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Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Sick Clothes
Over the past week or two, I have been in a delightfully (though somewhat angry) organizational mindset, which has made my attic and closet the target of an intense makeover. I have discussed this strange and rare phenomena with friends, and we have all agreed that you really need to be in the correct mindset when taking on such projects.
Frankly, you have to be a little disgusted and angry. Depressed is NOT a good mindset when it comes to organizing your closet. Depressed is not a good mindset, because everything will go into the "possibly keep" or "decide later" pile, rather than in the "throw out immediately" or "donate" pile.
"How can I throw this out? I wore it on my first date with Charlie in 1972!"
"Well, I know that I never found a pair of fluorescent pink shoes to match this top, but you never know.... I could find them, and if I get rid of this out now, I'll be pissed!"
"If I lose just another five pounds, this might look really good!"
Well, the planets aligned; I was in a properly angry mindset, and, God be praised, a local charity has deposited one of those large green clothing and shoes receptacles right across the street from my home. Let me tell you, folks, those large green receptacles are a huge incentive when it comes to closet cleaning.
Do you know how many times I have gone through my clothes, gathered many a "donate" bag full of items, and then put them right back into the attic? That big green box, right there across the street, was my beacon of hope. Plus, the angry mood helped.
So let's address that further.
Being in an angry mood does wonders when it comes to throwing or giving things away.
As I mentioned, rather than feeling sentimental towards articles of clothing, you feel pissed instead that you are pathetically holding on to something that is associated with someone who probably turned out to be an a$$hole who broke your heart. Or you notice that you had forgotten about a lot of those "when I lose five pounds" items, and, since you've lost forty pounds, the items are now completely worthless and look like crap. (If that isn't a mood brightener, I don't know what is..) And I know this may come as a shock to you, but rather than negatively thinking, "well, I better keep this just in case I gain the weight back," I think, "screw this! I'm dumping it!" And knowing that I'm donating this item to someone who has possibly been searching all their lives for a fluorescent pink top makes the parting that much sweeter.
Today, however, I realized that I have one small problem with the dumping of certain clothes; the clothes that are definitely not green-box worthy now, nor were they ten years ago, when they were already ten years old.
After having filled two large bags with clothing and never-worn but they were on sale shoes, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I've resurrected some forgotten items, gleefully donated jeans which were too big, and located three previously missing winter gloves. Feeling positively fearless, I finally delved into my dresser drawers, which are generally for my underwear, socks, and clothes which do not need to be hung in a closet.
Now this may seem perfectly innocent, but the fact is, clothes which do not need to be hung in a closet are basically my junk clothes, or clothes that I will not wear in public. Sweatpants (and I mean the real kind of sweatpants... heavy, old, with elastic around the ankles, circa 1992), tee shirts with paint stains, workout clothes (like the tank tops with the built in bras that you would never wear to the gym but thought that maybe you might, some day, so you bought them anyway), things like that.
I came across three pairs of sweatpant-like items. I remembered that one pair had felt and looked great when I first wore them, but had shrunk in length after the first washing, and I never threw them out because I was pissed that they had been so awesome, even if only for that one day. I tried them on again, and, while they were still too short, I wore them for the day, because I wanted one last go round with them.
The other two pairs were also too short. Like, too short to even wear with slippers. But ohhhh goodness, were they comfy. So I folded them back up, to be placed in my drawers, because, and I'm 100% serious here, I thought, "these would be good to wear when I'm sick."
I know, you think I'm already sick. That's not the kind of sick to which I'm referring. Though I suppose comfy clothes are nice for mentally sick people as well. The sick I'm speaking of involves either staying in bed all day, or generally shuffling around the house in a listless manner (more so than usual, I mean), but attempting to seem somewhat human by actually being in clothing, rather than your pajamas.
I admit that it gave me food for thought that I am now saving clothes for when I am sick, rather than for when I lose another five pounds or find the matching shoes, but strangely, I struck it from my mind rather immediately, and felt it was completely reasonable to have sick clothes in my dresser. Some folks save their clothing for future happy times of weight loss or school reunions where they plan to wear that hot dress. I apparently have more lofty visions of shuffling around in highwaters when I'm sick.
Pretty inspiring, I think.
In a slightly sick way. I know.
Frankly, you have to be a little disgusted and angry. Depressed is NOT a good mindset when it comes to organizing your closet. Depressed is not a good mindset, because everything will go into the "possibly keep" or "decide later" pile, rather than in the "throw out immediately" or "donate" pile.
"How can I throw this out? I wore it on my first date with Charlie in 1972!"
"Well, I know that I never found a pair of fluorescent pink shoes to match this top, but you never know.... I could find them, and if I get rid of this out now, I'll be pissed!"
"If I lose just another five pounds, this might look really good!"
Well, the planets aligned; I was in a properly angry mindset, and, God be praised, a local charity has deposited one of those large green clothing and shoes receptacles right across the street from my home. Let me tell you, folks, those large green receptacles are a huge incentive when it comes to closet cleaning.
Do you know how many times I have gone through my clothes, gathered many a "donate" bag full of items, and then put them right back into the attic? That big green box, right there across the street, was my beacon of hope. Plus, the angry mood helped.
So let's address that further.
Being in an angry mood does wonders when it comes to throwing or giving things away.
As I mentioned, rather than feeling sentimental towards articles of clothing, you feel pissed instead that you are pathetically holding on to something that is associated with someone who probably turned out to be an a$$hole who broke your heart. Or you notice that you had forgotten about a lot of those "when I lose five pounds" items, and, since you've lost forty pounds, the items are now completely worthless and look like crap. (If that isn't a mood brightener, I don't know what is..) And I know this may come as a shock to you, but rather than negatively thinking, "well, I better keep this just in case I gain the weight back," I think, "screw this! I'm dumping it!" And knowing that I'm donating this item to someone who has possibly been searching all their lives for a fluorescent pink top makes the parting that much sweeter.
Today, however, I realized that I have one small problem with the dumping of certain clothes; the clothes that are definitely not green-box worthy now, nor were they ten years ago, when they were already ten years old.
After having filled two large bags with clothing and never-worn but they were on sale shoes, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I've resurrected some forgotten items, gleefully donated jeans which were too big, and located three previously missing winter gloves. Feeling positively fearless, I finally delved into my dresser drawers, which are generally for my underwear, socks, and clothes which do not need to be hung in a closet.
Now this may seem perfectly innocent, but the fact is, clothes which do not need to be hung in a closet are basically my junk clothes, or clothes that I will not wear in public. Sweatpants (and I mean the real kind of sweatpants... heavy, old, with elastic around the ankles, circa 1992), tee shirts with paint stains, workout clothes (like the tank tops with the built in bras that you would never wear to the gym but thought that maybe you might, some day, so you bought them anyway), things like that.
I came across three pairs of sweatpant-like items. I remembered that one pair had felt and looked great when I first wore them, but had shrunk in length after the first washing, and I never threw them out because I was pissed that they had been so awesome, even if only for that one day. I tried them on again, and, while they were still too short, I wore them for the day, because I wanted one last go round with them.
The other two pairs were also too short. Like, too short to even wear with slippers. But ohhhh goodness, were they comfy. So I folded them back up, to be placed in my drawers, because, and I'm 100% serious here, I thought, "these would be good to wear when I'm sick."
I know, you think I'm already sick. That's not the kind of sick to which I'm referring. Though I suppose comfy clothes are nice for mentally sick people as well. The sick I'm speaking of involves either staying in bed all day, or generally shuffling around the house in a listless manner (more so than usual, I mean), but attempting to seem somewhat human by actually being in clothing, rather than your pajamas.
I admit that it gave me food for thought that I am now saving clothes for when I am sick, rather than for when I lose another five pounds or find the matching shoes, but strangely, I struck it from my mind rather immediately, and felt it was completely reasonable to have sick clothes in my dresser. Some folks save their clothing for future happy times of weight loss or school reunions where they plan to wear that hot dress. I apparently have more lofty visions of shuffling around in highwaters when I'm sick.
Pretty inspiring, I think.
In a slightly sick way. I know.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Infestation!!!! (The Final Chapter?)
Okay, let's continue with the story.
(see other post for Parts 1 and 2)
So, I went to the store for some mouse eradication devices, and again, am confronted with a multitude of torture and death inducing contraptions. All I wanted was the little pellet filled decorative box, but I figured I might see if there was something a little more mouse-friendly or less death-inducing.
Well, after perusing for quite some time, I realized there were no decorative pellet boxes. There were also no catch-and-release traps. Apparently the Always Low Prices store knows the whole 'gather up your friends' trick with that one. So, I was presented with traditional wooden neck breaker traps, sticky traps, or these other things which kind of looked like traps with poison in them... a little mini-maze with a block of green poison, with a see-through lid!
Now, thinking back, I'm pretty amazed at how utterly dumb I can be at times. I'm going to say that I was confused due to the trauma of my situation, but I secretly know that I was suffering from a pretty severe case of the blonde when I was in the store.
After reading and re-reading the back of the various boxes, I decided to buy some disposable poison traps, which were child, but not household pet, safe. I decided on the disposable ones, because the other one had one trap with many poison refills.... and here's the kicker, folks..... I didn't want to buy that one because I didn't like the thought of having to un-wedge a fat bloated mouse carcass from the tiny poison maze on a daily basis. Plus, if there were 432 children to contend with, the 8 refills would surely not be enough. Yanking on the dead tail of some mouse that has pooped and bled (because you know, that's what the pictures on the trap boxes show...) did not seem like a fun thing.
What I didn't realize is that I was not purchasing actual traps; they were just glorified decorative boxes with the poison lodged within. I had actually been wondering how strong the poison must be if the mouse died before he could even wriggle back out of the contraption. Yes. Blonde.
Upon returning home and reading the directions another twenty times, and searching the box thoroughly for some other set of directions, I placed the traps, with a lot of doubt and hand-washing. It seems like there should have been some more set up involved, or at least little drawings showing the mouse eating the poison then running away, but there weren't.
It's now a few days later, and I think the mice are on to me. I only noticed tiny little poison crumbs in one of the traps, and surely that's not enough to decimate the mouse village. It's enough to make me paranoid and frantic that my cat is going to catch some partially poisoned mouse and die a horrible death before my eyes, however.
But, that's enough of the mouse story for now. Hmm, this is turning out to be longer than I expected. Because now, we have the finale of the infestation story, which involves as yet unidentified flying insects in my pantry. And here you thought that fleas and mice were enough! Noo, no, there's more!
First, let me tell you that doing a Google search on something like, 'what are the brown flying insects in my house' can be pretty enlightening. And mortifying. It's probably one of those things that are better left un-investigated. Like, when you see a 60 Minutes program on those invisible-to-the-human-eye-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it mites that live in your mattress. Anyway, after learning about every single insect, spider, mite, and UFO that could be residing in my home, I still could not find the exact genus of bug that I discovered floating in my bowl of cereal one day. (and on a side note, why did it have to be AFTER I'd eaten 90% of the cereal?)
I actually happen to be pretty obsessive about pantry and lazy-Susan items; flour, sugar, pancake mix, they are all sealed up with upside-down extra zip lock bags, never left open, unattended. The cereal boxes have been less fortunate, and yes, I'm going to blame my kid for this one, because I always notice that the inner bags are left open, and the tab tops of the boxes are rarely secured when I go to retrieve them.
Anyway, I am not a squeamish girl. I am not frightened of spiders and critters, I'm actually rather fascinated by them. After viewing 227 pages of insects and spiders, magnified X10 for my inquiring mind, however, the fascination became a little less palatable. I actually could not finish my cup o'ramen, which, for Pete's sake, are hermetically sealed with that plastic wrap and the paper lid which never pulls off cleanly. Bugs are neat and all, but not when I'm ingesting them, unintentionally.
I vacuumed my entire pantry and lazy Susan, dumped nearly every product whether opened or not, and used a mighty concoction of bleach spray to complete the process. And then I vacuumed again. I have purchased air-tight containers. I have vacuumed again. And sprayed.
