By now most everyone has their shopping done and gifts wrapped, or at least stuffed into a gift bag with sparkly paper surrounding it. And little ones have written letters to Santa.
In case Santa needs some help with a few of the more difficult cases, the not so little ones, we thought we’d give him a suggestion or two.
For Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich: A thesaurus. From what we’ve been able to tell, he’s stuck on one particular adjective and it isn’t a very nice one.
For O.J. Simpson: Lots of reading material. He’s going to have plenty of time on his hands, so he could use some books on anger management, humility, and finding inner peace.
For Britney Spears: A gift certificate to a job training center so she can find something she really can do. Second choice: voice lessons.
For former President Bill Clinton: Violin lessons. He doesn’t seem to be the type who’d be satisfied playing second fiddle.
For President George W. Bush: Some nice argyle socks. He seems to attract shoes.
For Paris Hilton: Who, you say? You forgot her already? That’s what she needs most. That’s what we all need.
For Harrison Ford: My phone number!
Merry Christmas to everyone!
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Who cares about a white Christmas?
With all due respect to Irving Berlin and Bing Crosby, what’s the big deal about a white Christmas? It’s over-rated.
As the song goes, “May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.”
I have no quarrel with merry and bright days. We all need those year around.
Somehow I gotta believe that neither Irving Berlin nor Bing Crosby ever drove in snow or ice. If they had, they’d never wish any kind of white weather event on anyone.
I don’t think the first Christmas was a white one, at least not if shepherds were outdoors at night watching sheep graze. There had to be some grass growing somewhere, and I don’t think the camels that the Wise Men rode in on were accustomed to snow.
So much for originality.
The Santa Claus legend places him in the North Pole, but he’s not inconvenienced by snow the way those of us who aren’t legends are. He has flying reindeer; who wouldn’t get out more if those were available to the average consumer?
No doubt Irving Berlin was going for a mood when he wrote “White Christmas” for the 1942 movie “Holiday Inn.”
But put me in snow, and I get a mood too. It isn’t a romantic mood of fluffy mounds of snow, sleigh bells, and hot chocolate by an open fire.
It’s more of a mood involving staying upright while navigating ice patches and snowdrifts, checking for broken bones and bruised ego when unsuccessful at navigating ice patches and snowdrifts.
There’s the need to shovel the stuff off the driveway and sidewalk risking cardiac arrest and the wrath of the Postal Service.
And shall we also mention people who think they can drive in snow? But these folks drive like idiots when the weather is good, so what do you expect? And those overconfident people with four-wheel drives don’t seem to realize that 4WD is useless on ice. Those SUVs slide just like someone on skates for the first time.
I can remember when snow was something to look forward to. Back then — WAY back then — snow meant staying home from school, snowball fights, building snowmen and coming inside for hot chocolate.
So if you’re dreaming of a white Christmas, wake up! I’d rather wish you a safe and happy Christmas on dry ground and safe streets and roads. And hot chocolate.
As the song goes, “May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.”
I have no quarrel with merry and bright days. We all need those year around.
Somehow I gotta believe that neither Irving Berlin nor Bing Crosby ever drove in snow or ice. If they had, they’d never wish any kind of white weather event on anyone.
I don’t think the first Christmas was a white one, at least not if shepherds were outdoors at night watching sheep graze. There had to be some grass growing somewhere, and I don’t think the camels that the Wise Men rode in on were accustomed to snow.
So much for originality.
The Santa Claus legend places him in the North Pole, but he’s not inconvenienced by snow the way those of us who aren’t legends are. He has flying reindeer; who wouldn’t get out more if those were available to the average consumer?
No doubt Irving Berlin was going for a mood when he wrote “White Christmas” for the 1942 movie “Holiday Inn.”
But put me in snow, and I get a mood too. It isn’t a romantic mood of fluffy mounds of snow, sleigh bells, and hot chocolate by an open fire.
It’s more of a mood involving staying upright while navigating ice patches and snowdrifts, checking for broken bones and bruised ego when unsuccessful at navigating ice patches and snowdrifts.
There’s the need to shovel the stuff off the driveway and sidewalk risking cardiac arrest and the wrath of the Postal Service.
And shall we also mention people who think they can drive in snow? But these folks drive like idiots when the weather is good, so what do you expect? And those overconfident people with four-wheel drives don’t seem to realize that 4WD is useless on ice. Those SUVs slide just like someone on skates for the first time.
I can remember when snow was something to look forward to. Back then — WAY back then — snow meant staying home from school, snowball fights, building snowmen and coming inside for hot chocolate.
