywhere else, for that matter.
Today's post is going to be a quickie about the weird things kids come up with as they're growing up. Or even if they're already grown up.
Spenser used to confuse some words when he was very young, among them, the correct items known as cream cheese, deodorant, lemonade, and hormones. Interestingly enough, we still refer to these items by their incorrect names, though I think we've now moved on to actually saying "lemonade." (I actually had to re-type the correct spelling of "deodorant" because to me, it is "derodiant.")
The word "horbones" was invented/discovered in a unique way. Back when Princess Diana died, I was a sad mess. I know it seems ridiculous, but this is the lady who I watched and followed since I was young; read everything I could about her engagement, arose early to watch her wedding, followed her married life. Years later, as I was watching some more footage on the mind-boggling car crash which ended her life, I was, of course, crying. Spenser surprisingly noticed this, and asked, "What's a matter, Mommy? Is it your horbones?"
Now, I have a whole other post regarding horbones, but it's pretty damned amusing that a four year old boy already has a grasp on the idea of what hormones can do to a female and uses the word as part of his conversation. I never wanted a son who would be squeamish about "female things," so I guess he actually learned one lesson early on. Quite possibly the only lesson I ever taught, but, that's for another time.
We use these pet words in public, and I'm sure that anyone overhearing might wonder what kind of moron doesn't know that the proper phrase is "cream cheese" and not vice versa. Thankfully, I have never mistakenly asked anyone where the "derodiant" aisle was located. So, believe it or not, I sometimes give a little leeway if someone mispronounces or misspells an interesting word. Now, I'm not talking about two/too/to, you know me enough by now. No leeway for that.
But if I hear someone say they are making bisghetti (spaghetti) for dinner, I give them a break, and maybe even a smile. As long as they don't serve it with milk or melonade. Or pee.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Hugging Makes It Worse
Of the people in this lovely world of ours, there are those who are known as "huggers" and those who are not. There are also the kissie types, but, if you grow up in an Italian Family, that is a foregone conclusion, of which you have no choice in the matter.
Now, I happen to be a hugger, and a kissie type, but I generally reserve these signs of affection for greeting people. I may even be on the reserved end of hugger-osity. I've noticed that there are some out there who seem to really dig the hug thing, and I've discovered that I'm not a huge fan. A short, 2 second hug is fine, anything longer than that is just awkward to me.
We once had an "Employee Week" at an office in which I worked, during which there would be all kinds of surprises and stress reducing activities for the employees who worked there. Ice cream socials, cookouts, chair massages, psychologists, etc. I was mortified about the massage thing, and was endlessly harassed that I refused to have my stress "reduced" by having some stranger touching me. My (male) team lead even walked up behind me and massaged my shoulders (don't do that!) saying how much it would relax me. (why would someone do that? If I said I didn't like spiders, would he gather them up and put them on my desk?)
Now, I know that seemed a little off-topic, but the point of the massage story is that there are some things that I consider too intimate to be sharing with a non-paramour. Don't worry, this is not going to get dirty, Mom. Long hugs, massages, weeping uncontrollably, those things are not to be shared with co-workers, or distant cousins, in my humble opinion. They're for private times.
Bringing us back to the subject at hand, I'd like to talk about "comfort" hugs. I feel that "comforting" hugs do not feel comforting. As a matter of fact, I think that hugging makes a sad situation even worse. Comfort hugs make me want to cry. That's not comfort. That's misery.
I don't know if it's just my personal thing, but frankly, I don't want to cry in someone's arms. Unless it happens to be the arms of one of my various lumberjack I'm-here-to-protect-you boyfriends, of course. Other than that, I don't like them. I suppose that the intention of the comfort hug is to let the person know that you care about them, share their sorrow, and to allow the person to "let it out" if needed. Honestly, I don't want to let it out. I'm trying to hold it in, because maybe I've been letting it out all day long behind closed doors and need to have an hour or two of non-bloodshot eyes and non-Rudolph-like nose.
I had a friend once who was going through a very difficult personal matter, and she was crying hysterically in my arms. For a long time! Longer than 2 seconds, at least. Obviously, this is something that she needed, and apparently it was comforting to just break down in the arms of a friend. I remember thinking at the time, apart from doing the whole soothing thing, how long I was required to maintain the hug. I know, that sounds awful, but I couldn't fathom how crying more in someone's arms could be helpful. I guess I feel that sorrow is a very personal and private matter, and I would rather be distracted by humor or doing the distracting, rather than honing in on the thing that's making us upset in the first place. Is that weird?
I don't think so. I'm not some stoic, cold fish, and I believe in the whole cleansing process of crying your eyes out. If people need long hugs, that's fine. I guess I'm just not the go-to guy in that department. I'll bake you a cake, I'll tell you a joke, I'll give you a 5 second hug if you really need it. But unless you're a lumberjack boyfriend, don't expect more than that, and don't ever massage my shoulders. No matter how stressed I appear.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Cell Phones
So, I went to the store this evening, and was contemplating the idea of just driving around for a bit; listening to some music, windows down, away from the house. Within a few moments of leaving the store, I realized that I didn't have my cell phone on hand. After a frantic search of the "regular" places, I knew that I did not have my security blanket, and an internal argument began.
Now, the funny thing is, it can be strangely freeing to not have your cell phone on hand. My cell phone also happens to be my home phone, and, if I don't have it, I won't feel obligated or rushed to return phone calls that are not likely emergencies. BUT. "Emergencies" is a key word in that sentence.
A friend of mine will sometimes text me at very early hours of the morning, and I'll often grouchily point to the fact that I'm not normally up at 7:08 a.m. on a Saturday. Or even a weekday, most times (the bane of the Unemployed). She asks why I do not turn off my phone when I'm sleeping, and of course, it's because there may be an emergency somewhere, somehow, when least expected. I have gotten the call after Midnight that a family member is ill, I have gotten the call from the police station, so I know. I'm not just being paranoid.
