I’m a good little worker bee. Although those of my coworkers often are not, my work ethic is well developed, and I have not (yet) gone postal and entered the office building with some kind of weapon of mass destruction. I know my professional responsibilities, I perform them well, the big boss trusts me and all is relatively right with my working world. However…………I’m something else, too – I am prone to what can politely be described as derailed trains of thought. I’m not so far gone that bright shiny objects distract me, but I do tend to have various ruminations (be they profound, inane or simply inappropriate) that divert my attention from a task at hand. Not that I can’t multi-task with the best of ‘em. Sometimes, though, I’m so far off the rails that I have to flag down a new locomotive and beg the mental conductor to re-fire my neurons so that I can continue on down the cerebral line.
My train recently veered violently off course during the working hours. If you’re thinking ‘well, that can’t be good’, you’re right. But man, I thought it was frickin’ hilarious!!! Most outsiders will think I’ve lost my mind, but that’s precisely the point. Aha! I lost my mind – it left – down the tracks. Don’t worry, it was only gone a couple of minutes. It came back, none the worse for wear. Here’s what happened:
My baby boss (the one with no power to actually fire me, thank goodness) came to my office, stood in the doorway and proceeded to tell me about a matter on which we would be working in the coming weeks. I heard and digested the first two sentences of what he said, and then my brain exited. Obviously, my internal thoughts were more important and thus overrode the blahblahblah of instruction coming from him.
You must picture it. There I sat, poised in my chair, seemingly rapt with appropriate attention as he spoke of important legal things (I guess). Any passerby would have assumed I was intently focused on and maybe even engrossed in a very important discussion. Not. Even the baby boss thought I was paying close attention. That was, until, I snapped back to reality and my first words to him were: “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t listening and didn’t hear a word you said. You’re going to have to start all over.” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he looked at me agog, likely thinking WTF! He spoke no further, so I continued on with my piss-poor, but perfectly rational (to me) explanation: “Well, I’m sorry, I just started thinking of something else and completely blanked out. I stopped listening. What did you say?” At which point, I laughed. Uproariously.
Uncontrollably. You see, IIIIIIIIII knew what I had been thinking about……..and to me, that made it that much more humorous that I had blanked out during what turned out to be a one-way work conversation. Oops. Baby boss rewound and then finished his little presentation and this time I did concentrate on his spiel alone. Boring. I’m not sure, but I think I did curtail my outward giggling until he left my office. Then, I cackled some more. And some more. It’s important to be able to laugh at yourself, right? Damn, I’m goofy. As hell. Chooo! Choooooo!!
And No! – I won’t tell you what I was thinking about. You just had to be there – in my little head. And you don’t fit. It's full of Amtrak pile-ups.
October 9, 2009
September 22, 2009
Smells Like Teen Spectacle
I took the boy for his flu vaccine Monday night. Of course, this was just for the 'regular old flu', not the dreaded and overblown (my apologizes if I have offended any nasal passages with that play on words) H1N1 virus. When I first informed him that he would be getting the vaccine, there was the requisite whining about having to get a shot. No, silly, it's not a shot. It's a squirt of whatever-it-is up your nose. Ah, the miracle of science. Ok, then, TER couldn't complain about that; not bad, for a boy who can pretty much complain and be contrary about everything.
Once we arrived at the office of the pediatrician, he immediately sat down and proceeded to cover his mouth and nose with his t-shirt. He informed me that he was protecting himself because that place is "full of sick people!". ooooooookkkkkkkkkkk Good to know that his old ratty t-shirt is the perfect buffer against all germs and viruses. He has many of such t-shirts, so if you would like one for your own protection, do let me know and I'd be happy to provide you with one.
So there he sat, looking as if he had lost his actual surgical mask, but was preparing to perform some radical new procedure (one-handed) on the nearest child. I couldn't help giggling at him, which he did not appreciate. Oddly, once we were called back into the exam room, the necessity to cover his mouthal openings had subsided and he felt he could safely sit there - were no sick children had apparently been all day. Whatever. In comes the nurse, squirted the magic spray up his nose and sent him on his way, with specific instruction not to blow his nose "for a while". Thanks for clearing that up. By the time we got back to the car, he blew his nose. I envisioned the $35 I had just paid projecting right out of his nostrils onto the ground. But, I'll choose to believe that the vaccine had sufficiently made its way to wherever it goes once it goes up the nose. On the other hand, TER was convinced that he would now get the flu the next day, and that he had, once again, ruined everything.
By the time we got home, the nasal episode was forgotten and the boy proceeded to begin making chocolate chip cookies - from scratch. I'm still not sure why allowed this on a school night. Maybe I wanted a cookie? Thankfully, this was his personal project, so I was free to go downstairs to watch the season premiere of House in peace. (mmmmm Hugh Laurie) Surprisingly, I was interrupted by only a few irrelevant baking questions, which included "how many tablespoons are in a cup?" and "do eggshells go in the garbage disposal or in the trash?". All was going well until I smelled the cookies. A lot. A batch was burning. I'm not sure how he missed this fact, considering the house smelled like, well, burnt cookies! A lot. After waiting for a commercial (bad Mommy), I went upstairs to remind him to remove cookies from the oven when the timer goes off. "oh yeah" Well, he WAS caught up on SportsCenter, so it's understood how distracted he was. In his head, anyway.
Burnt cookies = more determination that he had "ruined everything". However, he made me try one, insisting that maybe they weren't that bad. How is that possible that they were ruined not that badly?? To keep the peace, I took a bite, swallowed hard, and smiled, indicating that they will suffice. In my head I felt they would only suffice if you were a starving pygmy, or needed to pelt a burglar with a hard object.
Happily, there was only one batch that went awry. The other cookies looked and were perfectly yummy. I swear I've only had two, as he is using them as his treats when he packs his school lunches. Aaawww - how cute. The burned cookies have mysteriously disappeared (into the trash can, underneath other pieces of trash so to hide evidence of my betrayal that I have eaten them with delight).
Cookies baked, TER went to bed. I finished House and made my way back into the kitchen. At least I think it was a kitchen. It looked more like a Keebler factory had moved in, then exploded. Utensils, ingredients and dough everywhere. And everywhere is where I left it. Hell, it would be there in the morning. And it was, at which time the boy got upset at the fact that there were no clean spoons for his cereal. Drama continues...........eyes keep rolling.
Once we arrived at the office of the pediatrician, he immediately sat down and proceeded to cover his mouth and nose with his t-shirt. He informed me that he was protecting himself because that place is "full of sick people!". ooooooookkkkkkkkkkk Good to know that his old ratty t-shirt is the perfect buffer against all germs and viruses. He has many of such t-shirts, so if you would like one for your own protection, do let me know and I'd be happy to provide you with one.
So there he sat, looking as if he had lost his actual surgical mask, but was preparing to perform some radical new procedure (one-handed) on the nearest child. I couldn't help giggling at him, which he did not appreciate. Oddly, once we were called back into the exam room, the necessity to cover his mouthal openings had subsided and he felt he could safely sit there - were no sick children had apparently been all day. Whatever. In comes the nurse, squirted the magic spray up his nose and sent him on his way, with specific instruction not to blow his nose "for a while". Thanks for clearing that up. By the time we got back to the car, he blew his nose. I envisioned the $35 I had just paid projecting right out of his nostrils onto the ground. But, I'll choose to believe that the vaccine had sufficiently made its way to wherever it goes once it goes up the nose. On the other hand, TER was convinced that he would now get the flu the next day, and that he had, once again, ruined everything.
By the time we got home, the nasal episode was forgotten and the boy proceeded to begin making chocolate chip cookies - from scratch. I'm still not sure why allowed this on a school night. Maybe I wanted a cookie? Thankfully, this was his personal project, so I was free to go downstairs to watch the season premiere of House in peace. (mmmmm Hugh Laurie) Surprisingly, I was interrupted by only a few irrelevant baking questions, which included "how many tablespoons are in a cup?" and "do eggshells go in the garbage disposal or in the trash?". All was going well until I smelled the cookies. A lot. A batch was burning. I'm not sure how he missed this fact, considering the house smelled like, well, burnt cookies! A lot. After waiting for a commercial (bad Mommy), I went upstairs to remind him to remove cookies from the oven when the timer goes off. "oh yeah" Well, he WAS caught up on SportsCenter, so it's understood how distracted he was. In his head, anyway.
Burnt cookies = more determination that he had "ruined everything". However, he made me try one, insisting that maybe they weren't that bad. How is that possible that they were ruined not that badly?? To keep the peace, I took a bite, swallowed hard, and smiled, indicating that they will suffice. In my head I felt they would only suffice if you were a starving pygmy, or needed to pelt a burglar with a hard object.
Happily, there was only one batch that went awry. The other cookies looked and were perfectly yummy. I swear I've only had two, as he is using them as his treats when he packs his school lunches. Aaawww - how cute. The burned cookies have mysteriously disappeared (into the trash can, underneath other pieces of trash so to hide evidence of my betrayal that I have eaten them with delight).
Cookies baked, TER went to bed. I finished House and made my way back into the kitchen. At least I think it was a kitchen. It looked more like a Keebler factory had moved in, then exploded. Utensils, ingredients and dough everywhere. And everywhere is where I left it. Hell, it would be there in the morning. And it was, at which time the boy got upset at the fact that there were no clean spoons for his cereal. Drama continues...........eyes keep rolling.
September 21, 2009
Sugar Baby!
Good news for me! I am off the hook. My household responsibilities are no more. The water, cable and VEPCO** bills will be paid for me. My salary will now be my fun money, to be spent as I choose, be it on liquor, first-class travel and/or trips to Vegas and Monte Carlo. I need to get on the phone and find myself full-time personal shoppers, maids, chefs, trainers and hairdressers. I feel like Eva Gabor before Eddie Albert moved her out to the Green Acres farm.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
My new found life of luxury is due to the fact that I was informed earlier today that my abode actually belongs to my son, not to me at all. I know this because he called to say that he forgot THE keys to HIS house. Luckily, I happen to have a spare set (although I had thought they were the original - oh well) of keys to HIS house, and was able to let him into his personal dwelling. From here on out, I shall consider myself a guest, and expect to be catered to. This plan, however, may be flawed. We're talking here about the odds of TER having any hosting abilities when he can't remember to: flush the toilet; put the milk jug back in the fridge; turn off the light/tv/computer/water faucet; or lock the front door.