So if you’re dreaming of a white Christmas, wake up! I’d rather wish you a safe and happy Christmas on dry ground and safe streets and roads. And hot chocolate.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Christmas cards we'll never see
Unless you’re like a really organized friend of mine and sent out your Christmas cards Thanksgiving weekend, you’re probably addressing those cards now. Wouldn’t it be interesting to see some of the cards people in the news send and receive?
Here, with apologies to Hallmark and American Greetings, are Christmas cards we’re not likely to see.
For you, a merry Christmas
Is bound to be a given.
You worked so hard and all could see
Your campaign was so driven.
For me, I fear, this holiday
Is apt to be a bummer,
So here’s a card for you, Barack
From your friend, Joe the Plumber.
To the lower 49:
The time we shared was short and sweet
To leave you causes pain.
We likely would not have met at all
If not for John McCain.
We’ll have to wait till 2012
‘Fore I’ll be back to getcha.
So until then, so long my friend,
Happy holidays, you betcha!
Sarah Palin
Bill
If I had sat on Santa’s lap
And for him a list recited,
I would not be as I am now
So tickled and delighted.
We didn’t get the house of white
That we once did inhabit.
But fate gave me another prize
And you know full well I’ll grab it.
And so my dear for all your work
I really want to thank you.
‘Cause I’m still in retribution mode
And, my love, I still outrank you.
Hillary
To the Big Three
In years gone by I read your lists
Your wants were rather bold,
With seven-figure salaries and
Parachutes of gold.
I filled your stockings full of perks
Like limousines and jets.
Now Congress tells me you’re all jerks.
They’re hedging all their bets.
You guys are on my naughty list
Your heads are going to roll.
You guys may want a bailout;
From me you’re getting coal.
Santa
Here, with apologies to Hallmark and American Greetings, are Christmas cards we’re not likely to see.
For you, a merry Christmas
Is bound to be a given.
You worked so hard and all could see
Your campaign was so driven.
For me, I fear, this holiday
Is apt to be a bummer,
So here’s a card for you, Barack
From your friend, Joe the Plumber.
To the lower 49:
The time we shared was short and sweet
To leave you causes pain.
We likely would not have met at all
If not for John McCain.
We’ll have to wait till 2012
‘Fore I’ll be back to getcha.
So until then, so long my friend,
Happy holidays, you betcha!
Sarah Palin
Bill
If I had sat on Santa’s lap
And for him a list recited,
I would not be as I am now
So tickled and delighted.
We didn’t get the house of white
That we once did inhabit.
But fate gave me another prize
And you know full well I’ll grab it.
And so my dear for all your work
I really want to thank you.
‘Cause I’m still in retribution mode
And, my love, I still outrank you.
Hillary
To the Big Three
In years gone by I read your lists
Your wants were rather bold,
With seven-figure salaries and
Parachutes of gold.
I filled your stockings full of perks
Like limousines and jets.
Now Congress tells me you’re all jerks.
They’re hedging all their bets.
You guys are on my naughty list
Your heads are going to roll.
You guys may want a bailout;
From me you’re getting coal.
Santa
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The day Bambi shot back
It's deer season.
I’m conflicted about that. I have no quarrel with anyone who wants to get up before breakfast and go tromping in the woods when it makes much more sense to stay inside where it’s warm. That’s what you like to do, go for it.
And I try to understand that some people hunt deer because they enjoy eating venison and it stretches their food budget. I prefer my meat cut up and packaged at the grocery store.
I am not a vegetarian; I do eat meat and I know that cows, chickens, pigs and turkeys all meet the same fate so they can end up on my plate. It’s just that those deer are so beautiful. I love to see them. Yes I’ve seen some pretty cows, and lambs are as cute as they are delicious, but there’s the fact that we raise them to be consumed. Deer are just minding their own business, living in the woods, doing their deer thing. It somehow doesn’t seem right to shoot them.
On the other hand, I’m not fond of venison. And as handsome as I think elk are, I really like the taste of elk and don’t feel as sorry for them.
Like I said, it’s confusing.
I’ve heard the argument that deer destroy gardens. So do some vandalizing children, but we don’t shoot them.
I’ve also heard the theory that if we don’t thin out the deer population they’ll get sick and will all starve to death. I used that theory once on a cat-hating bird-loving acquaintance. If we don’t let the cats catch the occasional bird, then all the birds will starve to death and then where would we be? It flew over his head like a cat was after it.
It’s a puzzling situation. But there’s one aspect of the whole thing that gives me a little comfort. I recall writing once about a deer who shot back at the hunter. I’m a sucker for poetic justice.