As I started towards my regular "fresh air and thinking" driving route on back country roads, I immediately started considering that my car might break down in the middle of nowhere. Now, there is no real reason to consider that my car would break down, it is less than five years old and in decent condition. However, there is that small chance something could happen. The thought of trying to change a tire in dueling banjo country with no streetlights and no road shoulder did not seem an appetizing thought. So, I turned around and headed home, slightly annoyed with myself.
It got me to thinking about what we did in the "olden days" when we had no cell phones. If I had broken down, I would have either had to wait for some passerby to help, or would have had to walk to find it. And what was the likelihood that a random passerby would be a good samaritan, rather than an ax-wielding, human-skin-suit-wearing maniac? And, if I had decided to walk for help, do people even go for the whole "my car broke down, can I use your phone?" story? Who would believe that I didn't have a cell phone? And then I further started thinking about having AAA, and the fact that it was pretty useless unless one is stranded at home (or, have a cell phone). Fat lot of good AAA does you when you're stuck in a snowbank in the Alaskan wilds with no cell phone. And no, I don't live in Alaska, but it sounded better than "New York wilds."
While I am pretty averse to some modern day technologies, I have to say that the cell phone is one item for which I am certainly thankful. My sister Libby and I were discussing recently that the cell phone gives an extra feeling of security when your children are wandering around in the Big Wide World. You no longer (usually) have to lie awake in bed, wondering why Johnny is an hour late. Johnny no longer has to make sure he has a dime (or a quarter, or whatever it costs these days) to use a pay phone, which is probably fortunate since pay phones are a dying breed, anyway. At any given time, if your kid is in trouble, and has a sufficiently charged cell phone, you can be there to help. Or at least you cant text him to tell him to get his butt home.
I'm sure that some day I will be writing a post regarding the olden days, with maybe even some more positive thoughts on modern technology. Don't hold your breath on that, though. If it were up to me, I'd be living in a farm house somewhere with no phone at all. (I would need the Internet, however) In the meantime, if it's not an emergency, and if your name is not Spenser, Joshua, or Mom, do not text or call me at 3 a.m. You have been warned.
Now, the funny thing is, it can be strangely freeing to not have your cell phone on hand. My cell phone also happens to be my home phone, and, if I don't have it, I won't feel obligated or rushed to return phone calls that are not likely emergencies. BUT. "Emergencies" is a key word in that sentence.
A friend of mine will sometimes text me at very early hours of the morning, and I'll often grouchily point to the fact that I'm not normally up at 7:08 a.m. on a Saturday. Or even a weekday, most times (the bane of the Unemployed). She asks why I do not turn off my phone when I'm sleeping, and of course, it's because there may be an emergency somewhere, somehow, when least expected. I have gotten the call after Midnight that a family member is ill, I have gotten the call from the police station, so I know. I'm not just being paranoid.
As I started towards my regular "fresh air and thinking" driving route on back country roads, I immediately started considering that my car might break down in the middle of nowhere. Now, there is no real reason to consider that my car would break down, it is less than five years old and in decent condition. However, there is that small chance something could happen. The thought of trying to change a tire in dueling banjo country with no streetlights and no road shoulder did not seem an appetizing thought. So, I turned around and headed home, slightly annoyed with myself.
It got me to thinking about what we did in the "olden days" when we had no cell phones. If I had broken down, I would have either had to wait for some passerby to help, or would have had to walk to find it. And what was the likelihood that a random passerby would be a good samaritan, rather than an ax-wielding, human-skin-suit-wearing maniac? And, if I had decided to walk for help, do people even go for the whole "my car broke down, can I use your phone?" story? Who would believe that I didn't have a cell phone? And then I further started thinking about having AAA, and the fact that it was pretty useless unless one is stranded at home (or, have a cell phone). Fat lot of good AAA does you when you're stuck in a snowbank in the Alaskan wilds with no cell phone. And no, I don't live in Alaska, but it sounded better than "New York wilds."
While I am pretty averse to some modern day technologies, I have to say that the cell phone is one item for which I am certainly thankful. My sister Libby and I were discussing recently that the cell phone gives an extra feeling of security when your children are wandering around in the Big Wide World. You no longer (usually) have to lie awake in bed, wondering why Johnny is an hour late. Johnny no longer has to make sure he has a dime (or a quarter, or whatever it costs these days) to use a pay phone, which is probably fortunate since pay phones are a dying breed, anyway. At any given time, if your kid is in trouble, and has a sufficiently charged cell phone, you can be there to help. Or at least you cant text him to tell him to get his butt home.
I'm sure that some day I will be writing a post regarding the olden days, with maybe even some more positive thoughts on modern technology. Don't hold your breath on that, though. If it were up to me, I'd be living in a farm house somewhere with no phone at all. (I would need the Internet, however) In the meantime, if it's not an emergency, and if your name is not Spenser, Joshua, or Mom, do not text or call me at 3 a.m. You have been warned.
Friday, July 13, 2012
How to Kill Your Mom (not literally, of course)
Bring home one of these:
Then insist the following:
1. Dog licenses are unnecessary, and no one has ever gotten stopped by the police for walking around with a Pit Bull.
2. That you and above animal can live comfortably in the garage, because even though the landlord says "no dogs," the dog won't actually be in the apartment.
3. That it's negative to only be concerned about the bad things that could happen, like pet illness, pet attacking someone, pet going into heat, pet having the misfortune to be a breed that is widely feared and unaccepted in society.
4. That the cat which has been living with you for 11 years is being a jerk when he hisses at "puppy" who could snap its neck in one quick move.
In addition:
5. Make sure that your mom is an absolute bleeding heart when it comes to all animals, and know that it's going to kill her to call "the pound" unless you find a no-kill shelter, which you certainly haven't looked into because you think your mother is going to cave in.