Fiddledeedee. I will just be the kind of company who fends for herself, not wanting to be a burden or put anyone out. Besides, I will get enough joy out of knowing that the boy's invisible paycheck will pay for all costs associated with HIS house! He can't kick me out - he needs me to drive him places. He will make the car payment, and I'm happy to cart him to baseball practice. My very own Sugar Baby!
** VEPCO: Predecessor of our current monopolistic electric company, Dominion Virginia Power.*** But I like "VEPCO" and refuse to refer to it as anything else. Just like the little convenience store down the street from my parents' house will forever be Short Stop to me, no matter how many times it changes names and ownership.
*** BTW - never make out a check to Dominion Virginia Power simply as "Virginia Power" - I heard once that crooked bank employees will change the payee to "Virginia Powerston" and run off with your money! Then VEPCO turns off your electricity and in order to call and yell at them, you have to to find a flashlight to find a phone book to look up VEPCO, which you can't find, because it only exists in my head.
September 9, 2009
Bite Me!
A friend told me this evening that “if we were gay cowboys……..I’d quit you…….because you don’t blog.” Damn, girl, glad I’m not a gay cowboy – not that there’s anything wrong with that. They make for some box office gold!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
As a straight suburb-girl, I blog for you today. The subject: my fingernails.
I began the awful, disgusting habit of biting my nails in the womb. This is because at that time, my mother still nibbled on hers! That sainted woman was 27 years old before she stopped. That is a fact that might make one cringe, until you learn that I am almost 38 and still bite mine. I can hear your squeals of “eeewwww” now. Don’t worry. I have stopped. For the moment. I think.
In an effort to appear a feminine creature adorned with lovely painted fingers, I wore acrylic tips for years. However, the biweekly ritual of having a sprite-like Vietnamese woman called Kim attempt to beautify my hands became too much – from a financial perspective. As part of my own personal attempt at Recession Salvation, I have given up on my plastic claws. As a result of the years of abuse to which I subjected my keratin stubs, they are very, very weak; and thus are a pain in my ass. Although they are actually “long” enough to poke something, they are practically wobbly. I apply what is purported to be Strengthener every day, but I feel certain that it’s really just shiny goo that smells funny.
The good news for those of you who have cried yourselves to sleep at night over the lack of my postings…………I read that increased blood flow to your fingers can stimulate and increase nail growth. That means more typing for me; and more reading for you!
August 26, 2009
My Blog's a Blank
In recent weeks, I have been reminded/hounded/berated/beaten about the head and face regarding the perception that it has been "way too long" since my last posting. To some, I have even made unkept promises of forthcoming amusements pouring from my fingertips. Sorry guys. I pinkie swear that I have racked my little pea brain to come up with a topic worthy of your read. I've got nuthin'! Which is sad because, as we all know, I'm a smart girl. About some things. Most days. All things being relative, of course. Just don't ask me about chemistry.
The few sparks of possible writing material quickly revealed themselves to be either: stupid; not interesting at all; only funny to me; nothing I'd want seen written on the side of a bus; or frankly, none of your damn business.
I do have one actual update to give you. When last we found ourselves in this State, I had been victimized and traumatized by you-know-where. Well, after two morons from the company contacted me to basically tell me 'too bad, so sad for you', I wrote a prolific nastrygram back to the head office. Immediately after my diatribe was passed down the chain of ineffectiveness, I was offered a $25 gift card to you-know-where, to compensate me for the trouble I had encountered. (A new porsche would have been more equitable.) Mind you, I will never shop there again, BUT did enter the store to pick up said free money! And as my good deed that day, promptly turned it over to a charitable organization.
In other news.........there really isn't any.........that I'm ready to share. See, now you're waiting with baited breath, aren't you? Probably not, but whatever.
Seriously, though, I'm going to start making shit up if bouts of literary genious continue to evade me.
The few sparks of possible writing material quickly revealed themselves to be either: stupid; not interesting at all; only funny to me; nothing I'd want seen written on the side of a bus; or frankly, none of your damn business.
I do have one actual update to give you. When last we found ourselves in this State, I had been victimized and traumatized by you-know-where. Well, after two morons from the company contacted me to basically tell me 'too bad, so sad for you', I wrote a prolific nastrygram back to the head office. Immediately after my diatribe was passed down the chain of ineffectiveness, I was offered a $25 gift card to you-know-where, to compensate me for the trouble I had encountered. (A new porsche would have been more equitable.) Mind you, I will never shop there again, BUT did enter the store to pick up said free money! And as my good deed that day, promptly turned it over to a charitable organization.
In other news.........there really isn't any.........that I'm ready to share. See, now you're waiting with baited breath, aren't you? Probably not, but whatever.
Seriously, though, I'm going to start making shit up if bouts of literary genious continue to evade me.
July 16, 2009
An EscheWAL of the MART
Last night, TER and I went shopping for the remaining items required for his upcoming trip to Williamsport, PA for Baseball Camp. I’m almost of jealous of what will be his exciting adventure – playing the game at the Little League capital of the world. Second only to the fervor of counting the days during which I will be childless is my anticipation of seeing the place for myself when I go there to pick him up next Friday. I love baseball and cannot wait to see that Mecca!!
In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.
The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.
Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.
The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.
As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?
In a moment of what can only be described temporary insanity on my part, I drove straight to the place that shall not be named, but that I will refer to as WM. It was a conscious effort to save money on the myriad of items still on the shopping list. Little did I know the high price I would pay for my frugality. It may be a case of no good deed going unpunished, or it could be bad karma coming after my ass. If it was karmic retribution, I think I am even with the gods.
The department store trauma began when I asked an employee where I might find the dressing rooms so that the boy could try on the gym shorts which took him no less than 20 minutes to pick out. Keep in mind that this woman was on the floor, re-folding girls tops that had been haphazardly rummaged through by the rude customers who populated the store. My question about the dressing room was met with a blank stare and a mumbled “huh?”. This was the only discernable verbal response I got because this publicly-visible employee spoke no English. Why in the world is such a deplorable linguist positioned in a location where it is a hugely viable possibility that she would be asked questions in English? Good night in Heaven! So, I proceeded to wander about on my own and eventually found the dressing room, wherein it took TER 10 full minutes to try on two pair of shorts. I still don’t understand that delay.
Once his shorts had been formally selected, we proceeded on to look for beach towels. Crazily, I assumed beach towels would either be found in the towel department, or perhaps with the seasonal stuff, like pool toys and whatever. Nope. No beach towels were to be seen. I decided to throw the dice and ask the next employee I found (no small feat) about the possible location of beach towels. She had no clue, but at least could tell me so in broken English. She kindly walked with me to the Customer Service (hahahahaha) desk at which a gentleman informed me that all moisture alleviators would be found in the housewares department, near the washcloths and shower curtains. When I insisted this was untrue, he then informed me that they must be out of stock. What? Ok, whatever. So I ventured off one more time to search for more items on the list, by this time muttering under (and sometimes over) my breath such phrases which I should not have been vocalizing in public. To TER’s credit, he kept silent during my semi-public tirade and immense frustration at the ludicrous happenings inside the store. I finally told him that I HAD to get out of there, NOW! Whatever we didn’t have in the cart, I would get elsewhere. I just HAD to leave. You know that feeling you get when you know that if you don’t remove yourself from a particular setting, somebody is going to get hurt? That was me.
The few check-out lines which were open all had at least three other brain-addled customers waiting in line. So, I had the bright idea to just use one of the self check-out lanes, all of which were shockingly line-less. Upon scanning my third item – travel-sized shampoo – the senseless scanner/screen combo informed me that I had to “wait for assistance”. For what? I again graced anyone within earshot with a few choice words. You will be stupefied to learn that no assistance came forth. The machine cared not, assumed I was some moron who lacked swiping ability and refused to allow me to continue the check-out process. That’s it. I was DONE. Done. Done. Done. One foot already over the line of the cliff of Tolerance of Absurdity, I stormed out of WM. Left, just left. Left my cart right where it was, and left. Had to leave. Just had to. TER followed silently behind. When Mom is shaking in an attempt to not commit an act which would force WM to, in the future, carry straight jackets (likely in the housewares department) for occasions during which irate customers need to be restrained, a bright child will obey the wordless orders to make no sudden moves and to accept as appropriate everything Mom just said and did.
As God as my witness, I will never again enter a WM store. Now, who wants to go to Target with me tonight?
July 12, 2009
Big Bang Befuddlement
If you shot a high-powered rifle off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean at a 45 degree angle, how far do you think the bullet would go?
Yeah, um, I don't know either. This is the question 13-year old TER asked me yesterday. Out of nowhere. Apropos to nothing. While I was sitting at the dining room table clipping coupons for the grocery store food that nourishes his body and mind just so that his surely-larger-than-mine brain can come up with questions like this. To ask me. Why me? My only response was to cock my head to the right, squint my eyes in confusion, laugh stupidly and say "I can't believe you just asked me that!".
The fact that he can even come up with such questions makes it clear that he will, in very short order, be more intelligent than I ever was. As most parents do when presented with an off-the-wall question, I told him to Google it. Or, that he should call his uncle, who was, at that same moment in time, hanging out at a gun shop. His response to this pass-the buck suggestion was to tell me that he didn't really care that much. I don't get it. How can a child possibly come up with such a query, ask it of an adult whom he knows wouldn't have faintest idea of how to even hazard a guess, but not truly be curious enough to hunt down the answer for himself? Then what is the point of asking the question in the first place?
I tried to Google the answer, but still don't know how much ground (or water) a bullet would cover in such a situation, assuming that there was no wind. I'm the one who doesn't give a good gosh damn, yet I'm the one trying to find out. What's wrong with this picture?
However, a random person on http://www.answers.yahoo.com/ who claims to have a degree in mechanical engineering tells us that:
Neglecting air resistance, it would travel 20.66 miles if fired at a 45 degree angle.
Vy = 571.144 m/sVy = Vo + (gravity)(time) 571.144 = 0 + 9.81(t)t = 58.22 seconds Vx = 571.144 m/sX = Xo + (Vo)(t)X = 0 +(571.144)(58.22)X = 33,252 metres X = 109,094.50 feet X = 20.66.
Good to know.