You would think that this would ease my mind a bit, but it has not. I still see an occasional as yet unidentified brown flying insect, and let me tell you, my wrath knows no bounds. I'm actually at the point where I'm verbally taunting them before I gleefully snuff out their previously leisure filled lives. I don't know why they are still hanging about; there is nothing for them to nest in, nothing to feed on, nothing that could attract them, unless they are partial to green poison crumbs and a little dust now and then.
Anyway, I'm giving this until the weekend to be sorted out. If I am not critter-free by then, I'm just going to move to the woods. Give those critters a taste of their own medicine. See how they like it. Yeah.
(see other post for Parts 1 and 2)
So, I went to the store for some mouse eradication devices, and again, am confronted with a multitude of torture and death inducing contraptions. All I wanted was the little pellet filled decorative box, but I figured I might see if there was something a little more mouse-friendly or less death-inducing.
Well, after perusing for quite some time, I realized there were no decorative pellet boxes. There were also no catch-and-release traps. Apparently the Always Low Prices store knows the whole 'gather up your friends' trick with that one. So, I was presented with traditional wooden neck breaker traps, sticky traps, or these other things which kind of looked like traps with poison in them... a little mini-maze with a block of green poison, with a see-through lid!
Now, thinking back, I'm pretty amazed at how utterly dumb I can be at times. I'm going to say that I was confused due to the trauma of my situation, but I secretly know that I was suffering from a pretty severe case of the blonde when I was in the store.
After reading and re-reading the back of the various boxes, I decided to buy some disposable poison traps, which were child, but not household pet, safe. I decided on the disposable ones, because the other one had one trap with many poison refills.... and here's the kicker, folks..... I didn't want to buy that one because I didn't like the thought of having to un-wedge a fat bloated mouse carcass from the tiny poison maze on a daily basis. Plus, if there were 432 children to contend with, the 8 refills would surely not be enough. Yanking on the dead tail of some mouse that has pooped and bled (because you know, that's what the pictures on the trap boxes show...) did not seem like a fun thing.
What I didn't realize is that I was not purchasing actual traps; they were just glorified decorative boxes with the poison lodged within. I had actually been wondering how strong the poison must be if the mouse died before he could even wriggle back out of the contraption. Yes. Blonde.
Upon returning home and reading the directions another twenty times, and searching the box thoroughly for some other set of directions, I placed the traps, with a lot of doubt and hand-washing. It seems like there should have been some more set up involved, or at least little drawings showing the mouse eating the poison then running away, but there weren't.
It's now a few days later, and I think the mice are on to me. I only noticed tiny little poison crumbs in one of the traps, and surely that's not enough to decimate the mouse village. It's enough to make me paranoid and frantic that my cat is going to catch some partially poisoned mouse and die a horrible death before my eyes, however.
But, that's enough of the mouse story for now. Hmm, this is turning out to be longer than I expected. Because now, we have the finale of the infestation story, which involves as yet unidentified flying insects in my pantry. And here you thought that fleas and mice were enough! Noo, no, there's more!
First, let me tell you that doing a Google search on something like, 'what are the brown flying insects in my house' can be pretty enlightening. And mortifying. It's probably one of those things that are better left un-investigated. Like, when you see a 60 Minutes program on those invisible-to-the-human-eye-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it mites that live in your mattress. Anyway, after learning about every single insect, spider, mite, and UFO that could be residing in my home, I still could not find the exact genus of bug that I discovered floating in my bowl of cereal one day. (and on a side note, why did it have to be AFTER I'd eaten 90% of the cereal?)
I actually happen to be pretty obsessive about pantry and lazy-Susan items; flour, sugar, pancake mix, they are all sealed up with upside-down extra zip lock bags, never left open, unattended. The cereal boxes have been less fortunate, and yes, I'm going to blame my kid for this one, because I always notice that the inner bags are left open, and the tab tops of the boxes are rarely secured when I go to retrieve them.
Anyway, I am not a squeamish girl. I am not frightened of spiders and critters, I'm actually rather fascinated by them. After viewing 227 pages of insects and spiders, magnified X10 for my inquiring mind, however, the fascination became a little less palatable. I actually could not finish my cup o'ramen, which, for Pete's sake, are hermetically sealed with that plastic wrap and the paper lid which never pulls off cleanly. Bugs are neat and all, but not when I'm ingesting them, unintentionally.
I vacuumed my entire pantry and lazy Susan, dumped nearly every product whether opened or not, and used a mighty concoction of bleach spray to complete the process. And then I vacuumed again. I have purchased air-tight containers. I have vacuumed again. And sprayed.
You would think that this would ease my mind a bit, but it has not. I still see an occasional as yet unidentified brown flying insect, and let me tell you, my wrath knows no bounds. I'm actually at the point where I'm verbally taunting them before I gleefully snuff out their previously leisure filled lives. I don't know why they are still hanging about; there is nothing for them to nest in, nothing to feed on, nothing that could attract them, unless they are partial to green poison crumbs and a little dust now and then.
Anyway, I'm giving this until the weekend to be sorted out. If I am not critter-free by then, I'm just going to move to the woods. Give those critters a taste of their own medicine. See how they like it. Yeah.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Dave
Dave, in honor of your special day, I am forcing the masses to wait yet another day to hear my story about critter infestation of my household.
Just for you, I've written a very clever and incredibly witty poem, and post.
Here it is.
Dave
You are fifty
You are also kind of nifty
Your eyes are not shifty
And since I am thrifty
This is my gifty
To you
Ahem.
Anyway.
Since I suppose I should be nice to you, on this, your special day, I thought it might be cool to tell you some of the things that I particularly like about you.
For one thing, it's a really good thing that I found out early on that you were a fan of U2. It was your saving grace, to be honest. I never would have tolerated your Madonna and Sinead bashing if it hadn't been for that. You also knew about The Fixx, and despite your outwardly white Republican appearance, your taste in music was pretty good, apart from the Pearl Jam thing.
I have a pretty large bank of memories in my brain filed under "Dave", and here are just a few of the funny scenarios residing in there:
1. The time when you made a racial slur at the dinner table, and my father read you the riot act. *
2. The time we had a blackout and we were playing charades, and the look on your face when Mom shouted out the c-word when the answer was supposed to be "The Deer Hunter."
3. When my parents put a protective line of pillows between you and Libby because you were trying to get frisky with her after a Family event. And you weren't even married yet. Shame shame.
4. You breaking into our house by climbing through my bedroom window and almost breaking your back.
5. How you feelin!? HOT, HOT, HOT.
6. The goat saying "grraaandmaaaaaa."
7. Watching all those $hitty musical kid videos over and over and turning them into our own little fun time.
8. Your home made cards made from magazine cuttings.
9. Vanilla candles.
Of course, those are the funny ones, but there were also many times when the situation was perhaps not as funny, but you were there. Through the years, you have always been a support, a friend when I needed it, and my comic relief. You've been my savior at large functions, the guy who asked me to dance at weddings (not in an ewww way), and the guy who used to leave a roll with butter on my desk in the morning at work.
We've shared soooo many laughs about the stupid things in work, in life, in parenting. And thank God for that. And even though we differ on a few topics, I know that our mutual hatred for Facebook will always be a shining light in our relationship.
So, thank you, Dave, for making my world a more humorous place. Thank you for listening, and understanding, and sending me pictures of drunk Winnie the Pooh. And above all, HB, rotfl, smh, ttyl, idts, and LMFAO.
And Happy New Year to you.
In jail!
* For all of you wondering, it was not an actual racial slur, Dave is a very nice Man
Just for you, I've written a very clever and incredibly witty poem, and post.
Here it is.
Dave
You are fifty
You are also kind of nifty
Your eyes are not shifty
And since I am thrifty
This is my gifty
To you
Ahem.
Anyway.
Since I suppose I should be nice to you, on this, your special day, I thought it might be cool to tell you some of the things that I particularly like about you.
For one thing, it's a really good thing that I found out early on that you were a fan of U2. It was your saving grace, to be honest. I never would have tolerated your Madonna and Sinead bashing if it hadn't been for that. You also knew about The Fixx, and despite your outwardly white Republican appearance, your taste in music was pretty good, apart from the Pearl Jam thing.
I have a pretty large bank of memories in my brain filed under "Dave", and here are just a few of the funny scenarios residing in there:
1. The time when you made a racial slur at the dinner table, and my father read you the riot act. *
2. The time we had a blackout and we were playing charades, and the look on your face when Mom shouted out the c-word when the answer was supposed to be "The Deer Hunter."
3. When my parents put a protective line of pillows between you and Libby because you were trying to get frisky with her after a Family event. And you weren't even married yet. Shame shame.
4. You breaking into our house by climbing through my bedroom window and almost breaking your back.
5. How you feelin!? HOT, HOT, HOT.
6. The goat saying "grraaandmaaaaaa."
7. Watching all those $hitty musical kid videos over and over and turning them into our own little fun time.
8. Your home made cards made from magazine cuttings.
9. Vanilla candles.
Of course, those are the funny ones, but there were also many times when the situation was perhaps not as funny, but you were there. Through the years, you have always been a support, a friend when I needed it, and my comic relief. You've been my savior at large functions, the guy who asked me to dance at weddings (not in an ewww way), and the guy who used to leave a roll with butter on my desk in the morning at work.
We've shared soooo many laughs about the stupid things in work, in life, in parenting. And thank God for that. And even though we differ on a few topics, I know that our mutual hatred for Facebook will always be a shining light in our relationship.
So, thank you, Dave, for making my world a more humorous place. Thank you for listening, and understanding, and sending me pictures of drunk Winnie the Pooh. And above all, HB, rotfl, smh, ttyl, idts, and LMFAO.
And Happy New Year to you.
In jail!
* For all of you wondering, it was not an actual racial slur, Dave is a very nice Man
Friday, September 28, 2012
Infestation!!!! (Parts One and Two)
So, ever since our little experience with a temporary Pit Bull and her family of fleas, I have persistently had the heebie jeebies and creepy skin crawlies. Even after spraying, powdering, vacuuming, doing the "walk around with white socks and you'll know" test, and carpet cleaning, weeks later, I still imagine that every black speck and tiny itchy skin feeling are sure signs of residential flea infestation.
I had been watching Mario (my cat) like a hawk, trying to determine if he looked infested. After seeing him "scratch" once, I decided to buy a flea collar, just to be sure. It took me probably twenty minutes of confused browsing before I actually purchased the collar; I'm not sure why they even have "shampoo" for a cat, because there is no way in hell I would be able to immerse him in water when he runs like the wind if he sees me merely coming towards him after watering the plants.
Anyway, I bought the collar (because I couldn't find drops that weren't $50.....come on, $50???? Not to mention, if I even got them on him in some slightly successful fashion, he'd probably run away and try to lick them off, and then, of course, die), and actually got it on him with hardly any fuss. Mario has never worn a collar or any form of decoration, so I was rather surprised that he submitted to this.
Yes, he submitted. But the glowering looks he gave me afterward had me a little concerned.
He adjusted to the whole thing, I have no idea if it worked, and have become OCD about watching him to make sure he's not trying to lick it, or trying to take it off and slip it into my food while I'm not paying attention.
Fast forward an evening or two later: Infestation, Part Deux.
My mother recently gave me one of those sonic mouse-repelling devices, which allegedly deter mice from your home due to some ear bleeding sound which only mice (and other rodents) can hear. Every year when it starts to get chilly, my home becomes the new home for local mouse or mice in the neighborhood. I never really know whether it's more than one, because, not to be mouse-ist here, but the ones I've come into contact with really all kind of look the same. Basic grey/light brown, perky, cute.
Now, I have previously gone the horrible poison-pellets-in-a-decorative-box route, but hoped perhaps this might work, instead (though I considered that the mouse would just avoid the kitchen and come into my bedroom). After testing it out with my guinea pig in the next room (because, to be honest, before I looked it up, I wasn't sure if it was a "rodent." Sorry, Penelope.), and assuring that she wasn't running around her cage in a deranged fashion (any more than usual), I kept the device plugged in for the night.