Yes, folks. If you thought your kid bringing home a kitten was bad, try a seven month old Pit Bull. Let's add to the fun and make sure that the dog has been ousted from its original home (and may or may not have papers), cries and won't leave your side because it is likely petrified it will be deserted, is actually a good dog thus far, and no one is likely to ever adopt it due to the fact that it's a Pit Bull.
Currently searching for parents to adopt one 19-year old male child (mostly housebroken), and his 7 month old female companion. Serious inquiries only.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Kitchen Things
I'm not sure in which direction I'll be heading with this post, but, since I spend quite a bit of time in the kitchen, I figured I'd share some thoughts with you on some of the various accessories that are hanging around in there.
One very useless accessory, which I've just admitted to myself today, is the drain strainer thingie in the sink. I noted today that it is never actually in the drain, it's usually sitting on the counter top. And why is that? Because the bugger barely works! You would think that, with the whole man on the moon thing, we'd be able to come up with a better drain strainer. Perhaps I just always happen to have non functioning ones.
First of all, if you place it directly into the drain, you know, fitting it properly, most times, it blocks the water from draining, and causes your sink to fill. Even if you twist the stopper thing and recite magic incantations, it will always (eventually) block the water from draining. The solution to this is to have the strainer sitting askew within the drain confines, to allow the water to drain AND allow for some random food items to be strained. Notice I said "some" random food items.
Why is it just some and not all food items? Because when the damned drain strainer is sitting askew in your drain, some tricksy food particles manage to get past and underneath the strainer. Something that I find fairly amusing (translation: annoying) is that, while the main purpose of the drain strainer is to prevent large food particle clogs in the pipes, the secondary purpose is to catch food items so that I don't have to fish them out of the bottom of the sink with my bare hands. It says that right on the package. "Used to Prevent Large Clogs AND to Prevent Catherine from Having to Stick her Hands in Disgusting Dish Water!"
What is further amusing is, when the strainer fully stops up the drain because it has been knocked into it's correct positioning, you have to stick your hand into gross food and grease laden water, so that you can pull the strainer... and then... you further try to coax the food laden water into the strainer, by swishing the water towards it, trying to get it into the strainer and not speeding underneath because of the paranormal suction force your pipe uses once it is freed from the evil drainer thingie. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like we have to produce quite a bit of labor due to this one useless piece of kitchen equipment.
But enough about that. I'm coming up with some multi-million dollar idea for replacing these crappy things, and you all can feel satisfied that you were a part of the process!
Another item I'd like to discuss is the cutting board. Now, I have a thing for cutting boards. Whenever I'm in a home goods store, I am immediately attracted to them. There are so many different kinds, shapes, sizes, colors, it's all so titillating! I literally have to prevent myself from buying a new cutting board whenever I see one. Generally, you don't need more than two. For some women, it's shoes. For me, it's cutting boards.
Interestingly, I am a little conflicted about them, when it comes right down to it. The great thing is, when you pair that sexy cutting board with an even sexier sharp knife, it makes you feel like the Master of the Cooking Universe. I ultimately learned the benefit and necessity of having good, sharp knives in the kitchen just this year, and I am amazed at the difference it can make. But that's a joy to discuss some other time.
There is a problem with cutting boards, though, and that is, the matter of chicken. Yes, chicken. I have a huge, paranoid, fear that every chicken entering my home is laden with salmonella and bacterium. And even though I have a very fine cutting board which supposedly repels bad things, and I wash it thoroughly, multiple times, I still worry about the chicken plague. Because of chicken, one needs to have two cutting boards. You can't cut fresh fruit or vegetables on a board that is teeming with chicken bacteria from three weeks ago. Noo, no. I suppose if I gave in to my obsession, I would have at least five cutting boards in my home, but I realize I have got to draw the line, chicken plague or not.
Anyway, I had better end this now or you'll be hearing my dissertation on sponge mops. Which I'm sure would fascinate you thoroughly. Sorry, but you'll just have to wait for that one. I'm off to go invent the perfect drain strainer thingie.
One very useless accessory, which I've just admitted to myself today, is the drain strainer thingie in the sink. I noted today that it is never actually in the drain, it's usually sitting on the counter top. And why is that? Because the bugger barely works! You would think that, with the whole man on the moon thing, we'd be able to come up with a better drain strainer. Perhaps I just always happen to have non functioning ones.
First of all, if you place it directly into the drain, you know, fitting it properly, most times, it blocks the water from draining, and causes your sink to fill. Even if you twist the stopper thing and recite magic incantations, it will always (eventually) block the water from draining. The solution to this is to have the strainer sitting askew within the drain confines, to allow the water to drain AND allow for some random food items to be strained. Notice I said "some" random food items.
Why is it just some and not all food items? Because when the damned drain strainer is sitting askew in your drain, some tricksy food particles manage to get past and underneath the strainer. Something that I find fairly amusing (translation: annoying) is that, while the main purpose of the drain strainer is to prevent large food particle clogs in the pipes, the secondary purpose is to catch food items so that I don't have to fish them out of the bottom of the sink with my bare hands. It says that right on the package. "Used to Prevent Large Clogs AND to Prevent Catherine from Having to Stick her Hands in Disgusting Dish Water!"
What is further amusing is, when the strainer fully stops up the drain because it has been knocked into it's correct positioning, you have to stick your hand into gross food and grease laden water, so that you can pull the strainer... and then... you further try to coax the food laden water into the strainer, by swishing the water towards it, trying to get it into the strainer and not speeding underneath because of the paranormal suction force your pipe uses once it is freed from the evil drainer thingie. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like we have to produce quite a bit of labor due to this one useless piece of kitchen equipment.
But enough about that. I'm coming up with some multi-million dollar idea for replacing these crappy things, and you all can feel satisfied that you were a part of the process!