July 8, 2009
Stop Using Protection
Mind out of the gutter - this is not about ungloved love.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
The town in which I live is populated by less than 15,000 people, but contains more than 967,000 stop signs. One would think this would result in traffic congestion which rivals that of horrifyingly wretched, ozone-depleting cites such as Los Angeles and Atlanta; the latter of which should be bitch-slapped for the fact that 99.9% of its roads contain the word Peachtree. However, since I am the only one who comes to a complete stop at each and every one of the red octagons, vehicles manage to make their way around town with no real hindrances.
Not only do I stop at stop signs, I also - GASP - cease my car's movement at red traffic lights, of which there are merely 48,000 in town. Law-abiding citizen I am, I further only make a right turn on red after coming to a complete halt. Evidently, most are unaware of this requirement. Or maybe I am wrong; perhaps it is an actual mandate that red lights are only meant for those turning left, going straight, or need time to send an email on their Crackberry.
While fully decelerated at such a red light this weekend, I observed a family crossing the street to my right. Dad walked beside two youngins who were riding their bikes. Both kids wore helmets - my first clue that this was a dorky family. I have never understood why and when it was determined that children must be protected from all possible danger. Helmets, knee pads, leashes for unruly toddlers (in my day, if we ran in the mall, we just got smacked), gps microchips implanted in the back of the necks of newborns......Good Lord. Soon, there will be invisible force fields in which to encase your children as soon as they get out of bed (with its protective rails, of course) in the morning.
It's ok to fall down and skin your knee; both of mine bear scars from childhood falls. And, it's ok to let your kids do stupid things and learn from the consequences. Go ahead, touch the hot stove and see what happens! You're talking to a girl who once, for no explicable reason, through a rock the size of a baseball up in the air - proceeded to look up at it and have gravity bring it back down right onto her face, knocking out a front tooth! Guess what, I didn't do that again.
But I digress. Behind Dad and overly-protected bike-riding kiddos was Mom. She was pushing an umbrella which carried a kid who was probably two years old. Keep in mind, the boy was IN THE STROLLER. He wasn't pushing, he wasn't standing in it, hell, he looked quite comfortable in his chauffeured state. My eyes popped out of my head when I realized that he too, HAD ON A HELMET! WTF?? Ok, this family is worse than dorks, they are complete, brainwashed buffoons.* I predict that each of their now-unscathed children will be verbally tormented and have cafeteria food hurled at them by the time they reach second grade.
I was just about to roll down my window and harass them myself, but the light turned green and the impatient jerk behind me immediately honked his horn at me! I had to drive away - 75 yards to a stop sign.
* Please note that neither Mom nor Dad wore a helmet. I defy you to explain that one.
June 30, 2009
My Four- and Two-Legged Children
The other day, the boy and I took Haaaaawleeeeee Pupster (aka Holly or You Dumb Dog) to the dog park for some canine play time. Before I moved to the great metropolis that is Northern Virginia, I had never even heard of a dog park. Huh? A park just for dogs? Um, why? Now I know why. There are two types of dog owners here: 1) those with multi-million dollar homes with big yards and paid employees whose sole responsibility is to care for the household tail-wagger; and 2) the majority of us with apartments or condos or townhomes with, if you're lucky, postage stamp-sized yards, with only whiny children to force to take out the dog to pee and poo. These cooped up dogs need a way to expend their energy.
So, alas, we have dog parks. Ours is actually kind of nice, a 90' x 150' shaded area with on-site water to quench the thirst that the pups work up during play time. It is covered only in dirt and mulch, so be prepared to come home with a blackened, mud-covered dog if you go there shortly after a good rain. I once saw a "dad" on the verge of tears when his lovely white Akita found a deep puddle and proceed to roll in it. Dirty dog. Funny to us other owners, but not to her person. I did cry out 'oh no!' in feigned sympathy for this guy's upcoming chore of giving a thorough bath and bleaching to the muck-riddled dog. Holly is a Border Collie - half black/half white, so she'll only been in need of 50% of such a cleansing the first time she discovers such slimy soaked soil. Right?
During our most recent excursion, there were plenty of other mangy mutts running around, so Holly was in doggie heaven. She's a herder, so loves to chase and corral the other animals, no matter their size. She's also uber-friendly and takes time out from her work to greet and love and kiss every human who wanders into the park. Lucky for her, she's quite adorable, so nobody seems to mind the unexpected saliva she is prone to heap on her victims.
Holly's play time lasted about 45 minutes, until it became evident that she was too pooped to run any more, and needed to go home for a doggie nap. She was ready to leave, but 13 year-old TER was not. He hadn't played at all - with Holly. Instead, he had made friends with a large, prissy poodle. This prissy poodle is named Rocco. He must have been gay, as all male poodles must be. That, or very secure in their sexuality. Really, when was the last time you saw a male poodle, much less one named Rocco, that had the appearance of a dog overloaded with testosterone - ready to bear his teeth and eat you in one bite? Never. They are just the prissiest breed out there. (I do not count any creature that fits in your purse as a dog - only as overgrown rats. If you can drop kick it, it is NOT a dog!)
I finally separated the boy from his effeminate friend and piled both he and Holly back into the car. That puppy immediately lay down on the back floorboard and dozed all the way home. That boy asked if we could go again tomorrow. I think he and Rocco made a date. They will have to reschedule. TER has baseball practice all week, and I'm sure Rocco the poodle has Doggie Ballet class or some such thing.
June 24, 2009
He'll Take That To Go
It is well-known amongst my friends and family that I am a devoted fan of Starbucks. Venti Skim Nonfat Latte is my stimulant of choice. I do not indulge myself in this $3.65 plus tax treat every morning, but somehow, on the days I do, the birds sing a little sweeter, the sun shines a little brighter, and my eyes dart back and forth with greater speed. Caffeine is the great equalizer for those of us who are not morning people, and have to deal with freakily cheery folks who have been awake since 4:30, have done two loads of laundry, washed the car, painted the neighbor’s house and recounted the votes of the Iranian election – all before clocking in at the office at 9:00 a.m.
This morning’s visit to a local House of Morning Invigoration was an extra-special pleasure, because I saw something odd. One of those things that makes your little head turn to the side, your mouth open a bit wider, your eyes squint, and your mind think “huh?”. Here’s what happened….
I noticed that the guy in front of me in line was kind of cute. This is apropos of nothing, but an attractive man is always a happy sight. Said gentleman exited the store about 30 seconds before I did with what I imagine was the beverage that puts some extra bounce in his step. Once I left the store and proceeded to my vehicle, I noticed that Cute Man was parked directly to the right of my car. Now, here’s the thing……..his mode of transportation was a motorcycle. Assuming that it must be quite a feat to drive a Chopper while joyously downing an espresso drink, I slowed my walk to the car so I could continue the observation of the fellow who was no longer Cute Man, but Gee-He-Must-Be-Coordinated Man. A millisecond later, he became Somehow-Related-To-MacGyver Man. It was not his intention to move on down the road with handle bar in one hand and a hot drink in the other. His procedure involved the strapping of the Starbucks cup to the back of the bike!!! Next to a back-pack looking thing on the back of the bike was some kind of uber-cup holder.
By this time, since I didn’t have the nerve to walk up to him, lean over and learn the process by which his liquid libation was to be successfully transported, I had no choice but to get into my car and place my drink in the cup holder bequeathed to me by Honda. I peeked out the corner of my eye, but was unable to see what I wanted, a system that must have involved straps, duct tape, bungee cords and various widths of rope. Bummer. Like an obsessed dork, I tried to follow him once we both left the parking lot, but I lost him. I had SOOOOOOO many questions for him. For example: Dude, how did you do that? Dude, why did you do that? Are you really so late for work that you don’t have time to partake of your drink while still at Starbucks? Was this some kind of dare? How much spilled out? Are you single?
This, I suppose, is one of life’s mysteries that will never be solved. It will always make me go hhhhmmmmm. Especially since I confirmed with my motorcycle-riding boss that strapping coffee to the back of bike is NOT something you see every day.
I wonder what he does when it's his turn to bring in coffee for everyone in the office.............
This morning’s visit to a local House of Morning Invigoration was an extra-special pleasure, because I saw something odd. One of those things that makes your little head turn to the side, your mouth open a bit wider, your eyes squint, and your mind think “huh?”. Here’s what happened….
I noticed that the guy in front of me in line was kind of cute. This is apropos of nothing, but an attractive man is always a happy sight. Said gentleman exited the store about 30 seconds before I did with what I imagine was the beverage that puts some extra bounce in his step. Once I left the store and proceeded to my vehicle, I noticed that Cute Man was parked directly to the right of my car. Now, here’s the thing……..his mode of transportation was a motorcycle. Assuming that it must be quite a feat to drive a Chopper while joyously downing an espresso drink, I slowed my walk to the car so I could continue the observation of the fellow who was no longer Cute Man, but Gee-He-Must-Be-Coordinated Man. A millisecond later, he became Somehow-Related-To-MacGyver Man. It was not his intention to move on down the road with handle bar in one hand and a hot drink in the other. His procedure involved the strapping of the Starbucks cup to the back of the bike!!! Next to a back-pack looking thing on the back of the bike was some kind of uber-cup holder.
By this time, since I didn’t have the nerve to walk up to him, lean over and learn the process by which his liquid libation was to be successfully transported, I had no choice but to get into my car and place my drink in the cup holder bequeathed to me by Honda. I peeked out the corner of my eye, but was unable to see what I wanted, a system that must have involved straps, duct tape, bungee cords and various widths of rope. Bummer. Like an obsessed dork, I tried to follow him once we both left the parking lot, but I lost him. I had SOOOOOOO many questions for him. For example: Dude, how did you do that? Dude, why did you do that? Are you really so late for work that you don’t have time to partake of your drink while still at Starbucks? Was this some kind of dare? How much spilled out? Are you single?
This, I suppose, is one of life’s mysteries that will never be solved. It will always make me go hhhhmmmmm. Especially since I confirmed with my motorcycle-riding boss that strapping coffee to the back of bike is NOT something you see every day.
I wonder what he does when it's his turn to bring in coffee for everyone in the office.............
June 22, 2009
Reality bites
John and Kate Gosselin have separated. If you do not know of whom I write, you either live under a rock, or are one of those freaks who suspiciously claim to have never watched even one episode of reality tv. Oh, come on. There are now approximately 538,429 reality tv shows to be found (and joked about) on network and cable television. My favorite show title (and I swear I've never watched this one) is The Exterminator. eeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww The show I'm most ashamed to admit I've seen more than once is Scott Baio is 45 and Single. It was, and really only could have been, a train wreck.