As I lay in bed (facing the door, of course), I had a clear view of the stove, which apparently is the Express Mouse Elevator to the counter tops. Within ten minutes of lights out, Mr. Mouse appears on the stove. The stove is less than three feet from the red-light-blinking sonic death machine. Apparently, this mouse is either hard of hearing, has proactively stuffed cotton in its ears, or, the sonic death machine is a load of crap. The mouse actually ran past the outlet to check out the sink area. I think he even danced a jig and gave me the finger afterward.
Needless to say, I was flabbergasted, and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to pursue other means of mouse repelling.
Now, before I get into the rest of this part of the story, I will tell you a few things.
First, the idea of poisoning the mouse/mice is a horrific thing to me. I remember my first experience with the little green nuggets of death, and the fact that I had found little piles of pellets on the steps, far away from the original decorative box. When I mentioned this to my brother in law, he said, "it's probably because the mouse was taking them to its' family."
Welllll, thanks, Dave. Enter visions of Mom Mouse exictedly telling her 432 kids that she found this great portable food source, and would be bringing loads of it to them and stocking up, so they could survive the harsh winter. 432 Kiddie Mice, including weak, crippled, Tiny Tim Mouse, are tearfully overjoyed that they have such a great Mom Mouse.
Yeah.
I don't like the poison situation, but the sound of springing traps and mouse neck-breaking in the middle of the night do not entice me, either. I also know that the whole "catch and release" thing is just further invitation for them to group up with their friends once thrown back into the wild, and tell them about the cool new home they found. (and yes, I've actually caught and released, which is actually some good aerobic exercise)
So, back to the store I went........
(Stay tuned for Part Three, and the Exciting Conclusion of "Infestation!!!!!" )
I had been watching Mario (my cat) like a hawk, trying to determine if he looked infested. After seeing him "scratch" once, I decided to buy a flea collar, just to be sure. It took me probably twenty minutes of confused browsing before I actually purchased the collar; I'm not sure why they even have "shampoo" for a cat, because there is no way in hell I would be able to immerse him in water when he runs like the wind if he sees me merely coming towards him after watering the plants.
Anyway, I bought the collar (because I couldn't find drops that weren't $50.....come on, $50???? Not to mention, if I even got them on him in some slightly successful fashion, he'd probably run away and try to lick them off, and then, of course, die), and actually got it on him with hardly any fuss. Mario has never worn a collar or any form of decoration, so I was rather surprised that he submitted to this.
Yes, he submitted. But the glowering looks he gave me afterward had me a little concerned.
He adjusted to the whole thing, I have no idea if it worked, and have become OCD about watching him to make sure he's not trying to lick it, or trying to take it off and slip it into my food while I'm not paying attention.
Fast forward an evening or two later: Infestation, Part Deux.
My mother recently gave me one of those sonic mouse-repelling devices, which allegedly deter mice from your home due to some ear bleeding sound which only mice (and other rodents) can hear. Every year when it starts to get chilly, my home becomes the new home for local mouse or mice in the neighborhood. I never really know whether it's more than one, because, not to be mouse-ist here, but the ones I've come into contact with really all kind of look the same. Basic grey/light brown, perky, cute.
Now, I have previously gone the horrible poison-pellets-in-a-decorative-box route, but hoped perhaps this might work, instead (though I considered that the mouse would just avoid the kitchen and come into my bedroom). After testing it out with my guinea pig in the next room (because, to be honest, before I looked it up, I wasn't sure if it was a "rodent." Sorry, Penelope.), and assuring that she wasn't running around her cage in a deranged fashion (any more than usual), I kept the device plugged in for the night.
As I lay in bed (facing the door, of course), I had a clear view of the stove, which apparently is the Express Mouse Elevator to the counter tops. Within ten minutes of lights out, Mr. Mouse appears on the stove. The stove is less than three feet from the red-light-blinking sonic death machine. Apparently, this mouse is either hard of hearing, has proactively stuffed cotton in its ears, or, the sonic death machine is a load of crap. The mouse actually ran past the outlet to check out the sink area. I think he even danced a jig and gave me the finger afterward.
Needless to say, I was flabbergasted, and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to pursue other means of mouse repelling.
Now, before I get into the rest of this part of the story, I will tell you a few things.
First, the idea of poisoning the mouse/mice is a horrific thing to me. I remember my first experience with the little green nuggets of death, and the fact that I had found little piles of pellets on the steps, far away from the original decorative box. When I mentioned this to my brother in law, he said, "it's probably because the mouse was taking them to its' family."
Welllll, thanks, Dave. Enter visions of Mom Mouse exictedly telling her 432 kids that she found this great portable food source, and would be bringing loads of it to them and stocking up, so they could survive the harsh winter. 432 Kiddie Mice, including weak, crippled, Tiny Tim Mouse, are tearfully overjoyed that they have such a great Mom Mouse.
Yeah.
I don't like the poison situation, but the sound of springing traps and mouse neck-breaking in the middle of the night do not entice me, either. I also know that the whole "catch and release" thing is just further invitation for them to group up with their friends once thrown back into the wild, and tell them about the cool new home they found. (and yes, I've actually caught and released, which is actually some good aerobic exercise)
So, back to the store I went........
(Stay tuned for Part Three, and the Exciting Conclusion of "Infestation!!!!!" )
Monday, September 24, 2012
The Dilemma of Buying Book 5
So, I told you some posts ago that I was re-reading The Game of Thrones saga, and a few weeks ago, I "finished" the series. You also may remember my slight anger over the fact that Book 4 was NOT the final book, and further, that I mentioned skimming through quite a bit of reading, particularly in the last two books.
I have to say, I did the same exact thing, this time, and was still annoyed.
I decided to do a little research to see what lies ahead in the apparently never-really-a-final-book saga, with some slight expectation that I might splurge to buy the fifth (and sixth, I guess) book if I knew something good might come of it.
Well, it's a few weeks later, and I still haven't bought the next book.
"Why not?" you ask?
I read the reviews.
It seems that all of the things which annoyed me about the last two books not only annoyed many of the other reviewers, but apparently, there is more of that to come in the fifth book. Now, I admit that I read book reviews with a very wary eye. Even "professional" book reviews can have me scowling. Non-professional reviews, however, can be pretty interesting.
While I immediately discount anyone who uses bad spelling, grammar, and an overabundance of exclamation points and stars, I alternatively give quite a bit of reading time to the reviewers who sound a lot like myself. I give them more credit, to be truthful. I was actually pleased to see so many others who had complained about the same exact things I had complained of; it made me feel a little validated.
I don't know what kind of reader most folks are. There is a cute little conversation in the movie "When Harry Met Sally" regarding the type of people who read the ending of a book before they've read anything else. I used to be the type that kind of abhorred that idea, but was certainly guilty of skipping ahead in certain books because I couldn't stand the suspense of wondering whether a certain character was guilty/dead/etc.
I have strangely become one of those who is not bothered by knowing the ending of a book (or movie, for that matter). Most times I actually savor the thrill of the unknown, and perhaps that's a sign that the author is really doing a good job of keeping me occupied with every delicious detail of the current page. I do not generally read ahead to the end of my books, but if I've read a spoiler, it will not likely prevent me from reading the book. Remember, I'm the one who reads and re-reads her books multiple times. I typically always know the ending in those.
As I was reading the reviews, I was hoping to find some spoilers. I needed some spoilers, so I could determine whether I was going to invest my money and my time into the rest of the never ending saga. Well, I got spoilers, and they sucked. Most of them pretty much told me that I was in for another 800-900 pages of skimming and being annoyed. And, at the end of it, having to wait for yet another book to be published.
Now, I'm sure there are many of you who have nothing but admiration for the first four books, and I'm sure that if Mr. Martin ever read some of my musings, he would have a lot of not-nice things to say on the matter. However, I am not, as of yet, being lauded as a best-selling author with an HBO Original Series under my belt.
I can tell you something, though, about this series of books, and the fact that they may, indeed, be the true Never-Ending Story.... I will likely buy the fifth book, as will many others. Even others who were ticked about the last two books of the first four. I won't buy it with a sense of anticipation and excitement. I'll buy it with a kind of resignation and dragging of mental feet, with the excuse that "I might as well see what happens.... I guess."
And I'm thinking that THAT is the selling point for the rest of these 426 books yet to be published. People are going to buy them because they're willing to drudge through countless pages to find out if the character they loved in book one had a happy ending or is killed senselessly in a small insignificant chapter.
I'm guessing that this is not usually the game plan for publishers or agents; I'm guessing that sales figures are reflected somewhere down the line, and that they don't say to their writers, "just write another 800 pages of whatever... keep stringing people along, they'll buy, they'll buy!!"
I wonder, though. Because, of course, I'll be buying. But I'm definitely waiting until I can get it for the cheapest price possible. Preferably for free, or in a library. Sorry, George, but none of your hardcovers will ever be gracing my bookshelf.
I have to say, I did the same exact thing, this time, and was still annoyed.
I decided to do a little research to see what lies ahead in the apparently never-really-a-final-book saga, with some slight expectation that I might splurge to buy the fifth (and sixth, I guess) book if I knew something good might come of it.
Well, it's a few weeks later, and I still haven't bought the next book.
"Why not?" you ask?
I read the reviews.
It seems that all of the things which annoyed me about the last two books not only annoyed many of the other reviewers, but apparently, there is more of that to come in the fifth book. Now, I admit that I read book reviews with a very wary eye. Even "professional" book reviews can have me scowling. Non-professional reviews, however, can be pretty interesting.
While I immediately discount anyone who uses bad spelling, grammar, and an overabundance of exclamation points and stars, I alternatively give quite a bit of reading time to the reviewers who sound a lot like myself. I give them more credit, to be truthful. I was actually pleased to see so many others who had complained about the same exact things I had complained of; it made me feel a little validated.
I don't know what kind of reader most folks are. There is a cute little conversation in the movie "When Harry Met Sally" regarding the type of people who read the ending of a book before they've read anything else. I used to be the type that kind of abhorred that idea, but was certainly guilty of skipping ahead in certain books because I couldn't stand the suspense of wondering whether a certain character was guilty/dead/etc.
I have strangely become one of those who is not bothered by knowing the ending of a book (or movie, for that matter). Most times I actually savor the thrill of the unknown, and perhaps that's a sign that the author is really doing a good job of keeping me occupied with every delicious detail of the current page. I do not generally read ahead to the end of my books, but if I've read a spoiler, it will not likely prevent me from reading the book. Remember, I'm the one who reads and re-reads her books multiple times. I typically always know the ending in those.
As I was reading the reviews, I was hoping to find some spoilers. I needed some spoilers, so I could determine whether I was going to invest my money and my time into the rest of the never ending saga. Well, I got spoilers, and they sucked. Most of them pretty much told me that I was in for another 800-900 pages of skimming and being annoyed. And, at the end of it, having to wait for yet another book to be published.
Now, I'm sure there are many of you who have nothing but admiration for the first four books, and I'm sure that if Mr. Martin ever read some of my musings, he would have a lot of not-nice things to say on the matter. However, I am not, as of yet, being lauded as a best-selling author with an HBO Original Series under my belt.
I can tell you something, though, about this series of books, and the fact that they may, indeed, be the true Never-Ending Story.... I will likely buy the fifth book, as will many others. Even others who were ticked about the last two books of the first four. I won't buy it with a sense of anticipation and excitement. I'll buy it with a kind of resignation and dragging of mental feet, with the excuse that "I might as well see what happens.... I guess."
And I'm thinking that THAT is the selling point for the rest of these 426 books yet to be published. People are going to buy them because they're willing to drudge through countless pages to find out if the character they loved in book one had a happy ending or is killed senselessly in a small insignificant chapter.
I'm guessing that this is not usually the game plan for publishers or agents; I'm guessing that sales figures are reflected somewhere down the line, and that they don't say to their writers, "just write another 800 pages of whatever... keep stringing people along, they'll buy, they'll buy!!"