Another item I'd like to discuss is the cutting board. Now, I have a thing for cutting boards. Whenever I'm in a home goods store, I am immediately attracted to them. There are so many different kinds, shapes, sizes, colors, it's all so titillating! I literally have to prevent myself from buying a new cutting board whenever I see one. Generally, you don't need more than two. For some women, it's shoes. For me, it's cutting boards.
Interestingly, I am a little conflicted about them, when it comes right down to it. The great thing is, when you pair that sexy cutting board with an even sexier sharp knife, it makes you feel like the Master of the Cooking Universe. I ultimately learned the benefit and necessity of having good, sharp knives in the kitchen just this year, and I am amazed at the difference it can make. But that's a joy to discuss some other time.
There is a problem with cutting boards, though, and that is, the matter of chicken. Yes, chicken. I have a huge, paranoid, fear that every chicken entering my home is laden with salmonella and bacterium. And even though I have a very fine cutting board which supposedly repels bad things, and I wash it thoroughly, multiple times, I still worry about the chicken plague. Because of chicken, one needs to have two cutting boards. You can't cut fresh fruit or vegetables on a board that is teeming with chicken bacteria from three weeks ago. Noo, no. I suppose if I gave in to my obsession, I would have at least five cutting boards in my home, but I realize I have got to draw the line, chicken plague or not.
Anyway, I had better end this now or you'll be hearing my dissertation on sponge mops. Which I'm sure would fascinate you thoroughly. Sorry, but you'll just have to wait for that one. I'm off to go invent the perfect drain strainer thingie.
Monday, July 9, 2012
People Just Don't Care Any More!
Okay, I know I tend to get a little grouchy about these things, but over the past few weeks, I have truly come to understand that people just don't care about how they look. In public, I mean.
Today, my mother was taking me and Spenser out to eat. To a restaurant. Not a fast food place, but a restaurant, where you are seated, have a menu, and are served by a waiter. Inside a building. I made Spenser change into pants (he put on jeans, which is somewhat better than grass-stained shorts that go down to the ankles) and a decent shirt before we left.
Now, when I was growing up, jeans were only for working in a garden, or play. They were not worn to church, or to a restaurant, or fancy functions. They could be worn for fun teen outings. Being the thoroughly modern (haha) lady I am today, I let my son get away with the jeans thing. I guess that most people are pretty happy with the whole "anything goes" philosophy, but, to me, it just seems like laziness, and maybe even a loss of some self respect.
To some extent, I give a little bit of a "pass" to younger folk, but at the same time, I'm thinking, "what did your parents teach you?" I do not give any free passes to people slightly younger than myself, or older than myself. I can't imagine that all of these people were brought up to believe that it is okay to wear tube tops with no bras and shorts into a restaurant. I can't believe that all of them were raised to believe it is okay to wear crappy $1 flip flops and whatever they were wearing when they got out of the pool, into a restaurant.
Part of me just says "screw it." If an 800 pound person can wear a sleeveless top into a public place, then dammit, so will I. People will just have to deal with the fact that I need to do more tricep exercises. But that's just a very small part of me. The larger part of me, the side that has a sense of propriety, says, "I'm not going to subject others to looking at my body parts hanging out or jiggling inappropriately."
I don't care if it's 108 degrees outside, have some decency to at least wear a bra and some short sleeves, ladies. I'm not saying you have to wear a damned burka, just cover up a little bit more. I don't want to see your boobs, your fluorescent white legs, and most of all, your gross feet. When I'm eating. In a restaurant.
I would even be willing to cut folks some slack if we lived in some resort town or close to a beach. But we don't. This is Albany, not Daytona. I know, I should be a little more laid back, according to mostly everyone else. I find it strange, though, that I'm the only one who thinks these things. I did see some appropriately dressed people in the restaurant, but we were in the minority.
This, to me, is all part of that whole "decline of humanity" thing of which I was discussing a few months ago. People don't care any more. Or, they do, but they are just going along with everyone else's lack of caring. Which might be worse! Come on, people! It only takes an extra twenty seconds to don a bra and some pants! Cover it up!
Today, my mother was taking me and Spenser out to eat. To a restaurant. Not a fast food place, but a restaurant, where you are seated, have a menu, and are served by a waiter. Inside a building. I made Spenser change into pants (he put on jeans, which is somewhat better than grass-stained shorts that go down to the ankles) and a decent shirt before we left.
Now, when I was growing up, jeans were only for working in a garden, or play. They were not worn to church, or to a restaurant, or fancy functions. They could be worn for fun teen outings. Being the thoroughly modern (haha) lady I am today, I let my son get away with the jeans thing. I guess that most people are pretty happy with the whole "anything goes" philosophy, but, to me, it just seems like laziness, and maybe even a loss of some self respect.
To some extent, I give a little bit of a "pass" to younger folk, but at the same time, I'm thinking, "what did your parents teach you?" I do not give any free passes to people slightly younger than myself, or older than myself. I can't imagine that all of these people were brought up to believe that it is okay to wear tube tops with no bras and shorts into a restaurant. I can't believe that all of them were raised to believe it is okay to wear crappy $1 flip flops and whatever they were wearing when they got out of the pool, into a restaurant.
Part of me just says "screw it." If an 800 pound person can wear a sleeveless top into a public place, then dammit, so will I. People will just have to deal with the fact that I need to do more tricep exercises. But that's just a very small part of me. The larger part of me, the side that has a sense of propriety, says, "I'm not going to subject others to looking at my body parts hanging out or jiggling inappropriately."
I don't care if it's 108 degrees outside, have some decency to at least wear a bra and some short sleeves, ladies. I'm not saying you have to wear a damned burka, just cover up a little bit more. I don't want to see your boobs, your fluorescent white legs, and most of all, your gross feet. When I'm eating. In a restaurant.
I would even be willing to cut folks some slack if we lived in some resort town or close to a beach. But we don't. This is Albany, not Daytona. I know, I should be a little more laid back, according to mostly everyone else. I find it strange, though, that I'm the only one who thinks these things. I did see some appropriately dressed people in the restaurant, but we were in the minority.