A train wreck is now what many will call the beloved adults of Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Parents to eight kids, and married ten years, the couple have decided to separate. Conjecture abounds, most assuming that the shear spectacle that became their lives once the reality show about their family gained popularity is the sole cause of the split. This is likely at least partially true, but for purposes of this think piece, I choose to operate under the notion that this is not unlike many other 'regular' divorces.
I cried when Jon and Kate officially announced what most everyone had deduced, that they plan to go their separate ways. All televised evidence to the contrary, I kept my fingers crossed that they could work out their differences.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been married. Therefore, many of you will likely decide to tell me where to stick it after I make my comments on the subject.
I have friends and family members who have: divorced with kids; divorced without kids; divorced more than once; or wished they were divorced, but didn't pursue it because of the kids. Most sorrowful of all, I know couples who, in my unsought opinion, should never have been married in the first place. These duos are the most tragic to me. There are probably more reasons to NOT get married than there are TO get married. Too many couples have managed to either convince themselves that something is right when it is not, or have fallen into a situation they can't see their way out of. Do not castigate me for this assessment, for the same is true of all relationships, not just marriage.
Any divorce is markedly upsetting to me. In some kind of twisted paradox, perhaps this is because I never have been married. Somehow, whenever a couple I know personally, or just know of, decides to end what was assumed at the beginning to be a permanent relationship, it takes away another piece of my hope that love will win out - for better or for worse.........until death do they part.
My parents have been married for 38 years. My mother's parents were married 54 years before my grandmother died. No doubt they would have been married for 54 more had God allowed for an unlimited life span. These facts are glorious and keep me from becoming irrevocably cynical about the existence of everlasting love.
However, I notice far too many having to find their inner peace and sanity by disuniting from their partner, rather than clinging to them.
I really do not know what my point is here. What I do know is that I am disheartened by the fact that nobody has bothered to marry me, but am relieved that nobody has ever come to the conclusion that they don't want to be married to me anymore.
A train wreck is now what many will call the beloved adults of Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Parents to eight kids, and married ten years, the couple have decided to separate. Conjecture abounds, most assuming that the shear spectacle that became their lives once the reality show about their family gained popularity is the sole cause of the split. This is likely at least partially true, but for purposes of this think piece, I choose to operate under the notion that this is not unlike many other 'regular' divorces.
I cried when Jon and Kate officially announced what most everyone had deduced, that they plan to go their separate ways. All televised evidence to the contrary, I kept my fingers crossed that they could work out their differences.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have never been married. Therefore, many of you will likely decide to tell me where to stick it after I make my comments on the subject.
I have friends and family members who have: divorced with kids; divorced without kids; divorced more than once; or wished they were divorced, but didn't pursue it because of the kids. Most sorrowful of all, I know couples who, in my unsought opinion, should never have been married in the first place. These duos are the most tragic to me. There are probably more reasons to NOT get married than there are TO get married. Too many couples have managed to either convince themselves that something is right when it is not, or have fallen into a situation they can't see their way out of. Do not castigate me for this assessment, for the same is true of all relationships, not just marriage.
Any divorce is markedly upsetting to me. In some kind of twisted paradox, perhaps this is because I never have been married. Somehow, whenever a couple I know personally, or just know of, decides to end what was assumed at the beginning to be a permanent relationship, it takes away another piece of my hope that love will win out - for better or for worse.........until death do they part.
My parents have been married for 38 years. My mother's parents were married 54 years before my grandmother died. No doubt they would have been married for 54 more had God allowed for an unlimited life span. These facts are glorious and keep me from becoming irrevocably cynical about the existence of everlasting love.
However, I notice far too many having to find their inner peace and sanity by disuniting from their partner, rather than clinging to them.
I really do not know what my point is here. What I do know is that I am disheartened by the fact that nobody has bothered to marry me, but am relieved that nobody has ever come to the conclusion that they don't want to be married to me anymore.
June 21, 2009
Oh Deer, I need some Carbs!
My dear son, TER, is a hunter. It's an outdoor activity that he and my brother, his dear uncle JET, have connected over. The boy has been joining the man at the Hunt Club for years. It has come to my attention that the rule is that What Happens At The Club, Stays At The Club. It is legend - the amount of liquor consumed, four-letter words hurled about, and the not-for-children movies shown to anyone who happens to be in the room at the time. Neither of the two would ever confess to such, but I would bet $5.00 that my 13-year old has already had his first taste of beer; or possibly whiskey, since that is a family favorite. Quality time in the form of Bulleit Bourbon Bonding.
I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.
My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......
I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.
So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)
In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.
I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.
And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.
** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).
I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.
My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......
I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.
So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)
In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.
I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.
And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.
** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).
June 18, 2009
I accomplished many things yesterday - left the house with matching shoes; got to work on time; did two loads of laundry (when I got back home, not at work - that would be silly, unless I worked at the local Howard Johnson); cleaned the house in anticipation of my mother's visit this weekend; bought a basketball for my son; and ate dinner without spilling spaghetti sauce on myself. However, there are three things I pulled off yesterday that are of concern:
1. I became confused when I could not locate the Roman Numerals (which I spelled Numberals on my first pounding of the buttons) on my computer keyboard. Um, yeah, they are also called Capital Letters!
2. It took me three attempts to correctly inform a client of the date of missing documents. There is a difference between January 2009, January 2008 and December 2008!
3. I searched for 15 minutes for what I thought was a missing file - which I located right beside my desk phone. The phone resides 14 inches (I measured) from my left elbow when I am at the computer.
Oh, and earlier in the week.......I was on the PHONE with an automated person and was told to press 3. So I pressed the 3 on my KEYBOARD. I have since come to realize that the two are separate apparatus.
As I recall (haha), such mental deterioration can be caused by a number of things, including a good drop on the head as a small child; chronic use of alcohol and/or marijuana; or earning a living as a professional boxer. I suffer from none of these conditions, I think. I did drop my son on his head (a story for another day) when he was six months old, so at least he'll have a better excuse for any mind loss he encounters.
I suppose there is no other conclusion to which to come other than I am getting older. http://www.bigsiteofamazingfacts.com/ tells me - so it must be true - that at the rate of a thousand brain cells lost per day, it would take almost 300,000 years before my brain runs out of cells! Even though I still have close to 299,963 years of brain cells left, it is my belief that the first 37 years of cell lost are the most dramatic. Case in point - me! Oh, and many of my friends. At least I'm in good company.
There was something else I wanted to say, but I can't remember what it was.
June 12, 2009
Thank you for calling!
I have a celebration coming up. It will soon be twenty years since my best friend and I met during our freshman year in college. Some, but not I, would refer to her as my BFF. I shan't do that because I refuse to say/do/wear/etc. anything that reminds me of that useless twithead of a talentless, teeny rat-dog carrying drain on humanity, Paris Hilton. But I digress.............for you math whizzes out there, yes, that also means that this is the time (June 14 to be exact) to commemorate my high school graduation. For those of you wishing to send a gift, China is the traditional offering for a 20th anniversary. I prefer Wedgewood.
Tallulah is the name of the woman with whom I will observe this auspicious milestone. Ok, not really. I mean, she's the best friend to whom I refer, but her name is not really Tallulah. If it were, let's face it, I would have forced her to change it immediately upon being introduced to her in the hallway of the all-girl dorm (affectionately referred to as the Virgin Vault) to which we were sentenced way back in 1999.
As I pointed out in my very first post, I don't need to know you if you're not at least a bit kooky and/or insane. Lucky for me, Tallulah easily fell into the Kooky category (she's the biggest fan ever of - get this - the Monkees!). And after 20 years, there have surely been some insane moments for us both. Most such instances were times when we were just down right goofy and giggly; only a few were during the moments when we had bats in our respective belfries.
The most recent bout of giggly was over Tallulah's retort to a political survey taker who oh-so-inconveniently gave her a call during dinner time. We've all been there. We ignore the inner voice that tells us to ignore the ring when the Caller ID warns us that the incoming in an Unknown Caller. However, there are times when the mental flicker of a possibility that it really could be somebody we'd like to speak with at the other end of the line overrides the part of our mind that KNOWS it is a mistake to answer the phone. We pick up the receiver, only to be immediately accosted with unwanted offers of aluminum siding for our homes and warnings that our car warranties are about to expire!
What began as Tallulah's blooper of answering the call soon became a moment for her to shine! Her quick wit and sarcasm stopped the political opinion gatherer in his tracks.
ANNOYING QUESTION: What do you think is the biggest threat to America posed by the Obama administration?
GLORIOUS ANSWER: Pollsters!!
End of survey. Evidently, there was no direction in his script to cover this answer. Dinner-Interrupto-Man hung up and Tallulah called me immediately (I happily answered when my Caller ID announced it was her) to regale me with the tale of her brilliant comeback! Insert Uproarious Laughter here.......
I wonder who the stumped and stunned guy called after that! Maybe his BFF??
Tallulah is the name of the woman with whom I will observe this auspicious milestone. Ok, not really. I mean, she's the best friend to whom I refer, but her name is not really Tallulah. If it were, let's face it, I would have forced her to change it immediately upon being introduced to her in the hallway of the all-girl dorm (affectionately referred to as the Virgin Vault) to which we were sentenced way back in 1999.
As I pointed out in my very first post, I don't need to know you if you're not at least a bit kooky and/or insane. Lucky for me, Tallulah easily fell into the Kooky category (she's the biggest fan ever of - get this - the Monkees!). And after 20 years, there have surely been some insane moments for us both. Most such instances were times when we were just down right goofy and giggly; only a few were during the moments when we had bats in our respective belfries.
The most recent bout of giggly was over Tallulah's retort to a political survey taker who oh-so-inconveniently gave her a call during dinner time. We've all been there. We ignore the inner voice that tells us to ignore the ring when the Caller ID warns us that the incoming in an Unknown Caller. However, there are times when the mental flicker of a possibility that it really could be somebody we'd like to speak with at the other end of the line overrides the part of our mind that KNOWS it is a mistake to answer the phone. We pick up the receiver, only to be immediately accosted with unwanted offers of aluminum siding for our homes and warnings that our car warranties are about to expire!
What began as Tallulah's blooper of answering the call soon became a moment for her to shine! Her quick wit and sarcasm stopped the political opinion gatherer in his tracks.
ANNOYING QUESTION: What do you think is the biggest threat to America posed by the Obama administration?