I wonder, though. Because, of course, I'll be buying. But I'm definitely waiting until I can get it for the cheapest price possible. Preferably for free, or in a library. Sorry, George, but none of your hardcovers will ever be gracing my bookshelf.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
I'd Like to be Beyonce When I Grow Up
So, as I mentioned in my last post, yes, I've been a little pensive these last, ohhhh, nine months or so. It has not been a good year, overall, for me, and, being apparently professionally unemployed (perhaps the only job for which I seem qualified?), I have had plenty of time and opportunity to think, think, think, and more think. Which is likely the reason that I am up at 3:11 a.m. drinking a coffee and writing a blog post, rather than slumbering peacefully like most human beings.
Every once in a while I get sucked in to the world of YouTube, where one "innocent" video about potato farmers in New Mexico inexplicably yet possibly in a 7-degrees-of-separation-like fashion has me drooling at the screen four hours later watching a Beyonce music video.
Dual purpose drooling, mind.
Drooling because my brain is warped and I have turned into a zombie from sitting mindlessly at the computer, and drooling because if I were a dude, or a gal who fancied women, Beyonce would be IT for me.
I was not an early fan of hers, nor the whole Destiny's Child thing. I was pretty annoyed by them, to be honest, and was pretty gleeful about the whole Gemini's Twin parody on Saturday Night Live. I had a little twitch, however, when I saw her sing on some MTV (?) Fashion Rocks special. You know, the one where she sings "Deja Vu" in her Josephine Bakeresque outfit.
I saw that and thought, "$hit, I want a banana skirt."
Then, "I want to look like that in a banana skirt."
Then, "I want a rhinestone bra too."
"And a fan to blow my hair around because it does get pretty hot when it's on my face."
And naturally, "I'm never going to eat again and I'm going to work out every day so I can look like that in my banana skirt. I'm gonna wear my banana skirt every day."
So that was the beginning of my need to be Beyonce.
Fast forward to years later, watching videos of her surprising school kids and then performing with them in high heels as part of the whole "Let's Move" anti-obesity campaign, and that got me further hooked.
"$hit, I want a pair of tight white jeans."
Then, "I want to look like that in a pair of tight white jeans, even though it's totally not my style, but if I looked like that, I would wear white jeans, dammit."
And naturally, "I want to wear tight white jeans and a tank top and high heels and do a workout in a gym and not look like a total moronic white girl. Every day. In fact, I don't want to be a white girl. Also, I'm never eating again."
I just found out, while searching for the banana skirt video, that she was voted "Most Beautiful Woman in the World" by People Magazine this year, so I guess I'm a little late to the show on this one. However, just because apparently the entire universe agrees that Beyonce is IT, doesn't mean I can't wax poetic about her for one tiny post.
I know this may come as a total shock, but, despite all of those inspirational videos, my wardrobe still sadly lacks a banana skirt and white jeans. Tomorrow, though, for sure, I will start never eating again, and doing tougher workouts. Yes.
Every once in a while I get sucked in to the world of YouTube, where one "innocent" video about potato farmers in New Mexico inexplicably yet possibly in a 7-degrees-of-separation-like fashion has me drooling at the screen four hours later watching a Beyonce music video.
Dual purpose drooling, mind.
Drooling because my brain is warped and I have turned into a zombie from sitting mindlessly at the computer, and drooling because if I were a dude, or a gal who fancied women, Beyonce would be IT for me.
I was not an early fan of hers, nor the whole Destiny's Child thing. I was pretty annoyed by them, to be honest, and was pretty gleeful about the whole Gemini's Twin parody on Saturday Night Live. I had a little twitch, however, when I saw her sing on some MTV (?) Fashion Rocks special. You know, the one where she sings "Deja Vu" in her Josephine Bakeresque outfit.
I saw that and thought, "$hit, I want a banana skirt."
Then, "I want to look like that in a banana skirt."
Then, "I want a rhinestone bra too."
"And a fan to blow my hair around because it does get pretty hot when it's on my face."
And naturally, "I'm never going to eat again and I'm going to work out every day so I can look like that in my banana skirt. I'm gonna wear my banana skirt every day."
So that was the beginning of my need to be Beyonce.
Fast forward to years later, watching videos of her surprising school kids and then performing with them in high heels as part of the whole "Let's Move" anti-obesity campaign, and that got me further hooked.
"$hit, I want a pair of tight white jeans."
Then, "I want to look like that in a pair of tight white jeans, even though it's totally not my style, but if I looked like that, I would wear white jeans, dammit."
And naturally, "I want to wear tight white jeans and a tank top and high heels and do a workout in a gym and not look like a total moronic white girl. Every day. In fact, I don't want to be a white girl. Also, I'm never eating again."
I just found out, while searching for the banana skirt video, that she was voted "Most Beautiful Woman in the World" by People Magazine this year, so I guess I'm a little late to the show on this one. However, just because apparently the entire universe agrees that Beyonce is IT, doesn't mean I can't wax poetic about her for one tiny post.
I know this may come as a total shock, but, despite all of those inspirational videos, my wardrobe still sadly lacks a banana skirt and white jeans. Tomorrow, though, for sure, I will start never eating again, and doing tougher workouts. Yes.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Death Means Nothing
Goodness, it's been ages since I have felt like writing. Sometimes I get a little too pensive about things, and it's nothing very amusing to blog about, so, be thankful, I've spared you some agony.
But, since I don't want you to think me completely heartless and only full of sarcasm, I'll write this one time about some ponderings that I've had during my not even close to daily walks in the neighborhood.
If you have ever watched any of those movies or television series dealing with the end o' the world and/or the zombie apocalypse, you may notice that there are certain issues that are never really addressed. Yes, there are big issues like our animalistic instincts or doubts about killing our spouses when they've gone zombie on us, but there are other, "smaller" things that are never mentioned, that kind of annoy me.
Stephen King seems to be able to touch on some of these things in his novels; he downplays some of the enormity of the big issue and makes things viewable at the personal level. It may be in just a sentence here or there, but they count. "Janie was chopped in half when she went to water her garden." "Bob died from a paper cut that became infected." "Yazu died after a stomach bug left him dehydrated after the water ran out." "Everything was silent because all of the birds and animals were dead." No, those aren't actual quotes, but you get the idea. Little, private things that happen, as a result of the Big Thing in progress.
When I'm on one of my pensive walks, I am always, and I mean, always, astounded by the beauty of our world, and how strange it would be if it ceased to exist. The wind as it blows through the branches of the trees. The squirrels dodging traffic in their frantic rush to do whatever it is they're always rushing to do. The peacefulness and quiet beauty of a cemetery, which will be lost if the zombie thing goes down.
Yes, there will be other things on our minds when the apocalypse rolls around, like, figuring out how not to starve and whether it's okay to eat your neighbor's dog, but what about the other things? Like, being able to have a good cup of coffee? Or not worrying that once your cigarettes are all gone, they're really gone? Or not being able to flush the toilet? And not being able to take a leisurely walk because your cousin down the street wants to eat your brains?
Since I have plans to survive the zombie apocalypse, I know that once I'm past the whole initial excitement of robbing stores for food and hiding in a cave to avoid my undead friends and Family, I'm going to be pretty pissed about the coffee thing. And I know that I will notice that the birds are not singing, the squirrels aren't dodging, and the breeze is not blowing. I'm pretty sure that if I had the time to write in my cave, it would be all about the little things that I miss. Including my walks in the Jewish cemetery down the street.
There is a gravestone there with the quote "Death Means Nothing. Whatever we were to each other, we are still." How pretty is that? A little off topic, but too bad.
So, yes, my friends, here's my advice for the few pre-apocalypse months we have remaining: Appreciate everything you see. Know that you are fortunate to be in a world where the wind still blows and the neighbor's dog is just a dog. Appreciate the crickets at night and the fact that your toilet flushes and even the fact that you think there may be a mouse family living in your home somewhere.
And worry not. I will be around to write about these things, in case you forget. Check out my cave when you get the chance. I'll likely have a store of the world's remaining coffee, and a nice percolator coffee pot. I'm planning ahead.
But, since I don't want you to think me completely heartless and only full of sarcasm, I'll write this one time about some ponderings that I've had during my not even close to daily walks in the neighborhood.
If you have ever watched any of those movies or television series dealing with the end o' the world and/or the zombie apocalypse, you may notice that there are certain issues that are never really addressed. Yes, there are big issues like our animalistic instincts or doubts about killing our spouses when they've gone zombie on us, but there are other, "smaller" things that are never mentioned, that kind of annoy me.
Stephen King seems to be able to touch on some of these things in his novels; he downplays some of the enormity of the big issue and makes things viewable at the personal level. It may be in just a sentence here or there, but they count. "Janie was chopped in half when she went to water her garden." "Bob died from a paper cut that became infected." "Yazu died after a stomach bug left him dehydrated after the water ran out." "Everything was silent because all of the birds and animals were dead." No, those aren't actual quotes, but you get the idea. Little, private things that happen, as a result of the Big Thing in progress.
When I'm on one of my pensive walks, I am always, and I mean, always, astounded by the beauty of our world, and how strange it would be if it ceased to exist. The wind as it blows through the branches of the trees. The squirrels dodging traffic in their frantic rush to do whatever it is they're always rushing to do. The peacefulness and quiet beauty of a cemetery, which will be lost if the zombie thing goes down.
Yes, there will be other things on our minds when the apocalypse rolls around, like, figuring out how not to starve and whether it's okay to eat your neighbor's dog, but what about the other things? Like, being able to have a good cup of coffee? Or not worrying that once your cigarettes are all gone, they're really gone? Or not being able to flush the toilet? And not being able to take a leisurely walk because your cousin down the street wants to eat your brains?
Since I have plans to survive the zombie apocalypse, I know that once I'm past the whole initial excitement of robbing stores for food and hiding in a cave to avoid my undead friends and Family, I'm going to be pretty pissed about the coffee thing. And I know that I will notice that the birds are not singing, the squirrels aren't dodging, and the breeze is not blowing. I'm pretty sure that if I had the time to write in my cave, it would be all about the little things that I miss. Including my walks in the Jewish cemetery down the street.
There is a gravestone there with the quote "Death Means Nothing. Whatever we were to each other, we are still." How pretty is that? A little off topic, but too bad.
So, yes, my friends, here's my advice for the few pre-apocalypse months we have remaining: Appreciate everything you see. Know that you are fortunate to be in a world where the wind still blows and the neighbor's dog is just a dog. Appreciate the crickets at night and the fact that your toilet flushes and even the fact that you think there may be a mouse family living in your home somewhere.
And worry not. I will be around to write about these things, in case you forget. Check out my cave when you get the chance. I'll likely have a store of the world's remaining coffee, and a nice percolator coffee pot. I'm planning ahead.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
To My Godson, David
Since it's your birthday soon, and I'm in awe that you are an actual Man now, I figured I'd write just a little post, about the little David I knew.
Of course, no David-story would be complete without mentioning the fact that you have always been a lover of music. I have countless hours of home video depicting you playing a guitar like a Beatle, sitting on the floor at Grandma and Poppie's singing along to movies, and "dancing" in the backyard.
One of my more interesting music-related memories is that you liked (?) Michael Bolton, of all people, and once, when I was standing on a random rock in Disneyworld, you said, "Aunt Cathy, you look like Michael Bolton on a tall mountain rock." I remember we were trying to interpret what you were saying (your English skills were "interesting" at the age of 4 or however old you were), and I sorted out that you were referring to a music video of your hero.
I think I actually have a picture of that somewhere.
I may have burned it.
Regardless of the fact that I am not Male, and hopefully do not look like Michael Bolton, past or present, it seemed you had an interesting view of the World, which bridged the gaps of sex, color, height, whatever.
I think you even said that Aunt Rosalie looked like Oprah once. There's also the fact that you and your cousin Rachel were planning to be married some day. Cute couple, but maybe a little too adventurous into dueling banjo territory.
I have a photo of me holding you as a baby, and I can still remember how you used to snuggle right up into my neck and fall asleep in a matter of seconds. That cute, drooling, blue-eyed bundle has somehow grown into a cute, drooling, blue-eyed 8 foot tall Man. (haha)
Of course, there are the other, well-known, famous David moments in my history of memories.
Like when you would call me on the phone and ask how to find the hidden door in whatever level of Final Fantasy you were playing (the first one?? How old am I!?), expecting me to save you from death while I was frantically trying to figure out which part of the game you were in.