This, to me, is all part of that whole "decline of humanity" thing of which I was discussing a few months ago. People don't care any more. Or, they do, but they are just going along with everyone else's lack of caring. Which might be worse! Come on, people! It only takes an extra twenty seconds to don a bra and some pants! Cover it up!
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Is it Just Me....? Post #2
Or do you only run into people you know in the supermarket the one time you go out with a stain on your shirt and no makeup?
Or is there really no legitimate reason for having a pinkie toe?
Or do all parents have teenagers who leave 3 gallons of splashed water on the newly cleaned bathroom vanity because, the teen wants to, and I quote, “be like in the commercials, you know, when they’re splashing the water onto their faces” ?
Or does it really not matter how much you shake the mustard squirt bottle, because there will always be that yellow water that comes out first?
Or is there a gremlin living in every Lazy Susan, knocking $hit over so you either can’t turn the carousel, or you empty half the contents of some random spice because it’s stuck down there and you’ve been turning the carousel for five minutes trying to find said spice?
Or does it seem strange that once, in your cabinet, you had 12 bowls and 20 forks, and a year or two later you only have 6 bowls and 5 forks remaining? And no one knows where they could be?
Or is that orange sweet and sour stuff you get from a Chinese restaurant really gross the day after you bought it? (I don't even know why I bother to save it for leftovers. It's gross every time.)
Or do all garbage cans have the magical ability to move 6 inches to the left whenever something is tossed in their direction? And is it further true that only Mothers have the physical abilities to notice, and subsequently pick up the misdirected items?
Or is hearing those fireworks that do nothing but make a big booming noise (like cherry bombs or whatever they're called these days) three days after the 4th of July really just old and annoying?
Or is it a little creepy and strange when you get Facebook "friend" requests from friends of other friends' friends?
Or are those seizure-inducing ads about losing your belly fat or the local Mom who doctors all hate, really... really... really... annoying?
Or is it actually impossible to have arms like Michelle Obama?
I don't know, maybe it is just me...
Or are those seizure-inducing ads about losing your belly fat or the local Mom who doctors all hate, really... really... really... annoying?
Or is it actually impossible to have arms like Michelle Obama?
I don't know, maybe it is just me...
Thursday, July 5, 2012
More Food Stuff
Have you ever been disgusted by a food for reasons other than how it tastes?
The reason I bring this up is because, every time I have Chinese food, I find myself digging through the rubble to see if there are any ninja water chestnuts thrown into the mix. Now, I suppose that water chestnuts are not absolutely awful tasting, but I emphatically do not like them. The reason for this is not due to an overindulgence which caused serious illness, rather, it is a case of mistaken identity.
When I was younger, I thought the little round disc in my Chinese food was a potato. When I crunched into it, I was shocked and confused. First, I thought it was a raw potato, which is kind of gross. Then I thought it was a hunk of apple, which, in pies and desserts are pleasant, but not in the middle of a steaming dish of soy laden food. Someone informed me that it was a water chestnut, and I was angered at the whole process of being taken unaware by some strange non-potato morsel found in my dish. (I know, why would there be a potato in Chinese food? I was young, cut me some slack)
I know someone else who stated that he didn't like things like lasagna or saucy type dishes because he didn't like it when he couldn't identify everything individually on his dish. Now, I consider that a little bizarre (come on.. lasagna??), but I guess I do sympathize with the whole surprise factor. That one little surprise can change your life!
There are other food items which I generally avoid, either because of their "looks" or their textural properties.
Guacamole is one of them. I'm sorry, but it really does look like some sort of vomit (all those unidentifiable chunks in there), and I just can't bear to plop it onto my dish. It's not that it's awful tasting (it's not), but I just can't bear to look at it. It's an effrontery to my senses, and I won't do it.
In the "textural properties" category, I'll mention pea soup and baked beans. Pea soup is something I am really trying to like; I've realized that I probably didn't like it much growing up, because my father was very salt-controlling, and thus, to me, it tasted like ground up poo. (Same goes for baked potatoes. They need salt! Or something!) Anyway, pea soup is such a quandary, because it smells so good when it's simmering on the stove, and then you taste it, and... not so much. For me, I think it's the pasty texture. It's just not a pleasant thing to me. And baked beans, once you bite, have the same texture. Anchovies, too. Plus, they're hairy. It's just that gross, mushy, grainy, I don't know what, that has made my dishes devoid of such pleasures over the years.
Now, there are other foods which I really disdain because of the taste, most of which have childhood memories attached. I'm not a fan of liver, because even when it looks like a steak cutlet, and your mother tells you it's a steak cutlet, it sure as hell tastes nothing like a steak cutlet. I am also a non-fan of green peppers, particularly when they are put into a red sauce. Regardless of what your mother or anyone else says, you cannot just "pick them out." They change the entire taste of the sauce, and it's a real disappointment when your precious sauce has been compromised.
Anyway, I could go on for hours about food, I'm sure I can work up enough posts to generate a "food" theme, but for now, I'll end it here. In some other post, I'll discuss foods that I won't eat in public, and foods that you should never force your kid to eat. In the meantime, buon appetito!
The reason I bring this up is because, every time I have Chinese food, I find myself digging through the rubble to see if there are any ninja water chestnuts thrown into the mix. Now, I suppose that water chestnuts are not absolutely awful tasting, but I emphatically do not like them. The reason for this is not due to an overindulgence which caused serious illness, rather, it is a case of mistaken identity.
When I was younger, I thought the little round disc in my Chinese food was a potato. When I crunched into it, I was shocked and confused. First, I thought it was a raw potato, which is kind of gross. Then I thought it was a hunk of apple, which, in pies and desserts are pleasant, but not in the middle of a steaming dish of soy laden food. Someone informed me that it was a water chestnut, and I was angered at the whole process of being taken unaware by some strange non-potato morsel found in my dish. (I know, why would there be a potato in Chinese food? I was young, cut me some slack)
I know someone else who stated that he didn't like things like lasagna or saucy type dishes because he didn't like it when he couldn't identify everything individually on his dish. Now, I consider that a little bizarre (come on.. lasagna??), but I guess I do sympathize with the whole surprise factor. That one little surprise can change your life!