GLORIOUS ANSWER: Pollsters!!
End of survey. Evidently, there was no direction in his script to cover this answer. Dinner-Interrupto-Man hung up and Tallulah called me immediately (I happily answered when my Caller ID announced it was her) to regale me with the tale of her brilliant comeback! Insert Uproarious Laughter here.......
I wonder who the stumped and stunned guy called after that! Maybe his BFF??
June 10, 2009
I'm Positive.
A dear friend of mine, Art (not Alexakis of Everclear), has challenged me to write something that is completely positive. So far, so good, as I've referred to him as a "dear friend" and not just 'some dude'. Here I go:
This evening, my child is being inducted into the National Junior Honor Society, qualifications for membership are a student's outstanding performance in the areas of scholarship, service, leadership, character and citizenship. He is quite the Renaissance Man at the ripe young age of 13. He has brought home straight A's this year, is active in sports and the school band, and is a truly kind person. He can also expound articulate arguments in the ares of politics and the ethical responsibilities people have toward each other.
Other positive thoughts and facts include:
This evening, my child is being inducted into the National Junior Honor Society, qualifications for membership are a student's outstanding performance in the areas of scholarship, service, leadership, character and citizenship. He is quite the Renaissance Man at the ripe young age of 13. He has brought home straight A's this year, is active in sports and the school band, and is a truly kind person. He can also expound articulate arguments in the ares of politics and the ethical responsibilities people have toward each other.
Other positive thoughts and facts include:
- I have a job and a benevolent dictator of a boss whom I know has my back. (I once heard John Mellencamp described as a benevolent dictator and always loved that phrase.)
- I have a warm and safe home to go to every night.
- I love those with whom I live - the boy, the dog and the cat.
- I have some wonderful, crazy friends who love me despite, or more likely because of, the fact that I'm as loony as are they!
- I had a yummy Quizno's Tuscan Turkey sandwich for lunch today.
- It's baseball season, soon to be followed by football season.
- The new Dallas Cowboys stadium opens this year.
- Wii Boxing rocks.
- I know how to cook - food is always something you can use to make others happy.
- John Mellencamp and Art Alexakis are very talented musicians, and I have seen both in concert!
So, there you have it. Nothing but happiness and light. :)
June 9, 2009
Curses. Foiled Again! I don't think so!!
Yesterday, I sent the below letter to Wal-Mart. It will present all necessary background for the latest episode in my Oh-I-Don't-Think-So attitude adjustment.
To Whom It May Concern:
On June 7, 2009, I shopped for several items at Store Number 2015. Upon checkout, I was surprised to learn that a coupon I had for “One Free Roll of Reynolds Wrap Heavy Duty Aluminum Foil” would not be honored. The cashier told me that the store does not accept internet coupons. An assistant manager, Mildred, happened by and rudely reiterated what was, in her estimation, the clear fact that the store does not internet coupons. She refused to give further explanation as to why my Manufacturer’s Coupon was unacceptable.
Due largely to Mildred’s brusque response to my questions about the coupon and the store’s policy, I requested to speak to the Manager. The Manager, Cindy, again restated the store’s policy. She then presented to me a book, presumably some sort of operations manual, with a highlighted portion stating “Do not accept photocopies of coupons.” Cindy maintained that this phrase was the reason the store would not honor my coupon.
The coupon I have is not a photocopy. Further, Wal-Mart’s Coupon Policy on its website clearly states that it accepts internet coupons. Therefore, I respectfully request that the purchase price of the item ($3.32) be reimbursed to me as soon as possible. Enclosed please find the relevant documentation supporting this request.
Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can provide further information.That's right, people, I'm making a fuss over $3.32 (less the 44 cents it cost to mail said letter). That's a net of $2.88 for my outrage. Compensation for the offensive incident is not unreasonable, and Wal-Mart should issue a reimbursement check forthwith (I work for attorneys). Furthermore, the company should show me the money even more forthwither, lest I take a lesson from a gentleman in Louisiana who earlier this month set his local Wal-Mart store ON FIRE after not being allowed to return various items. Look it up, I swear. Fire! He set the joint on Fire. This was certainly about more than 50 square feet of aluminum foil. Hey, aluminum foil won't combust in the oven - do you think they could have used it to put out the fire started by Mr. Wright (actual name of arsonist)?
I will probably never know why the managers I dealt with regarding my food-wrapping substance were so hot and bothered to absolutely refuse my valid and legitimate coupon. Perhaps they feared that the coupon truly was copied, and that I was in criminal violation of federal copyright laws. And as such the brazen felonious woman I am, most certainly I was taking copies of that aluminum foil coupon all over county, collecting roll after roll of aluminum foil! Mwuhahaha Yes, that's it. That's got to be it. They've found me out. I NEED all of that aluminum foil to cover all the windows in my house to protect me from the mind-controlling aliens who have previously abducted me and run all kinds of Glad Wrap, Ziploc Bag and Parchment Paper experiments on me! I hope I end up with enough rolls so that I can also make protective hats for the dog, the cat, my son and me! I've got to protect my family!!!!!!! And heck, maybe Mel Gibson will cast us in Signs II.
June 6, 2009
Have a seat.
Yeah! My new living room furniture is now situated on the puppy-pee-free carpet! However, bringing in the cushy seating arrangement was not without trauma, drama and even one electronic casualty.
Just as a I had requested - but surprisingly, nonetheless, the delivery driver contacted me at my office 30 minutes before expected delivery. More impressively, the truck arrived 45 minutes later. A 15-minute fib in a world where valued customers are often given a 4-hour window during which a needed repair or delivery person will arrive to save the day is more than noteworthy. I was all the more impressed by the timely arrival during yet another rain storm - it's been monsoon season, I swear!
The three gentlemen charged with providing my new accommodations first carried in the smaller items - lamp, end tables and ottoman (complete with storage cubbies - yeehaw!). Then, it was time to bring in the sofa, which is the piece on the right in the photo. The picture does not do justice to the fact that the couch really is much larger than the loveseat on the left. Now, as objects in the rearview mirror may seem closer than the really are; to the manly-men carrying it, the sofa seemed smaller than it truly was. Or my front door seemed bigger - or something to that effect.
Of the three men attempting to squeeze a rectangular peg through a smaller rectangular hole, only one spoke English, and he was, of course, my main contact. The seven years of Spanish I took between middle school and college allowed me to eavesdrop a couple of words at a time when the guys were discussing the situation amongst themselves. For certain, I translated: "Wait", "Lift it", "No" (granted, an easy translation), and a bunch of grunting - also simple interpretations. Only one English phrase escaped the lips of the sucker still stuck outside the door, in the rain, with one end of the sofa was "Oh Shit!". That can't be good.
It turns out that I am not the only one who utters such words during times of what really is only minimal trouble. No great catastrophe - just a decent-sized annoyance. It became apparent that the cursing was simply because they had determined that the (@#&$# couch was just NOT going to get through the @#*&$#@ door! The next words I heard from the English-speaking head-dude were "Miss, do you have a drill?" If there were any hope of my being able to sit my tail on anything but the clean floor in the near future, they were going to have to remove the legs of the loveseat and sofa! And, oops, their drill wasn't charged up. Fine, no problem, I have a drill. Never operated it, but I have it and have solicited others to fix things with it for me. While I went downstairs to retrieve this critical piece of equipment, the uncharged drill of the frustrated men was attached to a plug in my dining room to charge.
In time, legs were successfully removed, foamy parts successfully brought in, and legs successfully reattached to said foamy parts of the sofa and loveseat. One of the men then returned to the outlet to check the status of charging. Nothing had happened - the "I'm Charging" light wasn't even on. He was convinced that my plug had no electricity. I assured him that it did, as I had used that very plug the day before to steam clean away dog pee! Always enjoying a good round of show-and-tell, I plugged in said cleaner and voila - it worked just fine. I maintained that his drill charger thingie is what was dead. This opinion was verified mere seconds later when he smacked the side of a charger (a move I thought only silly women who own tools but can't operate them would attempt) and it promptly sparked! Yeah, it's dead. All he could say was "oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh". I was thinking, "Si, muerto!"
Since the smacking was so intelligently done while the lifeless apparatus was plugged in, it flipped the circuit breaker, and the lights in the living room went off. Oh, for crying out loud. Bilingual man and I went to the basement to find the appropriate breaker switch thingie to flip back on. We did and then there was light. And in that light, I could see that all of the furniture was successfully in and even the lamp had been unboxed and properly assembled for me. The very next, and last, thing I saw, were the Three Amigos walking out the front door. They didn't even say Adios!
June 4, 2009
An In (the living room) Convenient Pee
New living room furniture is being delivered to my home tomorrow! Props to the Room Store and its No Payments/No Interest for Two Years deal! Of course, they are counting on me to make No Payments for the two years, then they can screw me with $824,293.74 in accumulated interest. My plan is to outsmart them by winning the lottery and paying them off long before 2011. Excellent strategy, right? Plan B is to request a government bailout for struggling sofa-owners.
In anticipation of the new items on which to rest my sorry butt when I'm not energized enough to do anything productive, I decided to steam clean the carpet. Now that I think about it, I could save a lot of effort on that endeavor by simply first deciding where to situate the new stuff, and then just clean aroud it! Curses! Oh well.
During my lunch hour today, I went home to steam clean some of the carpet. I chose to work on this chore during lunch time because 1) I work close to home, and therefore would have no Northern Virginia traffic to battle; and 2) I had nothing better to do. Pathetic, I know.
In addition to dingy carpet, I have an 8 month old puppy, Holly. Before I started the cleaning process, I took her out for a good potty. But apparently, this young lady has an aversion to freshly unblemished flooring material. While I was slowly (per the directions) running the machine back and forth over the area to which the solution had been applied, this mutt peed on the carpet. She literally did this right behind my back! I suppose that was a sign of intelligence. After I called her the proper name for a female dog, I had no choice but to turn around and steam the area of the offending puppy pee. Holly then looked at me as if to say, I swear, "Gosh, Mommy, I was just helping you wet the area to be cleaned." Helpful, thanks so much.
Hopefully, she will not enlist the additional assistance of the cat this evening while I finish the job. Damn, I'm gonna need more cleaning solution!
In anticipation of the new items on which to rest my sorry butt when I'm not energized enough to do anything productive, I decided to steam clean the carpet. Now that I think about it, I could save a lot of effort on that endeavor by simply first deciding where to situate the new stuff, and then just clean aroud it! Curses! Oh well.