Or how you were hypnotically drawn to the church altar during Spenser's Baptism and stood guard with a slight deer in the headlights expression during the entire ceremony.
Or the fact that when you were a little bit older, I think you asked your parents if, when I got married, I would select you as the "pillow boy" (ring-bearer) for the proceedings, even though you were well beyond the age criteria for the part as it was. And, I wasn't getting married at the time.
I'm actually laughing aloud, recalling these memories, even though we've spoken of them, countless times. I guess that's what old people do. Particularly the ones who look like Michael Bolton. I'm never wearing my hair curly, again.
Anyway, much love to you, my dearest David, on your (almost) birthday, from your Godmother who digs your taste in music, thinks you are beautiful, and hopes that you'll remember her when you are a rich and famous supermodel/music guy/writer/vintner/whatever you want you want to be. Happy Birthday.
And yes, I will reserve the part of the ring-bearer in my wedding, just for you!
Of course, no David-story would be complete without mentioning the fact that you have always been a lover of music. I have countless hours of home video depicting you playing a guitar like a Beatle, sitting on the floor at Grandma and Poppie's singing along to movies, and "dancing" in the backyard.
One of my more interesting music-related memories is that you liked (?) Michael Bolton, of all people, and once, when I was standing on a random rock in Disneyworld, you said, "Aunt Cathy, you look like Michael Bolton on a tall mountain rock." I remember we were trying to interpret what you were saying (your English skills were "interesting" at the age of 4 or however old you were), and I sorted out that you were referring to a music video of your hero.
I think I actually have a picture of that somewhere.
I may have burned it.
Regardless of the fact that I am not Male, and hopefully do not look like Michael Bolton, past or present, it seemed you had an interesting view of the World, which bridged the gaps of sex, color, height, whatever.
I think you even said that Aunt Rosalie looked like Oprah once. There's also the fact that you and your cousin Rachel were planning to be married some day. Cute couple, but maybe a little too adventurous into dueling banjo territory.
I have a photo of me holding you as a baby, and I can still remember how you used to snuggle right up into my neck and fall asleep in a matter of seconds. That cute, drooling, blue-eyed bundle has somehow grown into a cute, drooling, blue-eyed 8 foot tall Man. (haha)
Of course, there are the other, well-known, famous David moments in my history of memories.
Like when you would call me on the phone and ask how to find the hidden door in whatever level of Final Fantasy you were playing (the first one?? How old am I!?), expecting me to save you from death while I was frantically trying to figure out which part of the game you were in.
Or how you were hypnotically drawn to the church altar during Spenser's Baptism and stood guard with a slight deer in the headlights expression during the entire ceremony.
Or the fact that when you were a little bit older, I think you asked your parents if, when I got married, I would select you as the "pillow boy" (ring-bearer) for the proceedings, even though you were well beyond the age criteria for the part as it was. And, I wasn't getting married at the time.
I'm actually laughing aloud, recalling these memories, even though we've spoken of them, countless times. I guess that's what old people do. Particularly the ones who look like Michael Bolton. I'm never wearing my hair curly, again.
Anyway, much love to you, my dearest David, on your (almost) birthday, from your Godmother who digs your taste in music, thinks you are beautiful, and hopes that you'll remember her when you are a rich and famous supermodel/music guy/writer/vintner/whatever you want you want to be. Happy Birthday.
And yes, I will reserve the part of the ring-bearer in my wedding, just for you!
Thursday, August 23, 2012
What Summer Tastes Like
So, last night I plucked a gigantic basil leaf from my counter-top plant, which I have been eyeing greedily for some time now. I have been paying a bit more attention to the plant of late, and the results are pretty interesting. If you don't already have a basil plant on your windowsill year-round, you should have one. Just sayin.'
Anyway, thanks to my sister Rosalie (and my mom, but those are gone already), my home has been overflowing with fresh tomatoes. Now, I am a tomato lover at its extreme. I love them in any way, shape or form, I could eat them at every meal and still be in love.
As I was enjoying yet another dish of insalata caprese (tomato, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, olive oil, oh my), I thought to myself, "this is what Summer tastes like."
Now of course, I am also a huge fan of cookouts; burgers on a grill, macaroni salad, maybe even hot dogs, if I'm feeling crazy. Corn on the cob, while lovely, is impossible to eat gracefully in public, and I probably haven't done that since I was, perhaps, 8 years old. Same thing goes for watermelon, which I'm not a huge fan of, anyway, so, it's just as well.
But yes, all of these things are what Summer tastes like, too, and, since none of my family have deemed me worthy to be invited to a cookout just yet (hint hint- Summer is winding down, folks!), I mainly have to content myself with eating these things in the privacy of my own home, indoors, which is decidedly not cookout like. At all.
Anyway, back to the real god of Summer tastes: tomatoes.
When I was younger, and would follow my father incessantly around the garden, he would occasionally let me taste some of the goodies growing therein. Some things were not that thrilling (like parsley sprigs), but other things.... if you have never picked and eaten a ripe cherry tomato that is sitting there, warmed by the sun, I command you to go do it. Right now. Don't wash it (unless you use pesticides, which is icky). Just pick it and eat it.
Every time I eat a cherry tomato (alas, I have to put them on my windowsill to get the whole "warmed by the sun" feeling), it brings me right back to that garden of my youth. A time of innocence, Summers free from school, and the secret privilege of getting cherry tomatoes that never made it into the bowl on the counter.
To me, tomatoes are a sweet gift from the gods, and I'm sad to realize that soon enough we'll be entering a new Season, and the tomatoes scrounged from the supermarket will not be as delightfully plump, and red, and local as they are now.
In the meantime, I will be eating them until they're gone (I'm obsessive that they don't go to waste), and will likely start to resemble a tomato soon enough. I finished the last of my fresh mozzarella and stale Italian bread last night, but you'll be relieved to know that I still have eggs for omelettes, hamburgers, and tuna fish which will nicely compliment the four remaining tomatoes in my arsenal.
So, forget about ice cream and hot dogs. If you really want to know what Summer tastes like, go pick a tomato. And don't forget the basil. I've got extra, if you need it.
Anyway, thanks to my sister Rosalie (and my mom, but those are gone already), my home has been overflowing with fresh tomatoes. Now, I am a tomato lover at its extreme. I love them in any way, shape or form, I could eat them at every meal and still be in love.
As I was enjoying yet another dish of insalata caprese (tomato, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, olive oil, oh my), I thought to myself, "this is what Summer tastes like."
Now of course, I am also a huge fan of cookouts; burgers on a grill, macaroni salad, maybe even hot dogs, if I'm feeling crazy. Corn on the cob, while lovely, is impossible to eat gracefully in public, and I probably haven't done that since I was, perhaps, 8 years old. Same thing goes for watermelon, which I'm not a huge fan of, anyway, so, it's just as well.
But yes, all of these things are what Summer tastes like, too, and, since none of my family have deemed me worthy to be invited to a cookout just yet (hint hint- Summer is winding down, folks!), I mainly have to content myself with eating these things in the privacy of my own home, indoors, which is decidedly not cookout like. At all.
Anyway, back to the real god of Summer tastes: tomatoes.
When I was younger, and would follow my father incessantly around the garden, he would occasionally let me taste some of the goodies growing therein. Some things were not that thrilling (like parsley sprigs), but other things.... if you have never picked and eaten a ripe cherry tomato that is sitting there, warmed by the sun, I command you to go do it. Right now. Don't wash it (unless you use pesticides, which is icky). Just pick it and eat it.
Every time I eat a cherry tomato (alas, I have to put them on my windowsill to get the whole "warmed by the sun" feeling), it brings me right back to that garden of my youth. A time of innocence, Summers free from school, and the secret privilege of getting cherry tomatoes that never made it into the bowl on the counter.
To me, tomatoes are a sweet gift from the gods, and I'm sad to realize that soon enough we'll be entering a new Season, and the tomatoes scrounged from the supermarket will not be as delightfully plump, and red, and local as they are now.
In the meantime, I will be eating them until they're gone (I'm obsessive that they don't go to waste), and will likely start to resemble a tomato soon enough. I finished the last of my fresh mozzarella and stale Italian bread last night, but you'll be relieved to know that I still have eggs for omelettes, hamburgers, and tuna fish which will nicely compliment the four remaining tomatoes in my arsenal.
So, forget about ice cream and hot dogs. If you really want to know what Summer tastes like, go pick a tomato. And don't forget the basil. I've got extra, if you need it.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Facebook is Life
Every day, when I take a glance at my Facebook Wall, I am (still) flabbergasted at the number of useless, tiresome, and ridiculous pictures and updates that are posted thereupon. I have several "friends" who post so many pictures and posters that it takes me minutes of scrolling just to get to a more "useful" post, usually concerning the life-changing news that someone has checked in to a local restaurant.
While some people are serial "poster" posters (by "poster" I mean those cute pictures of animals or drawings of women from the 40's with funny captions below), there are others who seem to have fully immersed themselves into the Facebook lifestyle, and I wonder at the silliness of this fact.
These are the people who post every single minute of every thing they are doing, into Facebook. They go to a store, they check in. They eat a hot dog, they take a picture and post it. They poo in their bathroom, they describe the smell (and maybe even take a picture) in another post. They sit at their kitchen table, another post. On and on and $@($&!! on it goes. A full day of useless cr-p. And they do this nearly every day. I cringe to think of what would happen if the person lost their phone (or whatever they're using) or if Facebook was off line for the day.
Now I'm not talking about vacation pictures, or pictures of an unusual food item, such as, live boa constrictor. Those are fine. The rest are boring, and no one cares about them. I'm being serious. No one cares. Well, I suppose that's a lie. I care because I'm annoyed about it, so at least there's that.
I've already somewhat discussed my distaste in the past for Mothers who are overzealous in their proclamations of greatness regarding their children, and here is now an almost full post dedicated to their ilk.
Being a Mother myself, I understand that (pretty much) our life of freedom and carefree rabble rousing is forfeit, once we have a child/children. I know that there is usually not a lot of excitement to be had, and that most of the stuff we do is kid-related.
But there are occasions when we can be adults. Adults with unique thoughts, dreams, and sometimes even potential for witty banter. There are many Mothers out there who seem to have forgotten this fact. They prove this daily by posting a million kid pictures per week, and telling us mostly useless and uninteresting stories of their child's adventure to the local sandbox. And the tire swing. And the mall. And the bathroom.
Not only do they suffer from the notion that their child is the Greatest Kid on Earth, but they somehow think that we will believe it, too. Because we saw the picture of him blowing a bubble. And not even a big bubble or a cool bubble shaped like an elephant.
I'm sorry, folks, but there has got to be more to Life than this. I know that Facebook is a "social networking" platform, that this is allegedly how people are "social," and if it really annoys me so much, I should just quit it altogether. Perhaps some day soon, I will.
After I've mastered level 23 of flax-growing and have won the "Farm of the Year" contest.
(And yes, Facebook games and the people who play them are evil. I'm pretty sure of it.)
There is Life out there beyond Facebook, folks, go and enjoy some of it. And I challenge you to keep at least some of it, all to yourself.
While some people are serial "poster" posters (by "poster" I mean those cute pictures of animals or drawings of women from the 40's with funny captions below), there are others who seem to have fully immersed themselves into the Facebook lifestyle, and I wonder at the silliness of this fact.
These are the people who post every single minute of every thing they are doing, into Facebook. They go to a store, they check in. They eat a hot dog, they take a picture and post it. They poo in their bathroom, they describe the smell (and maybe even take a picture) in another post. They sit at their kitchen table, another post. On and on and $@($&!! on it goes. A full day of useless cr-p. And they do this nearly every day. I cringe to think of what would happen if the person lost their phone (or whatever they're using) or if Facebook was off line for the day.
Now I'm not talking about vacation pictures, or pictures of an unusual food item, such as, live boa constrictor. Those are fine. The rest are boring, and no one cares about them. I'm being serious. No one cares. Well, I suppose that's a lie. I care because I'm annoyed about it, so at least there's that.