There are other food items which I generally avoid, either because of their "looks" or their textural properties.
Guacamole is one of them. I'm sorry, but it really does look like some sort of vomit (all those unidentifiable chunks in there), and I just can't bear to plop it onto my dish. It's not that it's awful tasting (it's not), but I just can't bear to look at it. It's an effrontery to my senses, and I won't do it.
In the "textural properties" category, I'll mention pea soup and baked beans. Pea soup is something I am really trying to like; I've realized that I probably didn't like it much growing up, because my father was very salt-controlling, and thus, to me, it tasted like ground up poo. (Same goes for baked potatoes. They need salt! Or something!) Anyway, pea soup is such a quandary, because it smells so good when it's simmering on the stove, and then you taste it, and... not so much. For me, I think it's the pasty texture. It's just not a pleasant thing to me. And baked beans, once you bite, have the same texture. Anchovies, too. Plus, they're hairy. It's just that gross, mushy, grainy, I don't know what, that has made my dishes devoid of such pleasures over the years.
Now, there are other foods which I really disdain because of the taste, most of which have childhood memories attached. I'm not a fan of liver, because even when it looks like a steak cutlet, and your mother tells you it's a steak cutlet, it sure as hell tastes nothing like a steak cutlet. I am also a non-fan of green peppers, particularly when they are put into a red sauce. Regardless of what your mother or anyone else says, you cannot just "pick them out." They change the entire taste of the sauce, and it's a real disappointment when your precious sauce has been compromised.
Anyway, I could go on for hours about food, I'm sure I can work up enough posts to generate a "food" theme, but for now, I'll end it here. In some other post, I'll discuss foods that I won't eat in public, and foods that you should never force your kid to eat. In the meantime, buon appetito!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
The $5 Club
Back in the days of my youth, a friend of mine and I would occasionally go out and have a drink or ten in the local drinking establishments. We found that we had this uncanny ability to always attract the weirdest people (generally weird Men) in a place, wherever we went.
We eventually started referring to these gents as "$5 club members", which arose from the fact that one of us would say, upon viewing the weirdest, most stand-out character in the place, "God, I bet you $5 that guy comes over here." And you know, we were always right. I don't know if we just looked gullible, or fun and approachable, or if we were just too dumb to not catch the eye of weirdos, but, whatever it was, we had the touch.
As time went on, I realized that I had the uncanny ability to attract the weirdos, even when not with my friend, and not in a drinking establishment. Back in the days when I took public transportation to work and school, the "Calling all $5 Club Members" sign on my forehead was quite the attraction. Homeless people, random bible thumpers, people who sang aloud to themselves, I was their quarry. And it wasn't just strange Men. It was anyone.
Fast forward to today, where the gym seems to be my new stomping grounds. I had been avoiding the stare of a rather strange woman who is a regular there. I say "strange" because she stares quite a bit, puts the treadmill on the highest elevation and speed and then hangs on for dear life, stops every three seconds to either wipe her sweat from her face or to tie her shoes, and sometimes, she grips the handles and walks backwards. No joke. There is something a little off about this woman.
I recently had no choice but to tread two machine distances away from her, because I was looking for a television with ESPN running. Well, that was the end of me. Apparently even with earphones plugged in, my head either down or looking up at the television screen, and a stern look upon my face, I still looked like the right target for a conversation about what was going on in the Dr. Oz show, two screens over. I couldn't hear half of the things she was saying, and it became this yelling conversation about women who were "really fat" (her words, not mine) who had lost a significant amount of weight.
"WOW! LOOK HOW FAT SHE WAS!!!"
"WOW."
"SHE LOST A LOT OF WEIGHT!! I WONDER WHAT SHE DID???"
"YES."
"HERE'S A FRUIT DRINK RECIPE SHE USED! IT HAD PINEAPPLES, STRAWBERRIES, FROG LEGS........(continues to read the entire ingredient list posted on the screen)"
"WOW!"
Thankfully, the gym gods smiled upon me and she eventually moved on to another machine.
I was once told by a Male friend of mine that, before he met me, he thought I looked "mean" and a little "stuck up." Another Male told me that I seemed "unapproachable." When I asked these fellows what I was doing at the time in order for them to form this opinion, one mentioned that I was eating lunch by myself, and the other said that I was reading a book. Apparently, I should look more jolly when performing these tasks. Sadly, though, my mean, unapproachable-ness only seems apparent to normal folk.
It doesn't prevent random strangers in a store from asking me what curtain rod would look better in their home (huh?? How would I have any idea on that?), whether Fat-free soup would taste disgusting, or insisting that I was wearing false eyelashes and poking my eye in an attempt to prove the point. I'm not making this up.
Anyway, whatever it is, at least it makes for some interesting stories. I have yet to figure out why I seem "approachable" by strangers, but ogre-like to the normal folk. I suppose I had better sort it out before I attempt to meet William Levy. In the meantime, I'm going to attempt to pull the plug on the "Calling all $5 Club Members" sign, and sing to myself and smile gaily whilst eating my lunch and reading books in public. That should work.
We eventually started referring to these gents as "$5 club members", which arose from the fact that one of us would say, upon viewing the weirdest, most stand-out character in the place, "God, I bet you $5 that guy comes over here." And you know, we were always right. I don't know if we just looked gullible, or fun and approachable, or if we were just too dumb to not catch the eye of weirdos, but, whatever it was, we had the touch.