During my lunch hour today, I went home to steam clean some of the carpet. I chose to work on this chore during lunch time because 1) I work close to home, and therefore would have no Northern Virginia traffic to battle; and 2) I had nothing better to do. Pathetic, I know.
In addition to dingy carpet, I have an 8 month old puppy, Holly. Before I started the cleaning process, I took her out for a good potty. But apparently, this young lady has an aversion to freshly unblemished flooring material. While I was slowly (per the directions) running the machine back and forth over the area to which the solution had been applied, this mutt peed on the carpet. She literally did this right behind my back! I suppose that was a sign of intelligence. After I called her the proper name for a female dog, I had no choice but to turn around and steam the area of the offending puppy pee. Holly then looked at me as if to say, I swear, "Gosh, Mommy, I was just helping you wet the area to be cleaned." Helpful, thanks so much.
Hopefully, she will not enlist the additional assistance of the cat this evening while I finish the job. Damn, I'm gonna need more cleaning solution!
June 2, 2009
Name That Tune
My son performed tonight in the school's last Band Concert of the year. Thank goodness - not that he and his trusty oboe performed flawlessly, but that it is the last jam session for the year. As middle school bands go (and I've now been subjected to many more of them that I ever nightmared possible), they are very good - even taking 1st place in a recent competition. So, it is not the fault of the troupe itself that I do not particularly enjoy attending such events, it's just that I like words to my music. Instrumental arias just do not do it for me.
A friend suggested that I attempt to match the words in my own head to the music being propelled toward my cochlea. Since that wasn't even close to any of the worst ideas I've ever heard (one of which involved a hot guy at a party and shotgunning my first beer), I chose to give it a go. Too bad, then, that there was no way on God's green earth that the band's tempo could match the velocity with which words and thoughts pulse through my little brain. Eh, it was worth a try.
Since it is not possible for me to make verbal sense out of the sounds emanating from the stage, Band Concerts only grab my attention when one of two things happens. Most often, given that much of the music played leans toward the classical variety, any jingle I do recognize is something I once heard on a cartoon. More often than not, that cartoon is Tom & Jerry. When that fond childhood memory presents itself to me in the darkened auditorium, I have no trouble visualizing that pesky mouse tormenting that silly, gray cat.
The second type of tune that sparks recognition and interest for me is one which contains even just a few notes that are those of a religious hymn. Tonight, sounds from How Great Thou Art appeared in some piece the band was performing. I have no idea what that piece was called, but I do know How Great Thou Art when I hear it. There are two renditions of this beautiful song that stick in my head. The first is as sung by Julia Sugarbaker (Dixie Carter) on Designing Women. If you do not recall the episode in which this appeared - check it out - it was a good one!
The other arrangement of this hymn that I adore is that performed by Elvis Presley. I was practically raised on Elvis, as my parents were/are big fans. I can still remember all of my Dad's Elvis 8-track tapes. (Yes, I'd enough to vividly remember the 8-track.) My parents' song is one of Elvis'; he died on my father's birthday and there is an Elvis trilogy that my father wants played at his own funeral. God willing, that will be many, many years from now. So many years, in fact, that perhaps the 8-track will have come back around. The classics do have a way of coming back into style, you know!
Another factoid that I'm happy to report that Sirius/XM has a channel devoted solely to the music of Elvis (#018 on your formerly-just-XM dial). It broadcasts from Graceland, I swear!
I am going to suggest that next year, the middle school band schedules a field trip to Memphis! I'll be a fantastic chaperone! Do you think we'll get to see the jungle room?
A friend suggested that I attempt to match the words in my own head to the music being propelled toward my cochlea. Since that wasn't even close to any of the worst ideas I've ever heard (one of which involved a hot guy at a party and shotgunning my first beer), I chose to give it a go. Too bad, then, that there was no way on God's green earth that the band's tempo could match the velocity with which words and thoughts pulse through my little brain. Eh, it was worth a try.
Since it is not possible for me to make verbal sense out of the sounds emanating from the stage, Band Concerts only grab my attention when one of two things happens. Most often, given that much of the music played leans toward the classical variety, any jingle I do recognize is something I once heard on a cartoon. More often than not, that cartoon is Tom & Jerry. When that fond childhood memory presents itself to me in the darkened auditorium, I have no trouble visualizing that pesky mouse tormenting that silly, gray cat.
The second type of tune that sparks recognition and interest for me is one which contains even just a few notes that are those of a religious hymn. Tonight, sounds from How Great Thou Art appeared in some piece the band was performing. I have no idea what that piece was called, but I do know How Great Thou Art when I hear it. There are two renditions of this beautiful song that stick in my head. The first is as sung by Julia Sugarbaker (Dixie Carter) on Designing Women. If you do not recall the episode in which this appeared - check it out - it was a good one!
The other arrangement of this hymn that I adore is that performed by Elvis Presley. I was practically raised on Elvis, as my parents were/are big fans. I can still remember all of my Dad's Elvis 8-track tapes. (Yes, I'd enough to vividly remember the 8-track.) My parents' song is one of Elvis'; he died on my father's birthday and there is an Elvis trilogy that my father wants played at his own funeral. God willing, that will be many, many years from now. So many years, in fact, that perhaps the 8-track will have come back around. The classics do have a way of coming back into style, you know!
Another factoid that I'm happy to report that Sirius/XM has a channel devoted solely to the music of Elvis (#018 on your formerly-just-XM dial). It broadcasts from Graceland, I swear!
I am going to suggest that next year, the middle school band schedules a field trip to Memphis! I'll be a fantastic chaperone! Do you think we'll get to see the jungle room?
June 1, 2009
Change is good?
My mother once told me: Change is good....Transition sucks!
Experience has taught me that certainly not all change is good, but mandated by the universe. That sneaky bastard. I suppose forced alterations in life are nature's way of keeping us on our toes. If only I were a ballerina; then perhaps I could more readily steady myself when my world is shockingly shaken up.
I will admit that once the permutation of what you thought you had settles in and has fully been transitioned to, it can occasionally be seen in a positive light. From what I've observed, those occasions are much too few and far between. Or is it that time does heal everything; we just haven't waited long enough? Where is the cosmic clock that count downs for you to the time when you will be comfortable again after having taken one for Team Human Race?
People change us. Circumstances change us. And sometimes, it's just a matter of Sh!t Happens. In any event, when you are subjected to something you never imagined, did not want, actively prayed against, or still cannot quite fathom, one must transition nevertheless. And that sucks! But there's no changing it.
Experience has taught me that certainly not all change is good, but mandated by the universe. That sneaky bastard. I suppose forced alterations in life are nature's way of keeping us on our toes. If only I were a ballerina; then perhaps I could more readily steady myself when my world is shockingly shaken up.
I will admit that once the permutation of what you thought you had settles in and has fully been transitioned to, it can occasionally be seen in a positive light. From what I've observed, those occasions are much too few and far between. Or is it that time does heal everything; we just haven't waited long enough? Where is the cosmic clock that count downs for you to the time when you will be comfortable again after having taken one for Team Human Race?
People change us. Circumstances change us. And sometimes, it's just a matter of Sh!t Happens. In any event, when you are subjected to something you never imagined, did not want, actively prayed against, or still cannot quite fathom, one must transition nevertheless. And that sucks! But there's no changing it.
May 29, 2009
Who's Next?
It seems that the young man at the orthodontist office does not know the woman I just ran into at the drug store. Had they been acquainted, he surely would have warned her about me. Unfortunately for her, she did not know with whom she was messing - she did not get the Don't Tick Off Sandy memo. Ok, there really was no messing, no tussling, no true let's-get-ready-to-rumble moment. What there was, though, was another opportunity for me to not be a doormat.
The trip to CVS this evening was essential so that I could refill my prescriptions before June 1, when co-pays and prescription costs go up. Again. Tangent...............Somebody get Barack on the line. I shan't complain too loudly as I am blessed with an employer who pays 100% of my health insurance premium! For this I am truly thankful, especially when it is evidenced daily that the price of nothing goes down. Up, up and away............
The check-out line there was marked by those cattle-herding rope lines, just like what you'd find at an amusement park. Oddly, these corrals did not have end pieces which would direct you as to which way you must turn to hold your place in the queue. The brain trust at CVS counts on the general public, many of whom are colossally stupid and/or rude, to properly and respectfully navigate themselves to the register.
I got lucky, or so I thought. When I arrived at the non-instructional rope line, there were no other customers in the vicinity. I made the executive decision to stand at the right end of the "line". Both ends were equidistant from the register, so I felt safe in my decision to begin a line, should other drug-seekers approach. Aha - here came one - the woman who doesn't know cell phone boy from the other day. This bleached blonde twit immediately positioned herself clear at the other end of the rope line. Politely and with an attempt at countrified cuteness I pointed at the dismembered check-out border and said "I'm not sure which end is the front". To this she replied "Well, I was here, but realized I forgot something." My initial, though not vocalized thought, was "AND????" Second thought: "I hope what you forgot was Ex-Lax to help get that stick out of your ---!" I said nothing - just stood there stewing in my juices. What nerve!
Then the answer came to me like Archangel Gabriel, but with much less religious significance. I WILL NOT let this obnoxious, brain-addled witch-face get to the register before I do!! NOT NOT NOT!!! So, when the clerk offered to help the "next person" in line, I darted right up to him! From the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. I-Was-Here-First attempt to make her move to scurry in front of me. I prevailed and could feel her eyes boring holes in the back of my head. It would have been satisfyingly awesome if I had the ability to stick out my tongue at her from the back of my head!! The icing on my Petty Cake was that the clerk could only find one of the three prescriptions I was there to collect. Ah, so sad that woman had to wait even longer. Mwuhahaha.
Mind you, I am not an evil person. However, I have spent way, way, way too much of life trying to be nice, accommodating others at all times, and just generally being a doormat. I think it's high time I stand up for myself, my desires and the things to which I am genuinely entitled. As long as I do not physically or emotionally scar anyone, or land myself in jail - where's the damage? Of course, it's small potatoes to tell a teenager to pipe down or to rightfully take my place in a drug store line, but I have to start somewhere, right?
Some may speculate that I have latent anger issues. To them I say - leave me alone, I have to go downstairs and do some Wii Boxing!!