I've already somewhat discussed my distaste in the past for Mothers who are overzealous in their proclamations of greatness regarding their children, and here is now an almost full post dedicated to their ilk.
Being a Mother myself, I understand that (pretty much) our life of freedom and carefree rabble rousing is forfeit, once we have a child/children. I know that there is usually not a lot of excitement to be had, and that most of the stuff we do is kid-related.
But there are occasions when we can be adults. Adults with unique thoughts, dreams, and sometimes even potential for witty banter. There are many Mothers out there who seem to have forgotten this fact. They prove this daily by posting a million kid pictures per week, and telling us mostly useless and uninteresting stories of their child's adventure to the local sandbox. And the tire swing. And the mall. And the bathroom.
Not only do they suffer from the notion that their child is the Greatest Kid on Earth, but they somehow think that we will believe it, too. Because we saw the picture of him blowing a bubble. And not even a big bubble or a cool bubble shaped like an elephant.
I'm sorry, folks, but there has got to be more to Life than this. I know that Facebook is a "social networking" platform, that this is allegedly how people are "social," and if it really annoys me so much, I should just quit it altogether. Perhaps some day soon, I will.
After I've mastered level 23 of flax-growing and have won the "Farm of the Year" contest.
(And yes, Facebook games and the people who play them are evil. I'm pretty sure of it.)
There is Life out there beyond Facebook, folks, go and enjoy some of it. And I challenge you to keep at least some of it, all to yourself.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Me Me Me Me Me Me Me Me, HEY, Look at Me!
So, I recently decided that I should update my photo on my Facebook profile. The old one was nearly a year old, somewhat blurry, and frankly, I had a pretty crappy year following the taking of that photo; I considered that perhaps the picture was bad luck, and that maybe a new picture would bring new and happy things to the life of Catherine.
Now, here's the thing: it really concerns me when people post a million pictures of themselves on Facebook. I'm not talking about pictures of them with their spouses, kids, friends, Mickey Mouse; I'm talking about just full on close up (or otherwise) photos of themselves.
A lot of them.
Daily.
I find that young ladies are the main culprit in this, and every time I see these updated photos and profiles, I can't help but roll my eyes. In one of my first forays into the world of Facebook, I was looking over my son's shoulder at the photo album of a female friend. I said, "well, she must really like herself."
Now, in my younger days, I was never one to really shy away from a camera. I never quite understood why people did not like to have their pictures taken. Back in those days, one would take photos at special occasions, bring the roll of film (or a disc, if you were cool) to the local drugstore, and wait for three days to see the documentation of said occasion. The photographer was almost never in his or her own pictures. Imagine how bizarre it would have been to have an entire roll of film developed into pictures of only one, singular, face. Not just any face, but the face of the photographer. Yet it seems to be a highly fashionable thing to do these days, rolls of film or not.
I often wonder about this apparent self-love prevalent in Facebook profiles. Yes, it is good to have self-confidence, and yes, it is important to love yourself- but to have multiple albums - updated daily- of your shining and adorable face- by itself- seems a little strange to me.
I'm not even going to give the benefit of the doubt here by allowing that perhaps the person was taking multiple test shots to find the "good" one, or is sharing a picture of some updated feature (like a hairdo, pair of clogs, or nose piercing), because there will be multiple photos taken within seconds of each other, all with the same hairdo and outfit.
Here's me raising my eyebrows. Here's me pouting. Here's me crossing my eyes. Here's me smiling seductively. Here's me smiling seductively at a different angle. Here's me smiling seductively at another different angle, this time with my cat. Me, me, me, me, me, aren't I fantastic? Oh, and here's me looking fantastic. With a seductive smile. Yay, me!
Enough already, I say.
So, back to the whole photo update. Since I am completely averse to and bemoaning of people who update their photos every three seconds, I was extremely concerned that I might somehow be lumped into that category, even though I haven't updated my picture in a year.
I checked the "only me" box as I was trying to upload and figure out the whole cropping process, made sure I didn't hit my own "share" or "like" or whatever other buttons are there, and went to every setting available, trying to sort out how to just change my cover photo, quietly.
As I was trying to figure out how to change my cover photo (Is it edit? Do I delete the old one first? Why can't I click and drag? Why did it make a new album?), I noticed that the little globe at the top of my page had the number "2" emblazoned upon it (I won't add here that I only just figured out what that was, within the past month or two).
"So and so 'Liked' your picture."
"So and so commented on your picture."
Wait, what? How did they see my picture? I'm not even done figuring out where it goes, and somehow, people have seen it. I frantically started clicking and went to my own Timeline page, and there is a gigantic version of my new photo posted there. I immediately deleted it (even though supposedly it is "only me" who can see most of my timeline) in TWO SPOTS and went back to the photo albums, trying desperately to stop this worldwide publication of my photo update.
Well, I never figured it out. I was absolutely mortified that somehow, people were getting gargantuan photos of me posted on their Walls indicating that I had updated my profile, or whatever I was allegedly doing. HEY EVERYONE, HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME! LOOK AT ME!
Good Lord.
So, to anyone who received some nefarious posting in your Facebook, alerting you to the fact that I changed my photo, I apologize. Thank you for your lovely comments. Thank you for liking me. Please know, though, that you will not likely see an updated photo of myself for at least another 40 years. In the meantime, I don't want to see another picture of your face. You're great and all, but, just. Stop.
Now, here's the thing: it really concerns me when people post a million pictures of themselves on Facebook. I'm not talking about pictures of them with their spouses, kids, friends, Mickey Mouse; I'm talking about just full on close up (or otherwise) photos of themselves.
A lot of them.
Daily.
I find that young ladies are the main culprit in this, and every time I see these updated photos and profiles, I can't help but roll my eyes. In one of my first forays into the world of Facebook, I was looking over my son's shoulder at the photo album of a female friend. I said, "well, she must really like herself."
Now, in my younger days, I was never one to really shy away from a camera. I never quite understood why people did not like to have their pictures taken. Back in those days, one would take photos at special occasions, bring the roll of film (or a disc, if you were cool) to the local drugstore, and wait for three days to see the documentation of said occasion. The photographer was almost never in his or her own pictures. Imagine how bizarre it would have been to have an entire roll of film developed into pictures of only one, singular, face. Not just any face, but the face of the photographer. Yet it seems to be a highly fashionable thing to do these days, rolls of film or not.
I often wonder about this apparent self-love prevalent in Facebook profiles. Yes, it is good to have self-confidence, and yes, it is important to love yourself- but to have multiple albums - updated daily- of your shining and adorable face- by itself- seems a little strange to me.
I'm not even going to give the benefit of the doubt here by allowing that perhaps the person was taking multiple test shots to find the "good" one, or is sharing a picture of some updated feature (like a hairdo, pair of clogs, or nose piercing), because there will be multiple photos taken within seconds of each other, all with the same hairdo and outfit.
Here's me raising my eyebrows. Here's me pouting. Here's me crossing my eyes. Here's me smiling seductively. Here's me smiling seductively at a different angle. Here's me smiling seductively at another different angle, this time with my cat. Me, me, me, me, me, aren't I fantastic? Oh, and here's me looking fantastic. With a seductive smile. Yay, me!
Enough already, I say.
So, back to the whole photo update. Since I am completely averse to and bemoaning of people who update their photos every three seconds, I was extremely concerned that I might somehow be lumped into that category, even though I haven't updated my picture in a year.
I checked the "only me" box as I was trying to upload and figure out the whole cropping process, made sure I didn't hit my own "share" or "like" or whatever other buttons are there, and went to every setting available, trying to sort out how to just change my cover photo, quietly.
As I was trying to figure out how to change my cover photo (Is it edit? Do I delete the old one first? Why can't I click and drag? Why did it make a new album?), I noticed that the little globe at the top of my page had the number "2" emblazoned upon it (I won't add here that I only just figured out what that was, within the past month or two).
"So and so 'Liked' your picture."
"So and so commented on your picture."
Wait, what? How did they see my picture? I'm not even done figuring out where it goes, and somehow, people have seen it. I frantically started clicking and went to my own Timeline page, and there is a gigantic version of my new photo posted there. I immediately deleted it (even though supposedly it is "only me" who can see most of my timeline) in TWO SPOTS and went back to the photo albums, trying desperately to stop this worldwide publication of my photo update.
Well, I never figured it out. I was absolutely mortified that somehow, people were getting gargantuan photos of me posted on their Walls indicating that I had updated my profile, or whatever I was allegedly doing. HEY EVERYONE, HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME! LOOK AT ME!
Good Lord.
So, to anyone who received some nefarious posting in your Facebook, alerting you to the fact that I changed my photo, I apologize. Thank you for your lovely comments. Thank you for liking me. Please know, though, that you will not likely see an updated photo of myself for at least another 40 years. In the meantime, I don't want to see another picture of your face. You're great and all, but, just. Stop.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Facebook Would Be a Bad Dinner Companion
So, I was recently chatting with my brother in law (yes, this one's for you, Dave) about the evils of Facebook, and I mentioned that most people in Facebook have forsaken the golden rule of never discussing politics or religion in mixed company. Of course, this rule generally applies to the dinner table, and yes, I know, our computers are not (supposed to be) our dinner tables, but there is some merit to this rule.
I never quite understood it when I was younger, but I certainly understood it as I grew older. I do not necessarily consider myself overly passionate regarding any side of any fence in regard to religion nor politics. I lean to the left on certain topics, and to the right on others. They are personal beliefs, all of which make up part of who I am. While I strongly disagree with the beliefs of some people, and I will always defend my own, I still like to think that I can reasonably agree to disagree if necessary, and leave it at that.
If you could view my Facebook Wall, you would see that it is chock full of anti-Obama and pro-Obama sentiment. It is pro-military, pro-gay, anti-Democrat, anti-Republican, anti-Conservatism, pro-gun control, anti-gun control, anti-Men, pro-bada$$ attitudes, pro-hidden Jesus pictures, you name it. I have a decidedly eclectic group of Friends and Family, with some very opposing opinions on display.
Now, the thing is, I pretty much know where most of my Facebook acquaintances stand in regard to the "big" issues. I don't know if they know where I stand. And I'm guessing they really don't care much where I stand, because they are too busy posting their opinions for The World of Facebook to see. Of course, it's not anyone's business to know for whom I voted in past Presidential Elections; but I admit that if I see a poster (unwittingly) (or not) calling me a stupid a$$ anti-American for supporting said person, I am going to take offense. It's fine if you dislike my choices, but name-calling is a little beneath us all, is it not?
I actually respect opposing views, and I think that reasonable debate and the freedom to speak on such topics are Rights that should be strongly defended. However, I think that much of this can be done with a bit more class, and with respect for the fact that the people who oppose us have the same. Exact. Rights.
When people post strong worded pro- or anti- anything, I suspect that they're not taking into account the fact that their audience may have very different personal beliefs. Personal beliefs which have just been denigrated and belittled in the pursuit of freedom of speech and expression of other personal beliefs.
I appreciate the fact that people have strong feelings on certain topics, but I feel that often, in an attempt to brandish their "righteous" opinions like a sword of justice, they are acting in an eerily similar manner to their alleged oppressors. People who are often on the side of celebrating "differences" (I'm one of them, so don't even start) are usually only supporting the differences that they agree with. If people expect others to be open-minded and allow for our beautiful and unique beliefs as citizens to be accepted, it should follow that the "others" (the opposing side) are included in that world of citizens.
So, my fellow Facebook friends, think twice before you post that political or religious themed poster on your Wall. If you really liked me, and really knew me, you wouldn't call me (to my face) a stupid-a$$ anti-American or a closed-minded bigot or suggest that I should burn in Hell or die of a disfiguring disease because I prefer A to B. Would you? Do you even know what I believe in?
I'm not talking here about minority versus majority, who is in power, and some of the unfair and outdated laws and rules that we have in this country. That's for some other time. I'm simply talking about realizing the possibly unintended effects of what you post in Facebook. And also the strong potential for you to be the recipient of a cold shoulder or two at your next dinner party.
Think, people.