As time went on, I realized that I had the uncanny ability to attract the weirdos, even when not with my friend, and not in a drinking establishment. Back in the days when I took public transportation to work and school, the "Calling all $5 Club Members" sign on my forehead was quite the attraction. Homeless people, random bible thumpers, people who sang aloud to themselves, I was their quarry. And it wasn't just strange Men. It was anyone.
Fast forward to today, where the gym seems to be my new stomping grounds. I had been avoiding the stare of a rather strange woman who is a regular there. I say "strange" because she stares quite a bit, puts the treadmill on the highest elevation and speed and then hangs on for dear life, stops every three seconds to either wipe her sweat from her face or to tie her shoes, and sometimes, she grips the handles and walks backwards. No joke. There is something a little off about this woman.
I recently had no choice but to tread two machine distances away from her, because I was looking for a television with ESPN running. Well, that was the end of me. Apparently even with earphones plugged in, my head either down or looking up at the television screen, and a stern look upon my face, I still looked like the right target for a conversation about what was going on in the Dr. Oz show, two screens over. I couldn't hear half of the things she was saying, and it became this yelling conversation about women who were "really fat" (her words, not mine) who had lost a significant amount of weight.
"WOW! LOOK HOW FAT SHE WAS!!!"
"WOW."
"SHE LOST A LOT OF WEIGHT!! I WONDER WHAT SHE DID???"
"YES."
"HERE'S A FRUIT DRINK RECIPE SHE USED! IT HAD PINEAPPLES, STRAWBERRIES, FROG LEGS........(continues to read the entire ingredient list posted on the screen)"
"WOW!"
Thankfully, the gym gods smiled upon me and she eventually moved on to another machine.
I was once told by a Male friend of mine that, before he met me, he thought I looked "mean" and a little "stuck up." Another Male told me that I seemed "unapproachable." When I asked these fellows what I was doing at the time in order for them to form this opinion, one mentioned that I was eating lunch by myself, and the other said that I was reading a book. Apparently, I should look more jolly when performing these tasks. Sadly, though, my mean, unapproachable-ness only seems apparent to normal folk.
It doesn't prevent random strangers in a store from asking me what curtain rod would look better in their home (huh?? How would I have any idea on that?), whether Fat-free soup would taste disgusting, or insisting that I was wearing false eyelashes and poking my eye in an attempt to prove the point. I'm not making this up.
Anyway, whatever it is, at least it makes for some interesting stories. I have yet to figure out why I seem "approachable" by strangers, but ogre-like to the normal folk. I suppose I had better sort it out before I attempt to meet William Levy. In the meantime, I'm going to attempt to pull the plug on the "Calling all $5 Club Members" sign, and sing to myself and smile gaily whilst eating my lunch and reading books in public. That should work.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The Opening Chapter for Spenser
Well, since it's my son's 19th birthday today, I figured I would write a little about that auspicious occasion. I won't go into too many gory details on the matter, but, as I mentioned in a previous post, a child's birthday is really a "special" day for the mother, as well.
19 years ago, at this very moment, I suspect I was a very unhappy camper. I had been in some easy labor the day before, when they forced me to rush to the hospital with unshaved legs, no bags packed, NO SOCKS and ultrasound gel all over my clothes; I think they started me on Pitocin, but it seemed like an easy gig. I was able to walk around, joke with people, etc. They decided this was far too much fun for a person to be having whilst in labor, so they did the whole Breaking of the Water ceremony the following morning.
I'll tell you now, that is pretty gross. Apart from the strange fact that they're using something like a crocheting needle, gleefully poking around, and the resulting sound is that of someone rubbing a balloon, what happens when they succeed is just... ew.
I'm going to insert a sidebar here on the fact that when you are in labor, all modesty goes out the window. Now, upon arrival at the hospital, I was insistent that someone find me a pair of socks, because you all know how I am about feet. Interestingly, my feet were the only non exposed part of my entire body, and I suppose I took some comfort in that. During the whole labor process, it got to the point where I was willing to accept any random white-coated stranger into the room, in hopes to get the whole process moving. Apparently, word got around that I was carrying a very large baby, so a bunch of residents and/or Med Students were invited into my room to view the phenomenon of a woman laboring with a 26 pound baby. (I'm exaggerating here, they expected Spenser to be well over 10 pounds) Apart from feeling a little freakish, I was excited and hopeful that somehow this would expedite the process.
Anyway, after the Breaking of the Water Ceremony, the whole real labor thing kicked in, and that was not fun, either. About ten hours later, they wheeled me into the operating room, as Spenser was suspected to be a Giant baby, and I wasn't progressing as they had hoped. Time for the dreaded C-Section!
Again, I will skip the gory details, as I don't wish to frighten any prospective laboring Mothers out there. Needless to say, after being completely exposed from the neck down (why even bother with those little paper sheets? Come on!), and being told to lie completely still while in a fetal position during full on labor (this was definitely made up by some guy... "fetal" position is great for a fetus, not so great for someone with a gargantuan object protruding from their midsection), we eventually got to the good part.
Thankfully, my sister Rosalie was there with a video camera, because I have no real recollection of what happened once they started rearranging my internal cavity to extract my newborn and bring him into the world.
My first fuzzy recollection of being presented with my baby (no name yet) was in the Recovery Room, where they kind of pushed him close to my face and I kissed his forehead. Or her forehead. I wasn't even sure. The next morning, when I was slightly more coherent, they brought in my little bundle of joy.
I remember the nurse (or my Mom?) taking a brush and kind of brushing his hair to the side, in order to make the best first impression for our introduction. Well, it was pretty surreal. He looked nothing like I had expected. First of all, his hair was dark and curly. Second, his face was really chubby, and it seemed as if he had gotten into a prizefight the day before. His dark eyes were pretty hidden underneath all that chubbiness. I admit, I was a little concerned that I had been assigned the wrong baby. Where was the blond haired, blue eyed, pink cherub? Who was this dark haired Sumo baby?