The trip to CVS this evening was essential so that I could refill my prescriptions before June 1, when co-pays and prescription costs go up. Again. Tangent...............Somebody get Barack on the line. I shan't complain too loudly as I am blessed with an employer who pays 100% of my health insurance premium! For this I am truly thankful, especially when it is evidenced daily that the price of nothing goes down. Up, up and away............
The check-out line there was marked by those cattle-herding rope lines, just like what you'd find at an amusement park. Oddly, these corrals did not have end pieces which would direct you as to which way you must turn to hold your place in the queue. The brain trust at CVS counts on the general public, many of whom are colossally stupid and/or rude, to properly and respectfully navigate themselves to the register.
I got lucky, or so I thought. When I arrived at the non-instructional rope line, there were no other customers in the vicinity. I made the executive decision to stand at the right end of the "line". Both ends were equidistant from the register, so I felt safe in my decision to begin a line, should other drug-seekers approach. Aha - here came one - the woman who doesn't know cell phone boy from the other day. This bleached blonde twit immediately positioned herself clear at the other end of the rope line. Politely and with an attempt at countrified cuteness I pointed at the dismembered check-out border and said "I'm not sure which end is the front". To this she replied "Well, I was here, but realized I forgot something." My initial, though not vocalized thought, was "AND????" Second thought: "I hope what you forgot was Ex-Lax to help get that stick out of your ---!" I said nothing - just stood there stewing in my juices. What nerve!
Then the answer came to me like Archangel Gabriel, but with much less religious significance. I WILL NOT let this obnoxious, brain-addled witch-face get to the register before I do!! NOT NOT NOT!!! So, when the clerk offered to help the "next person" in line, I darted right up to him! From the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. I-Was-Here-First attempt to make her move to scurry in front of me. I prevailed and could feel her eyes boring holes in the back of my head. It would have been satisfyingly awesome if I had the ability to stick out my tongue at her from the back of my head!! The icing on my Petty Cake was that the clerk could only find one of the three prescriptions I was there to collect. Ah, so sad that woman had to wait even longer. Mwuhahaha.
Mind you, I am not an evil person. However, I have spent way, way, way too much of life trying to be nice, accommodating others at all times, and just generally being a doormat. I think it's high time I stand up for myself, my desires and the things to which I am genuinely entitled. As long as I do not physically or emotionally scar anyone, or land myself in jail - where's the damage? Of course, it's small potatoes to tell a teenager to pipe down or to rightfully take my place in a drug store line, but I have to start somewhere, right?
Some may speculate that I have latent anger issues. To them I say - leave me alone, I have to go downstairs and do some Wii Boxing!!
May 27, 2009
Take THAT!
My kid had a check-up yesterday with the orthodontist, also known as The Place That Has My Six Thousand Dollars. I must admit that the office has a very nice waiting room for parents, complete with tons of magazines from which to choose, lovely pictures covering every wall, and a juke box in the corner. So, I sat quietly in the waiting room while TER was selecting yet another odd color band with which to string up his braces. This time, it was alternating blue and red - in honor of his baseball team.
In walks what I thought was another dad with his prepubescent daughter. The girl went back to the actual dental office which is stocked with a tv, games and even an Xbox for the kids to use while waiting their turn in the chair. Cool, huh? Now I know what became of some of my $6,000.
Shortly after he sat down, this 'dad' got a call on his cell phone and it quickly became apparent that he was actually a high school kid who had carted his sister to her appointment. (I would have bet money that this guy was in his forties! It's not often you see an Asian guy who looks much older than he is. Perhaps he is being punished by God.) I know he was a high school kid because he proceeded to have a semi-loud discussion about some chick who had broken up with him, but now wanted to get back together; and how she kept wanting to sit with him at lunch. He was "pissed" that she told him to "f-off", and he's glad it's over. Blah Blah Blah..........
It was annoying enough that this twerp continued this conversation in the presence of the rest of us, but when it became more graphic - she had called him a "dick" and an "asshole" (I think she's right on this point), I had enough. I was done. I often claim to be DONE, but this bonehead pushed me even closer to the cliff by which I spend most of my time anyway.
Of course, I would have preferred to beat him about the head and face with the nearest copy of Good Housekeeping, but instead I got up, walked over to him, pointed my finger in his face and said "go take that outside, there are kids in here!" He gave me the beginning of a nasty look, but proceeded to exit the front door. As he left, I heard him tell his likely-equally-idiotic buddy that "some woman just told me to go outside."
Aha! That's right, buddy, GTFO!!! Oh, that made me feel so good, especially when the other adults in the room practically gave me a standing-o! One man smiled at me, one woman winked in solidarity, and another Mom exclaimed that "these kids think they are so entitled!" She's right - many kids these days think they are entitled and can play by their own rules. WRONG! Time to smack some of these nitwits down a peg or seven.
Since I don't often stand up for myself - although I'm getting better at it with age - telling that kid to leave was so empowering! Perhaps handing over $6,000 gives me authority to tell people where to stick it when I'm in that building. I'll accept that as truth, and try to pretend that I'm always in that building, so I can tell all deserving jerks, creeps and sphincters to f-off, no matter where I might find them!
In walks what I thought was another dad with his prepubescent daughter. The girl went back to the actual dental office which is stocked with a tv, games and even an Xbox for the kids to use while waiting their turn in the chair. Cool, huh? Now I know what became of some of my $6,000.
Shortly after he sat down, this 'dad' got a call on his cell phone and it quickly became apparent that he was actually a high school kid who had carted his sister to her appointment. (I would have bet money that this guy was in his forties! It's not often you see an Asian guy who looks much older than he is. Perhaps he is being punished by God.) I know he was a high school kid because he proceeded to have a semi-loud discussion about some chick who had broken up with him, but now wanted to get back together; and how she kept wanting to sit with him at lunch. He was "pissed" that she told him to "f-off", and he's glad it's over. Blah Blah Blah..........
It was annoying enough that this twerp continued this conversation in the presence of the rest of us, but when it became more graphic - she had called him a "dick" and an "asshole" (I think she's right on this point), I had enough. I was done. I often claim to be DONE, but this bonehead pushed me even closer to the cliff by which I spend most of my time anyway.
Of course, I would have preferred to beat him about the head and face with the nearest copy of Good Housekeeping, but instead I got up, walked over to him, pointed my finger in his face and said "go take that outside, there are kids in here!" He gave me the beginning of a nasty look, but proceeded to exit the front door. As he left, I heard him tell his likely-equally-idiotic buddy that "some woman just told me to go outside."
Aha! That's right, buddy, GTFO!!! Oh, that made me feel so good, especially when the other adults in the room practically gave me a standing-o! One man smiled at me, one woman winked in solidarity, and another Mom exclaimed that "these kids think they are so entitled!" She's right - many kids these days think they are entitled and can play by their own rules. WRONG! Time to smack some of these nitwits down a peg or seven.
Since I don't often stand up for myself - although I'm getting better at it with age - telling that kid to leave was so empowering! Perhaps handing over $6,000 gives me authority to tell people where to stick it when I'm in that building. I'll accept that as truth, and try to pretend that I'm always in that building, so I can tell all deserving jerks, creeps and sphincters to f-off, no matter where I might find them!
May 25, 2009
Disconnection
Have you ever had a person give to you something you had forgotten you wanted - only to then announce that (s)he wanted It back; that the person couldn't let you have It now? IT SUCKS. It makes you want to shout: "It's not fair! But, I want that! Why?! Give that back, now!!!"
But, it's gone. And you have to adjust to what was perhaps your favorite thing having virtually disappeared. You can't see or touch It, but you also can't forget about It. At least not today. Maybe some day, you'll forget about It, just as you had earlier forgotten your desire for It in the first place.
In the meantime, I miss my Connection.
But, it's gone. And you have to adjust to what was perhaps your favorite thing having virtually disappeared. You can't see or touch It, but you also can't forget about It. At least not today. Maybe some day, you'll forget about It, just as you had earlier forgotten your desire for It in the first place.
In the meantime, I miss my Connection.
Memorial Day
Much gratitude and many thanks to all of those who have, do and will serve this country in the Armed Forces.
Several of my family members have served over the years. Cousins, uncles, and my dear father who was in Viet Nam. And that it just about all I know on that fact. He never really speaks of it, but I vrecall something about his leg being inured, although I'm not sure by what.
My grandfather was a young man when he arrived in France during WWII. Poppa was shot in the chest, and reassured his new bride, my Nana, that he was alright because "those Germans weren't very good shots!" That anecdote always brought a smile to my face. He was a sweet, funny man who passed away almost two years ago. Shortly before he died, I happened to be on the Mall in D.C. and visited the WWII Memorial. There I found a stone labeled with the name of the French city in which my grandfather spent time - St. Lorraine. I snapped a picture of it for him and I think he enjoyed it.
It is the Veterans of Foreign Wars who you will see distributing Budd Poppies during this time of year. I'm always touched when I see these (largely) old men working to remind all of us of the sacrifices made by so many. This is one donation I make every year without exception. For those who don't know, the tradition of the poppy was inspired by a poem written by Col. John McCrae - "In Flander's Field":
We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
Several of my family members have served over the years. Cousins, uncles, and my dear father who was in Viet Nam. And that it just about all I know on that fact. He never really speaks of it, but I vrecall something about his leg being inured, although I'm not sure by what.
My grandfather was a young man when he arrived in France during WWII. Poppa was shot in the chest, and reassured his new bride, my Nana, that he was alright because "those Germans weren't very good shots!" That anecdote always brought a smile to my face. He was a sweet, funny man who passed away almost two years ago. Shortly before he died, I happened to be on the Mall in D.C. and visited the WWII Memorial. There I found a stone labeled with the name of the French city in which my grandfather spent time - St. Lorraine. I snapped a picture of it for him and I think he enjoyed it.
It is the Veterans of Foreign Wars who you will see distributing Budd Poppies during this time of year. I'm always touched when I see these (largely) old men working to remind all of us of the sacrifices made by so many. This is one donation I make every year without exception. For those who don't know, the tradition of the poppy was inspired by a poem written by Col. John McCrae - "In Flander's Field":
We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
May 22, 2009
How to Turn Off a Television
I've been a television viewer now for the better part of 35 years. One of my earliest memories is of The Price is Right. When it was over, it was time for me to go to school - we only had 1/2 day kindergarten and I was blessed with the afternoon slot. When I was 3, it was the tv that alerted my parents to the fact that I couldn't see worth a damn. In order to see what was on the screen, I kept my eyes about two inches from the glass. I'm still unsure whether my folks wanted to get my the medical care I needed, or if I was just in the way of their viewing March Madness. Kidding - sort of.