As I remember it, a deer hunter did not set out that morning specifically to get a deer, but was out early for another reason and found he had a little extra time, his license was with him and so was his gun. So he decided to seize the moment. He saw a deer, aimed and shot.
For some reason he was in his car, not his pickup truck, so he tossed the gun in the trunk, picked up the deer by his feet and tossed it in after the gun.
But the deer wasn’t dead. After being thrown into the trunk, it revived, began kicking, and kicked the gun, which discharged and hit the hunter in the thigh.
Somehow knowing that just adds a little fairness to the whole notion of deer hunting.
I’m conflicted about that. I have no quarrel with anyone who wants to get up before breakfast and go tromping in the woods when it makes much more sense to stay inside where it’s warm. That’s what you like to do, go for it.
And I try to understand that some people hunt deer because they enjoy eating venison and it stretches their food budget. I prefer my meat cut up and packaged at the grocery store.
I am not a vegetarian; I do eat meat and I know that cows, chickens, pigs and turkeys all meet the same fate so they can end up on my plate. It’s just that those deer are so beautiful. I love to see them. Yes I’ve seen some pretty cows, and lambs are as cute as they are delicious, but there’s the fact that we raise them to be consumed. Deer are just minding their own business, living in the woods, doing their deer thing. It somehow doesn’t seem right to shoot them.
On the other hand, I’m not fond of venison. And as handsome as I think elk are, I really like the taste of elk and don’t feel as sorry for them.
Like I said, it’s confusing.
I’ve heard the argument that deer destroy gardens. So do some vandalizing children, but we don’t shoot them.
I’ve also heard the theory that if we don’t thin out the deer population they’ll get sick and will all starve to death. I used that theory once on a cat-hating bird-loving acquaintance. If we don’t let the cats catch the occasional bird, then all the birds will starve to death and then where would we be? It flew over his head like a cat was after it.
It’s a puzzling situation. But there’s one aspect of the whole thing that gives me a little comfort. I recall writing once about a deer who shot back at the hunter. I’m a sucker for poetic justice.
As I remember it, a deer hunter did not set out that morning specifically to get a deer, but was out early for another reason and found he had a little extra time, his license was with him and so was his gun. So he decided to seize the moment. He saw a deer, aimed and shot.
For some reason he was in his car, not his pickup truck, so he tossed the gun in the trunk, picked up the deer by his feet and tossed it in after the gun.
But the deer wasn’t dead. After being thrown into the trunk, it revived, began kicking, and kicked the gun, which discharged and hit the hunter in the thigh.
Somehow knowing that just adds a little fairness to the whole notion of deer hunting.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Truckin' down Memory Lane
I don’t know if there’s a Memory Lane in many towns. I’ve seen Shady Lanes in a couple of towns, and if that causes the Ames Brothers’ song, “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane” to go coursing through your mind, then I’ve done my civic duty as a pest.
Memory Lane seems to be a popular place, but it’s full of potholes. I find myself stumbling down that well-traveled lane lately, and it really ticks me off that I recognize the landmarks on Memory Lane but I can’t remember squat about what I need to buy from the grocery store.
My cousin sent me an e-mail not long ago about some of the landmarks along Memory Lane.
Do you remember when —
All the girls had ugly gym uniforms? I do; I also remember that the day after I graduated from high school I burned mine. It felt good.
It took five minutes for the TV to warm up? Not only that, but the picture would occasionally flip upward rapidly and you had to turn a knob to make it hold still. And when you turned it off, there’d be a little round light in the center of the screen.
You'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny? Ha! I still do! Those things add up.
You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking — all for free, every time? And you didn't pay for air? And, you got trading stamps to boot? Yeah, and I remember when gas was 30 cents a gallon, but let’s don’t go there.
They threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed. . . and they did? It didn’t seem to bother anyone’s self-esteem either. We were too busy learning grammar and spelling and punctuation, along with math and history and science.
Stuff from the store came without safety caps and hermetic seals because no one had yet tried to poison a perfect stranger? No one then had to suffer from lacerations caused by trying to open a blister pack to open a DVD or a CD, never mind they hadn’t been invented then. It almost takes a blowtorch to get past the cardboard, the plastic blister and then the cellophane wrapping.
Can you remember, candy cigarettes, wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside, big red wax lips, soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles? I remember that the bottles cost a dime and you brought them back to collect a deposit.
Remember coffee shops with tableside jukeboxes? The coffee didn’t taste like a liquid candy bar and usually cost a nickel or a dime.