I never quite understood it when I was younger, but I certainly understood it as I grew older. I do not necessarily consider myself overly passionate regarding any side of any fence in regard to religion nor politics. I lean to the left on certain topics, and to the right on others. They are personal beliefs, all of which make up part of who I am. While I strongly disagree with the beliefs of some people, and I will always defend my own, I still like to think that I can reasonably agree to disagree if necessary, and leave it at that.
If you could view my Facebook Wall, you would see that it is chock full of anti-Obama and pro-Obama sentiment. It is pro-military, pro-gay, anti-Democrat, anti-Republican, anti-Conservatism, pro-gun control, anti-gun control, anti-Men, pro-bada$$ attitudes, pro-hidden Jesus pictures, you name it. I have a decidedly eclectic group of Friends and Family, with some very opposing opinions on display.
Now, the thing is, I pretty much know where most of my Facebook acquaintances stand in regard to the "big" issues. I don't know if they know where I stand. And I'm guessing they really don't care much where I stand, because they are too busy posting their opinions for The World of Facebook to see. Of course, it's not anyone's business to know for whom I voted in past Presidential Elections; but I admit that if I see a poster (unwittingly) (or not) calling me a stupid a$$ anti-American for supporting said person, I am going to take offense. It's fine if you dislike my choices, but name-calling is a little beneath us all, is it not?
I actually respect opposing views, and I think that reasonable debate and the freedom to speak on such topics are Rights that should be strongly defended. However, I think that much of this can be done with a bit more class, and with respect for the fact that the people who oppose us have the same. Exact. Rights.
When people post strong worded pro- or anti- anything, I suspect that they're not taking into account the fact that their audience may have very different personal beliefs. Personal beliefs which have just been denigrated and belittled in the pursuit of freedom of speech and expression of other personal beliefs.
I appreciate the fact that people have strong feelings on certain topics, but I feel that often, in an attempt to brandish their "righteous" opinions like a sword of justice, they are acting in an eerily similar manner to their alleged oppressors. People who are often on the side of celebrating "differences" (I'm one of them, so don't even start) are usually only supporting the differences that they agree with. If people expect others to be open-minded and allow for our beautiful and unique beliefs as citizens to be accepted, it should follow that the "others" (the opposing side) are included in that world of citizens.
So, my fellow Facebook friends, think twice before you post that political or religious themed poster on your Wall. If you really liked me, and really knew me, you wouldn't call me (to my face) a stupid-a$$ anti-American or a closed-minded bigot or suggest that I should burn in Hell or die of a disfiguring disease because I prefer A to B. Would you? Do you even know what I believe in?
I'm not talking here about minority versus majority, who is in power, and some of the unfair and outdated laws and rules that we have in this country. That's for some other time. I'm simply talking about realizing the possibly unintended effects of what you post in Facebook. And also the strong potential for you to be the recipient of a cold shoulder or two at your next dinner party.
Think, people.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
On Re-Reading Your Books
I'm sure you've heard me mention by now that I happen to be a voracious reader, and of my new adventures in the world of free books for Kindle. Before my Kindle came along, if I couldn't afford a pricey $7 paperback from WalMart, I would generally re-read one of the thousands of books on my bookshelf.
I have finally gotten rid of many of my books which are not re-read worthy, but there are some which have gained permanent spots on the shelf, of which I will never tire, regardless of the number of times I re-read them.
The Dark Tower Series (pure genius right thar), and really, anything by Stephen King (except for Lisey's Story, which I could not stand), will never earn a spot in my bag of "I've got to donate these somewhere" books. I've re-read the series multiple times, and, since it's so long, I could probably even start it over again after having read the "last" book in the jumble, and still be mesmerized.
All "Reacher" novels by Lee Child have been read at least twice. Same with probably 90% of my Dean Koontz, though admittedly some of them are so "similarly" themed that I get annoyed when I'm on my third go-through and realize I just read it a few weeks prior (and on a side note, they're not really similarly themed, but there are a few which I didn't overly like, and I tend to confuse them). Also my James Follet books (Pillars of the Earth and World Without End), not only because they're good, but also because they're a million pages each, and who could throw something like that away? Anything James Patterson, mainly because he's talented but also he's one of the only persons who posts on my Facebook wall and doesn't annoy the poo out of me. Also, "Sarum" by Edward Rutherfurd.
Having said all that, I'm on my second go-round of the whole "Game of Thrones" saga. I don't think I've complained about this before, but I will say a few things about this here.
First of all, I had a really difficult time getting past the whole "R.R" in the author's name; I knew nothing about him (nor of the fact that there was an HBO series), but I was annoyed at the signal in my brain which suggested that this person was openly comparing himself to the other "R.R." author, Tolkien. I'm sure he wasn't, and I'm sure they are legitimate initials, but, I'm stubborn, so, yeah.
Second, while I was mostly intrigued by the entire series, I did find myself just skimming through certain parts. Okay, many parts. Some of it was due to the fact I was ticked that I would have to wait another 5-6 chapters to read about the characters with which I was fascinated. If it hadn't been for the story line (which is good), and the few characters I was interested in, I likely would not have finished the series because of my annoyance.
On a similar note, I realized in one of the books (maybe the fourth or fifth?) that I hadn't heard at all regarding some of the characters since the previous book. I actually went back in my reading to make sure that the character hadn't died and perhaps I had missed it somewhere.
And finally, the hugest annoyance for me was getting the last book, and realizing that the series was not actually complete. I remember getting about half way through the final book and realizing that there were not nearly enough pages to wrap up the multitude of story lines. You know, you get to the "final" book of a series, and when it's not "final", it's very annoying. Perhaps if I had done a little research beforehand, I would have known, but I'm also guessing that I might have not even bothered, seeing a five-box set and knowing I wasn't going to get to the real finale.
Anyway, I've just started re-reading, and I'm having a hard time with it. Why? Because I know the heartbreaks that are forthcoming, and I've had enough of heartbreak for this year. Knowing how a story ends has never prevented me from a re-read, but in this case, there are still infinity plus nine number of books to read after the "final" book of the series (I actually don't know, I'm afraid to investigate), and I'm still quite upset over the demise of some of the characters (don't worry, I won't spoil it for you).
This is an entirely new feeling for me, but I will persist. Why? Because I know that I will likely want to see the HBO series, and I need to have everything refreshed in my memory - so I can come here to complain about the fact that the television series is nothing compared to the books.
Which I skimmed through.
Page 123 of book one, 84926296412 pages to go......
I have finally gotten rid of many of my books which are not re-read worthy, but there are some which have gained permanent spots on the shelf, of which I will never tire, regardless of the number of times I re-read them.
The Dark Tower Series (pure genius right thar), and really, anything by Stephen King (except for Lisey's Story, which I could not stand), will never earn a spot in my bag of "I've got to donate these somewhere" books. I've re-read the series multiple times, and, since it's so long, I could probably even start it over again after having read the "last" book in the jumble, and still be mesmerized.
All "Reacher" novels by Lee Child have been read at least twice. Same with probably 90% of my Dean Koontz, though admittedly some of them are so "similarly" themed that I get annoyed when I'm on my third go-through and realize I just read it a few weeks prior (and on a side note, they're not really similarly themed, but there are a few which I didn't overly like, and I tend to confuse them). Also my James Follet books (Pillars of the Earth and World Without End), not only because they're good, but also because they're a million pages each, and who could throw something like that away? Anything James Patterson, mainly because he's talented but also he's one of the only persons who posts on my Facebook wall and doesn't annoy the poo out of me. Also, "Sarum" by Edward Rutherfurd.
Having said all that, I'm on my second go-round of the whole "Game of Thrones" saga. I don't think I've complained about this before, but I will say a few things about this here.
First of all, I had a really difficult time getting past the whole "R.R" in the author's name; I knew nothing about him (nor of the fact that there was an HBO series), but I was annoyed at the signal in my brain which suggested that this person was openly comparing himself to the other "R.R." author, Tolkien. I'm sure he wasn't, and I'm sure they are legitimate initials, but, I'm stubborn, so, yeah.
Second, while I was mostly intrigued by the entire series, I did find myself just skimming through certain parts. Okay, many parts. Some of it was due to the fact I was ticked that I would have to wait another 5-6 chapters to read about the characters with which I was fascinated. If it hadn't been for the story line (which is good), and the few characters I was interested in, I likely would not have finished the series because of my annoyance.
On a similar note, I realized in one of the books (maybe the fourth or fifth?) that I hadn't heard at all regarding some of the characters since the previous book. I actually went back in my reading to make sure that the character hadn't died and perhaps I had missed it somewhere.
And finally, the hugest annoyance for me was getting the last book, and realizing that the series was not actually complete. I remember getting about half way through the final book and realizing that there were not nearly enough pages to wrap up the multitude of story lines. You know, you get to the "final" book of a series, and when it's not "final", it's very annoying. Perhaps if I had done a little research beforehand, I would have known, but I'm also guessing that I might have not even bothered, seeing a five-box set and knowing I wasn't going to get to the real finale.
Anyway, I've just started re-reading, and I'm having a hard time with it. Why? Because I know the heartbreaks that are forthcoming, and I've had enough of heartbreak for this year. Knowing how a story ends has never prevented me from a re-read, but in this case, there are still infinity plus nine number of books to read after the "final" book of the series (I actually don't know, I'm afraid to investigate), and I'm still quite upset over the demise of some of the characters (don't worry, I won't spoil it for you).
This is an entirely new feeling for me, but I will persist. Why? Because I know that I will likely want to see the HBO series, and I need to have everything refreshed in my memory - so I can come here to complain about the fact that the television series is nothing compared to the books.
Which I skimmed through.
Page 123 of book one, 84926296412 pages to go......
Friday, August 3, 2012
Fodder
So, I was feeling a little bored, and simultaneously looking for some "inspiration" for my next post, and decided to force myself to watch some on line shows which I knew would get my blood boiling, or at least pumping at a faster rate.
Now, I admit that I have been sucked in to some reality type shows, much to my embarrassment and chagrin. I have questioned myself as to the basis of my "fascination" with some of these shows (mainly "Real" Housewives types of shows), because often I spend the entire time complaining to myself (and sometimes aloud, to my cat) about how awful these women look and behave.
One show I have never watched past a first full episode is that of the "Bachelor" series. I think the Bachelor was first, then the Bachelorette? I don't know, and I'm sure I do not care. I remember the first time watching the show, and being mortified about most of the details, from the whole cheesy rose ceremony thing (uggghh) and the fact that women were crying about being in love with some dude who was basically in a harem situation, who they had known for perhaps one or two days.
The last series of which I was aware involved a single Mother, and I have heard snippets here and there of other single Mothers on these shows, and I am pretty much disgusted about the whole thing. I have some pretty strict ideas of what a Mother should be, particularly if she is unmarried, and none of them include her being hot, rich, or making out with various Men on television. But that's for another time.
This particular show ("The Bachelor Pad") involves Men and Women from previous seasons of the other two shows I mentioned, along with some "Fans" thrown into the mix. I had no idea of who these people were, I was actually assuming the show was an unrelated thing involving a bunch of handsome a$$hole guys hanging out in a huge house and doing who knows what. Which I guess, is somewhat accurate, just add in some "attractive" a$$hole gals.
First of all, the amount of makeup these women wear is staggering. Now don't get me wrong, I love makeup, it can be fun, and it, at the very least, can give you the appearance of not being ill. However. False eyelashes worn during an athletic challenge (or swimming/hot-tubbing) just seems a little ridiculous to me. Their penciled eyebrows, day-glo teeth, tons of blush and eyeshadow are just.... what the heck? The one young "lady" who is considered "the girl next door" (I guess, if you live near a brothel....) is shown riding a horse with a lacy type of shirt, and full makeup. I don't know, I thought "girl next door" meant braids, freckles, and natural beauty. Granted, this girl is quite attractive, and looks to have mostly natural body parts, but, come on.
Two of the women (both blondes....grrrrrr), who I suppose must be considered attractive (???) are just. Not. One (and yes, I'm getting the claws out, and I don't care) has a very strange mouth, and I'm presuming it is because she has had lip injections or something of that ilk. Only the bottom part of her mouth moves when she speaks, and it's always in this frowning sort of way, where the ends never curl up. It doesn't even look like a snooty, aristocratic thing, it looks almost school-marmish. Way to go, pretty girl. She is also under some impression that she is above the "Fans" who have joined the show, that she "deserves" to be there more than they. Okay.