Thus, with my vast experience with the boob tube, one would assume I was quite adept at operating its On/Off switch. Granted, the invention of the remote may have caused us to sometimes jump through hoops to turn off the cable/vcr/dvr/tv/stereo in a cohesive manner. BUT - it is not rocket science to turn off the television when one is forced to admit that either 1) there is something else that must be done, or less often, 2) there is nothing on worth watching.
The television in my living room is small by modern standards. It is color - I don't live all the way back in Dark Ages. It has no bells or whistles, just your basic, ordinary, less than 15 button remote control. Aside from the moments when the remote cannot be found (read: my son, the beloved TER, has lost it either between the sofa cushions, or left it in the bathroom!), this magic stick that allows us to sit on our arses while resting catatonic in front of the pretty colors emitted from the accompanying magic box - is what we use to operate the television.
Here's what I do about half of the time though. I point the supernatural wonder we call the remote control and properly press the On/Off button and - GASP - the television is off. No more lights or sound - Off. I see this happen, I know it's off.
The TV is off - I know because Me, Myself and I just turned it off. Then, on my way to the front door to pick up my keys and purse and head on our for whatever errand I probably wished I didn't have to complete, I use my finger to turn the tv Off. But, what have we just learned boys and girls? The tv was already off. Now - it is back On. WTF?
What the hell is wrong with my brain that it cannot retain for three seconds the fact that I just turned it off? I did not turn it back on, and the house is not occupied by poltergeists, ghosts or gremlins who tease me by undoing my button-pushing. And yet, I all-too-frequently turn that damn thing back on as I walk by it immediately after having turned it off from my comfy position on the couch.
Do I stand up too quickly? Does blood rush from my head and take with it all recollection and short term memory? Or is it just a part of aging - akin to walking into a room and not remembering why you went there in the first place? And for added fun - after having turned the tv off - oops, ON - I then refer to myself as an Idiot - aloud. There are times I swear I hear the television and possibly the stereo next to it snickering about me as I walk out the front door.
Thus, with my vast experience with the boob tube, one would assume I was quite adept at operating its On/Off switch. Granted, the invention of the remote may have caused us to sometimes jump through hoops to turn off the cable/vcr/dvr/tv/stereo in a cohesive manner. BUT - it is not rocket science to turn off the television when one is forced to admit that either 1) there is something else that must be done, or less often, 2) there is nothing on worth watching.
The television in my living room is small by modern standards. It is color - I don't live all the way back in Dark Ages. It has no bells or whistles, just your basic, ordinary, less than 15 button remote control. Aside from the moments when the remote cannot be found (read: my son, the beloved TER, has lost it either between the sofa cushions, or left it in the bathroom!), this magic stick that allows us to sit on our arses while resting catatonic in front of the pretty colors emitted from the accompanying magic box - is what we use to operate the television.
Here's what I do about half of the time though. I point the supernatural wonder we call the remote control and properly press the On/Off button and - GASP - the television is off. No more lights or sound - Off. I see this happen, I know it's off.
The TV is off - I know because Me, Myself and I just turned it off. Then, on my way to the front door to pick up my keys and purse and head on our for whatever errand I probably wished I didn't have to complete, I use my finger to turn the tv Off. But, what have we just learned boys and girls? The tv was already off. Now - it is back On. WTF?
What the hell is wrong with my brain that it cannot retain for three seconds the fact that I just turned it off? I did not turn it back on, and the house is not occupied by poltergeists, ghosts or gremlins who tease me by undoing my button-pushing. And yet, I all-too-frequently turn that damn thing back on as I walk by it immediately after having turned it off from my comfy position on the couch.
Do I stand up too quickly? Does blood rush from my head and take with it all recollection and short term memory? Or is it just a part of aging - akin to walking into a room and not remembering why you went there in the first place? And for added fun - after having turned the tv off - oops, ON - I then refer to myself as an Idiot - aloud. There are times I swear I hear the television and possibly the stereo next to it snickering about me as I walk out the front door.
U BE ME
I went to the grocery store this morning.......Giant is having a great great great sale on Coke products. My mother raised a girl with an abiding love of sales and coupons (properly pronounced KEW-PONS). Therefore, I was giddy at the notion of getting five (count 'em, 5!) 12-packs of Coke Zero for the low, low price of $11.00. Holy Caffeination, Batman!!
In the Giant parking lot - which ironically, is quite large - there was an SUV with the vanity plate reading "U BE ME". I wondered if this was a challenge, an accusation, a wish for somebody else's life........what did that mean? U BE ME. If I were to say to another person "U BE ME" - it would no doubt be said in a snitty tone and clearly mean "Oh yeah!! Then YOU do it all!!".
In a kind a peaceful world, the drive of said vehicle is a less defensive and bitter person than am I. Perhaps this person is simply wishing that all of mankind could be as happy and contented as he/she is. With glee and joy, the driver exclaims U BE ME! - attain the harmonious and undisturbed state of consciousness which I have discovered. Perhaps the person wishes to Teach the World to Sing and Buy the World a Coke. AHA, must be it. This perpetually fulfilled vessel of delirious bliss was at Giant stocking up Coke products! Even the euphoric appreciate a good bargain!
Ah, piss on that.
In the Giant parking lot - which ironically, is quite large - there was an SUV with the vanity plate reading "U BE ME". I wondered if this was a challenge, an accusation, a wish for somebody else's life........what did that mean? U BE ME. If I were to say to another person "U BE ME" - it would no doubt be said in a snitty tone and clearly mean "Oh yeah!! Then YOU do it all!!".
In a kind a peaceful world, the drive of said vehicle is a less defensive and bitter person than am I. Perhaps this person is simply wishing that all of mankind could be as happy and contented as he/she is. With glee and joy, the driver exclaims U BE ME! - attain the harmonious and undisturbed state of consciousness which I have discovered. Perhaps the person wishes to Teach the World to Sing and Buy the World a Coke. AHA, must be it. This perpetually fulfilled vessel of delirious bliss was at Giant stocking up Coke products! Even the euphoric appreciate a good bargain!
Ah, piss on that.
May 20, 2009
Living With a Teenager
My son is 13. I thought briefly about simply using "13" as his alias here, but that is the nickname for Foreman's lesbian girlfriend on House. So........I'll call the boy The Eye Roller ("TER").
Upon entering middle school and subsequently turning 14-1, TER morphed from a respectful, helpful and sweet child into a mini-man who believes that every move I make and everything I say is stupid, oftentimes the "stupidest thing ever". Maybe he's right. Maybe:
Upon entering middle school and subsequently turning 14-1, TER morphed from a respectful, helpful and sweet child into a mini-man who believes that every move I make and everything I say is stupid, oftentimes the "stupidest thing ever". Maybe he's right. Maybe:
- All I ever do is laugh at him and take away his stuff.
- I always tell him to shut up.
- My suggestions will "never work".
- It is my responsibility to remind him of everything.
- I make him do everything around the house.
No. No. I'm pretty sure none of that is true. Yep, darn sure none of that is true. Can it be that hormonal changes on his part account for the radically different ways we now perceive things? If so, why has medical science not discovered a revolutionary hormone therapy for parents that allows them to effectively deal with these beings whose ailments also include Selective Hearing and Muttering Under The Breath?
Certainly, it could be worse. Things could always be worse. Perhaps I just have not had enough had time to acclimate to the changes that come with teenage boy-dom. Is there a class I can take?? I fear that this is a learn-as-you-go kind of thing. At present, though, it doesn't seem that I'll crack the code in the next 5.5 years. Yes, I'm counting down until he goes to college.....
Is it also wrong that I have made a chain of paper clips - counting the days until he goes to a week-long summer camp located several states away?
May 19, 2009
Feast or Famine
In my office, I am one of two things - either gorged or malnourished. My workload vacillates between Enough For Three People To Get Done and Not Even A Slug Would Agree To This Nothingness.
Almost three years ago, I left a job where the theme was forcible gluttony. You know, like in the movie "Se7en" with Brad Pitt when the killer murders that one guy by force-feeding him. The powers that be at that particular workplace were oblivious (some would say callously insensitive) to the fact that 99% of their employees were overworked and overburdened to the point that it is a wonder that none of us ever beat them about the head and face with staplers and hole-punchers. I'm still waiting for notice that a former co-worker has finally snapped and hurled obscenities and office equipment at her superiors. No one will blame her and in fact, will likely throw a parade in her honor. However, since I do not like parades, I will send a simple, but lovely bouquet of flowers.
In any event.....today, I have nothing to do. Bored. Out. Of. My. Mind. It's almost time for me to start playing online-sudoku, which is what I do when I've really hit my limit of idleness. I hear such games help keep your mind sharp. I hope so........I'll need some brain cells for the next time I might have actual work to do.
Almost three years ago, I left a job where the theme was forcible gluttony. You know, like in the movie "Se7en" with Brad Pitt when the killer murders that one guy by force-feeding him. The powers that be at that particular workplace were oblivious (some would say callously insensitive) to the fact that 99% of their employees were overworked and overburdened to the point that it is a wonder that none of us ever beat them about the head and face with staplers and hole-punchers. I'm still waiting for notice that a former co-worker has finally snapped and hurled obscenities and office equipment at her superiors. No one will blame her and in fact, will likely throw a parade in her honor. However, since I do not like parades, I will send a simple, but lovely bouquet of flowers.
In any event.....today, I have nothing to do. Bored. Out. Of. My. Mind. It's almost time for me to start playing online-sudoku, which is what I do when I've really hit my limit of idleness. I hear such games help keep your mind sharp. I hope so........I'll need some brain cells for the next time I might have actual work to do.
And I'm off!
At least that's what most people say about me. But that's ok. Normal people are boring. If you're not at least kooky, I don't need to know you. In fact, it is best if I can detect at least a modicum of insanity about you. To this I can relate.
So, if you meet the minimum requirement listed above, I'll be happy to know that you care to read about my own crazy thoughts, wonders, worries, plans and -isms that pop into my head. Be warned, there will be no theme to this - so anything is fair game!
So, if you meet the minimum requirement listed above, I'll be happy to know that you care to read about my own crazy thoughts, wonders, worries, plans and -isms that pop into my head. Be warned, there will be no theme to this - so anything is fair game!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