Regardless, I was pretty amazed. Mostly at the fact that it just felt so normal to have this creature at my side. Despite the fact that his looks were a little unexpected, the rest of it just felt really "right." I don't know how else to explain it. It's not like I was outpouring with love and felt this great bond, it was really just like thinking, "okay, so here we are!" I didn't even question whether there was a bond, that felt like a stupid thing to even consider. All those crap magazine articles about bonding were exactly that: crap. It felt completely natural and normal, and I was silently impressed by that.
Now, I won't go into the whole thing about the fact that my roommate had given birth "naturally" to a 6 pound girl, who, not only kept waking me up whenever it was breast-feeding time every five minutes during the night, but was also able to dance a jig and do normal bathroom functions. I also won't go into how I rolled my eyes (secretly) when she talked about how difficult her labor was, when, to me, her baby looked like an afternoon snack for the likes of my Giant baby. But I will say, my Spenser was pretty damned awesome as a newborn.
He looked strong and healthy, he didn't cry a whole lot, and looked like he could kick the a$$ of any newborn within a mile. When you held him, you weren't afraid that you would break him. That also felt right. He was my perfect match, in truth.
So now it's 19 years later, and I can't believe we've made it this far. The years really do speed by, even though it doesn't feel like that, when it's happening. Through all the ups and downs and sleepless nights and tears shed, we're still here. And though we drive each other crazy at times, and don't always like each other, the thing is, it's still feels "right." He still is my perfect match. And thankfully, he no longer resembles a Sumo wrestler with a black eye.
19 years ago, at this very moment, I suspect I was a very unhappy camper. I had been in some easy labor the day before, when they forced me to rush to the hospital with unshaved legs, no bags packed, NO SOCKS and ultrasound gel all over my clothes; I think they started me on Pitocin, but it seemed like an easy gig. I was able to walk around, joke with people, etc. They decided this was far too much fun for a person to be having whilst in labor, so they did the whole Breaking of the Water ceremony the following morning.
I'll tell you now, that is pretty gross. Apart from the strange fact that they're using something like a crocheting needle, gleefully poking around, and the resulting sound is that of someone rubbing a balloon, what happens when they succeed is just... ew.
I'm going to insert a sidebar here on the fact that when you are in labor, all modesty goes out the window. Now, upon arrival at the hospital, I was insistent that someone find me a pair of socks, because you all know how I am about feet. Interestingly, my feet were the only non exposed part of my entire body, and I suppose I took some comfort in that. During the whole labor process, it got to the point where I was willing to accept any random white-coated stranger into the room, in hopes to get the whole process moving. Apparently, word got around that I was carrying a very large baby, so a bunch of residents and/or Med Students were invited into my room to view the phenomenon of a woman laboring with a 26 pound baby. (I'm exaggerating here, they expected Spenser to be well over 10 pounds) Apart from feeling a little freakish, I was excited and hopeful that somehow this would expedite the process.
Anyway, after the Breaking of the Water Ceremony, the whole real labor thing kicked in, and that was not fun, either. About ten hours later, they wheeled me into the operating room, as Spenser was suspected to be a Giant baby, and I wasn't progressing as they had hoped. Time for the dreaded C-Section!
Again, I will skip the gory details, as I don't wish to frighten any prospective laboring Mothers out there. Needless to say, after being completely exposed from the neck down (why even bother with those little paper sheets? Come on!), and being told to lie completely still while in a fetal position during full on labor (this was definitely made up by some guy... "fetal" position is great for a fetus, not so great for someone with a gargantuan object protruding from their midsection), we eventually got to the good part.
Thankfully, my sister Rosalie was there with a video camera, because I have no real recollection of what happened once they started rearranging my internal cavity to extract my newborn and bring him into the world.
My first fuzzy recollection of being presented with my baby (no name yet) was in the Recovery Room, where they kind of pushed him close to my face and I kissed his forehead. Or her forehead. I wasn't even sure. The next morning, when I was slightly more coherent, they brought in my little bundle of joy.
I remember the nurse (or my Mom?) taking a brush and kind of brushing his hair to the side, in order to make the best first impression for our introduction. Well, it was pretty surreal. He looked nothing like I had expected. First of all, his hair was dark and curly. Second, his face was really chubby, and it seemed as if he had gotten into a prizefight the day before. His dark eyes were pretty hidden underneath all that chubbiness. I admit, I was a little concerned that I had been assigned the wrong baby. Where was the blond haired, blue eyed, pink cherub? Who was this dark haired Sumo baby?
Regardless, I was pretty amazed. Mostly at the fact that it just felt so normal to have this creature at my side. Despite the fact that his looks were a little unexpected, the rest of it just felt really "right." I don't know how else to explain it. It's not like I was outpouring with love and felt this great bond, it was really just like thinking, "okay, so here we are!" I didn't even question whether there was a bond, that felt like a stupid thing to even consider. All those crap magazine articles about bonding were exactly that: crap. It felt completely natural and normal, and I was silently impressed by that.
Now, I won't go into the whole thing about the fact that my roommate had given birth "naturally" to a 6 pound girl, who, not only kept waking me up whenever it was breast-feeding time every five minutes during the night, but was also able to dance a jig and do normal bathroom functions. I also won't go into how I rolled my eyes (secretly) when she talked about how difficult her labor was, when, to me, her baby looked like an afternoon snack for the likes of my Giant baby. But I will say, my Spenser was pretty damned awesome as a newborn.
He looked strong and healthy, he didn't cry a whole lot, and looked like he could kick the a$$ of any newborn within a mile. When you held him, you weren't afraid that you would break him. That also felt right. He was my perfect match, in truth.
So now it's 19 years later, and I can't believe we've made it this far. The years really do speed by, even though it doesn't feel like that, when it's happening. Through all the ups and downs and sleepless nights and tears shed, we're still here. And though we drive each other crazy at times, and don't always like each other, the thing is, it's still feels "right." He still is my perfect match. And thankfully, he no longer resembles a Sumo wrestler with a black eye.
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