The other woman has the longest, thinnest nose I have ever seen, perhaps even rivaling Michael Jackson. I know that I've written posts regarding finding the hidden beauty in all of us, and that there is something beautiful about every person on this Earth, even if you have to struggle to see it. I am sure there is something beautiful on this "lady", but the fact that she is so un-pretty in her words and actions, and the fact that she is imagined to be pretty, find me hard-pressed to follow my own admonitions. I just don't get it, folks.
I understand that these Men and Women do not represent the entire World. I understand that people want to look at "attractive" humans, and that the drama factor is important. The girl next door (the original one) is far too boring, and likely doesn't do cartwheels in a dress with her hoohaa hanging out. No, this isn't the World, but a large number of us watch these shows.
The Men, while mostly being jerks, are at least "natural." If they are wearing makeup, it's very subtle (and would likely be a little odd if it were applied heavy handedly). Yes, they all have attractive physiques and attractive features. It's a result of good genes, and working out at the gym. It's likely not a result of obvious surgeries and layers of makeup.
I remember Dr. Laura Schlessinger (don't hate) once talking about how, in Nature, it was usually the male of the species who did the attracting. They had prettier gear (brighter plumage and such), they fought other males, they did special dances in order to get the girl. It seems that females have taken the mating ritual to newer and false-r heights, and it's actually rather sad that their perceived attractiveness is not about genes, but about alterations and coverups. They're not going to pass on their big boobs and lips to their offspring. They will pass on their hawk-hooked noses and flat chests, however. Of course, this show has nothing to do with producing offspring, I know. It's about sex, not the perpetuation of the species.
Anyway, I've gone on long enough for today. I have a ton more to say on related topics, so stay tuned for that. This one show is fodder for at least ten other posts. I'm off to clean the barn in my false eyelashes and wedge shoes. Ciao!
Now, I admit that I have been sucked in to some reality type shows, much to my embarrassment and chagrin. I have questioned myself as to the basis of my "fascination" with some of these shows (mainly "Real" Housewives types of shows), because often I spend the entire time complaining to myself (and sometimes aloud, to my cat) about how awful these women look and behave.
One show I have never watched past a first full episode is that of the "Bachelor" series. I think the Bachelor was first, then the Bachelorette? I don't know, and I'm sure I do not care. I remember the first time watching the show, and being mortified about most of the details, from the whole cheesy rose ceremony thing (uggghh) and the fact that women were crying about being in love with some dude who was basically in a harem situation, who they had known for perhaps one or two days.
The last series of which I was aware involved a single Mother, and I have heard snippets here and there of other single Mothers on these shows, and I am pretty much disgusted about the whole thing. I have some pretty strict ideas of what a Mother should be, particularly if she is unmarried, and none of them include her being hot, rich, or making out with various Men on television. But that's for another time.
This particular show ("The Bachelor Pad") involves Men and Women from previous seasons of the other two shows I mentioned, along with some "Fans" thrown into the mix. I had no idea of who these people were, I was actually assuming the show was an unrelated thing involving a bunch of handsome a$$hole guys hanging out in a huge house and doing who knows what. Which I guess, is somewhat accurate, just add in some "attractive" a$$hole gals.
First of all, the amount of makeup these women wear is staggering. Now don't get me wrong, I love makeup, it can be fun, and it, at the very least, can give you the appearance of not being ill. However. False eyelashes worn during an athletic challenge (or swimming/hot-tubbing) just seems a little ridiculous to me. Their penciled eyebrows, day-glo teeth, tons of blush and eyeshadow are just.... what the heck? The one young "lady" who is considered "the girl next door" (I guess, if you live near a brothel....) is shown riding a horse with a lacy type of shirt, and full makeup. I don't know, I thought "girl next door" meant braids, freckles, and natural beauty. Granted, this girl is quite attractive, and looks to have mostly natural body parts, but, come on.
Two of the women (both blondes....grrrrrr), who I suppose must be considered attractive (???) are just. Not. One (and yes, I'm getting the claws out, and I don't care) has a very strange mouth, and I'm presuming it is because she has had lip injections or something of that ilk. Only the bottom part of her mouth moves when she speaks, and it's always in this frowning sort of way, where the ends never curl up. It doesn't even look like a snooty, aristocratic thing, it looks almost school-marmish. Way to go, pretty girl. She is also under some impression that she is above the "Fans" who have joined the show, that she "deserves" to be there more than they. Okay.
The other woman has the longest, thinnest nose I have ever seen, perhaps even rivaling Michael Jackson. I know that I've written posts regarding finding the hidden beauty in all of us, and that there is something beautiful about every person on this Earth, even if you have to struggle to see it. I am sure there is something beautiful on this "lady", but the fact that she is so un-pretty in her words and actions, and the fact that she is imagined to be pretty, find me hard-pressed to follow my own admonitions. I just don't get it, folks.
I understand that these Men and Women do not represent the entire World. I understand that people want to look at "attractive" humans, and that the drama factor is important. The girl next door (the original one) is far too boring, and likely doesn't do cartwheels in a dress with her hoohaa hanging out. No, this isn't the World, but a large number of us watch these shows.
The Men, while mostly being jerks, are at least "natural." If they are wearing makeup, it's very subtle (and would likely be a little odd if it were applied heavy handedly). Yes, they all have attractive physiques and attractive features. It's a result of good genes, and working out at the gym. It's likely not a result of obvious surgeries and layers of makeup.
I remember Dr. Laura Schlessinger (don't hate) once talking about how, in Nature, it was usually the male of the species who did the attracting. They had prettier gear (brighter plumage and such), they fought other males, they did special dances in order to get the girl. It seems that females have taken the mating ritual to newer and false-r heights, and it's actually rather sad that their perceived attractiveness is not about genes, but about alterations and coverups. They're not going to pass on their big boobs and lips to their offspring. They will pass on their hawk-hooked noses and flat chests, however. Of course, this show has nothing to do with producing offspring, I know. It's about sex, not the perpetuation of the species.
Anyway, I've gone on long enough for today. I have a ton more to say on related topics, so stay tuned for that. This one show is fodder for at least ten other posts. I'm off to clean the barn in my false eyelashes and wedge shoes. Ciao!
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Hope For Humanity
I haven't done my post regarding the whole end of the world with a side of zombie apocalypse yet, but when I do, I'm sure you recognize that it will be mainly about humanity and whether it can withstand the pressures of chaos, starvation, and of course, zombie friends and neighbors.
I was recently listening to a George Carlin spiel and he mentioned something regarding people who think that people are "good," but that it takes a horrible disaster to ever see demonstration of the fact. I'm sorry to say that I partially agree with that, but, being in a strangely optimistic mood for at least the duration of this post, I'm going to talk about people who are good (there are at least three of you out there, I know it), even while not in the midst of calamity. Or at least, not zombie apocalypse level of calamity.
The other day I had the great fortune of being in a waiting room for local court proceedings. It was extremely warm, crowded, and people were generally pi$$ed off. Traffic violators and various "criminals" all crammed into one small area, with a rather long wait. A young non-white gentleman came in with an infant carrier (avec infant), and a diaper bag which was thoroughly checked by the policeman (upon which he was advised that "bottles" are not allowed in the courtroom). When he approached the small waiting area, two, count 'em, TWO men offered their seats for this young man and his infant. I was completely shocked, and extremely pleased at seeing this.
Here, in the midst of all sorts of baddies (I don't really believe this, of course), there was kindness. You would think that, in this atmosphere of 128 degree heat with sauna-like conditions, amongst the evil criminals of society, that there would be no sympathy for some not-originally-from-America dude with a baby. But there was. I wanted to say, "well that was nice," but settled for smiling at the do-gooders instead.
Two points gained for Humanity!
When I was at the race track over the weekend, there was a lot of not-nice-ness going around. The lines at the betting booths were not very organized (translation: some people were dumb enough to actually stand in line, like myself, whilst others would just hover in clumps and jump to any open window), and some of the staff were a little less than pleasant (like, when someone butt in front of me, I waited my turn, got to the window and the woman behind the counter was b-tching to her co-workers and then turned to me and said, "I'M CLOSED!"). However, I attempted to follow some sort of civil procedure by standing in line and being patient.
Later that same day, while I was still observing queue etiquette, a nearby hover-er noticed an available window; he went to run over, but then turned to me and said, "you go ahead, you were waiting first." It's sad that I'm even shocked at such an offer, but, there it is. I told him to go ahead, since I was next anyway, and of course was there for another five minutes while 23 other customers were served at the next window, but it was still nice to have one offer of kindness.
So, since it's very easy for me to write about the things which annoy the crap out of me, I thought it only right that I dedicated one post to the three good people I encountered during the past week. I know that I tend to be a little snarky about most things, and that I should don my rose-colored glasses on more occasions, but alas, I am what I am. And this blog would be very boring if I wrote about butterflies and cupcakes. In my opinion at least.
Anyway, to those three gentlemen, I salute you and pay you great homage. And I hope you all win the lottery. Hopefully your actions will rub off on your fellow humans. Then perhaps I can do a counter-theme to my "Decline of Humanity" posts. Hope?
I was recently listening to a George Carlin spiel and he mentioned something regarding people who think that people are "good," but that it takes a horrible disaster to ever see demonstration of the fact. I'm sorry to say that I partially agree with that, but, being in a strangely optimistic mood for at least the duration of this post, I'm going to talk about people who are good (there are at least three of you out there, I know it), even while not in the midst of calamity. Or at least, not zombie apocalypse level of calamity.
The other day I had the great fortune of being in a waiting room for local court proceedings. It was extremely warm, crowded, and people were generally pi$$ed off. Traffic violators and various "criminals" all crammed into one small area, with a rather long wait. A young non-white gentleman came in with an infant carrier (avec infant), and a diaper bag which was thoroughly checked by the policeman (upon which he was advised that "bottles" are not allowed in the courtroom). When he approached the small waiting area, two, count 'em, TWO men offered their seats for this young man and his infant. I was completely shocked, and extremely pleased at seeing this.
Here, in the midst of all sorts of baddies (I don't really believe this, of course), there was kindness. You would think that, in this atmosphere of 128 degree heat with sauna-like conditions, amongst the evil criminals of society, that there would be no sympathy for some not-originally-from-America dude with a baby. But there was. I wanted to say, "well that was nice," but settled for smiling at the do-gooders instead.
Two points gained for Humanity!
When I was at the race track over the weekend, there was a lot of not-nice-ness going around. The lines at the betting booths were not very organized (translation: some people were dumb enough to actually stand in line, like myself, whilst others would just hover in clumps and jump to any open window), and some of the staff were a little less than pleasant (like, when someone butt in front of me, I waited my turn, got to the window and the woman behind the counter was b-tching to her co-workers and then turned to me and said, "I'M CLOSED!"). However, I attempted to follow some sort of civil procedure by standing in line and being patient.
Later that same day, while I was still observing queue etiquette, a nearby hover-er noticed an available window; he went to run over, but then turned to me and said, "you go ahead, you were waiting first." It's sad that I'm even shocked at such an offer, but, there it is. I told him to go ahead, since I was next anyway, and of course was there for another five minutes while 23 other customers were served at the next window, but it was still nice to have one offer of kindness.
So, since it's very easy for me to write about the things which annoy the crap out of me, I thought it only right that I dedicated one post to the three good people I encountered during the past week. I know that I tend to be a little snarky about most things, and that I should don my rose-colored glasses on more occasions, but alas, I am what I am. And this blog would be very boring if I wrote about butterflies and cupcakes. In my opinion at least.
Anyway, to those three gentlemen, I salute you and pay you great homage. And I hope you all win the lottery. Hopefully your actions will rub off on your fellow humans. Then perhaps I can do a counter-theme to my "Decline of Humanity" posts. Hope?
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Stuff That's Annoying Me This Week
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.
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.
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.
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