Blackjack, Clove and Teaberry chewing gum? None of it was sugarless.
P.F. Fliers? Or Keds. They didn’t cost three figures and were appropriate for all sports, or just running and jumping.
Captain Kangaroo and Howdy Dowdy? Did you know Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) was Howdy’s friend Clarabelle the Clown? Today much would be made about a male clown named Clarabelle.
45 RPM records? I still have some.
78 RPM records? Them too. They were my parents’.
Saturday morning cartoons weren't 30-minute commercials for action figures? Saturday morning cartoons were actually funny, not violent — Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat.
I must have ventured too far down Memory Lane. I was going to do something important, but now I can’t remember what.
Memory Lane seems to be a popular place, but it’s full of potholes. I find myself stumbling down that well-traveled lane lately, and it really ticks me off that I recognize the landmarks on Memory Lane but I can’t remember squat about what I need to buy from the grocery store.
My cousin sent me an e-mail not long ago about some of the landmarks along Memory Lane.
Do you remember when —
All the girls had ugly gym uniforms? I do; I also remember that the day after I graduated from high school I burned mine. It felt good.
It took five minutes for the TV to warm up? Not only that, but the picture would occasionally flip upward rapidly and you had to turn a knob to make it hold still. And when you turned it off, there’d be a little round light in the center of the screen.
You'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny? Ha! I still do! Those things add up.
You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking — all for free, every time? And you didn't pay for air? And, you got trading stamps to boot? Yeah, and I remember when gas was 30 cents a gallon, but let’s don’t go there.
They threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed. . . and they did? It didn’t seem to bother anyone’s self-esteem either. We were too busy learning grammar and spelling and punctuation, along with math and history and science.
Stuff from the store came without safety caps and hermetic seals because no one had yet tried to poison a perfect stranger? No one then had to suffer from lacerations caused by trying to open a blister pack to open a DVD or a CD, never mind they hadn’t been invented then. It almost takes a blowtorch to get past the cardboard, the plastic blister and then the cellophane wrapping.
Can you remember, candy cigarettes, wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside, big red wax lips, soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles? I remember that the bottles cost a dime and you brought them back to collect a deposit.
Remember coffee shops with tableside jukeboxes? The coffee didn’t taste like a liquid candy bar and usually cost a nickel or a dime.
Blackjack, Clove and Teaberry chewing gum? None of it was sugarless.
P.F. Fliers? Or Keds. They didn’t cost three figures and were appropriate for all sports, or just running and jumping.
Captain Kangaroo and Howdy Dowdy? Did you know Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) was Howdy’s friend Clarabelle the Clown? Today much would be made about a male clown named Clarabelle.
45 RPM records? I still have some.
78 RPM records? Them too. They were my parents’.
Saturday morning cartoons weren't 30-minute commercials for action figures? Saturday morning cartoons were actually funny, not violent — Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat.
I must have ventured too far down Memory Lane. I was going to do something important, but now I can’t remember what.
Friday, October 24, 2008
:Trick or what?
The pumpkins, corn stalks and other decorations seen all over the place make it clear that although it’s still fairly warm, Halloween is fast approaching.
Halloween also means tricks or treat. Some tricks can be funny; others really annoying. But they change as the generations change.
No one tips over outhouses any more. It’s hard to find someone who remembers having outhouses. My grandfather had one on his property in a small Illinois town, like a lot of his neighbors. This was before cities had plumbing and sewers. Pranksters around Halloween would tip them over but they never got my grandpa’s. He was no fool. A few weeks before Halloween pranks started he pushed his about three feet further so anyone trying to get close enough to get a good push got a rather unpleasant surprise instead.
Young people used to call folks on the phone around Halloween and ask if the caller’s refrigerator was running. Or they’d call stores and ask if they had Prince Albert in the can. Caller ID has rendered that little trick obsolete. Does anyone even carry Prince Albert tobacco any more?
When I was a teenager my cousins and I gathered some old purses, filled them with all kinds of disgusting material (including manure from the garden), and after dark we’d put one on the side of the road and hide. Most people would grab the purse, take off down the road, then brake to a sudden stop and toss the purse out so we would grab it and reuse it. We were aware of recycling even then.
But one night a girl in a very fancy dress grabbed the purse, opened it, and dumped the contents on her lap. I can’t say for sure that she learned a lesson about greed, but we learned one about vocabulary. And by the time the contents of that purse hit the fan, blame for the incident went to “a bunch of boys hiding along the road.” So we learned that being female has its advantages.
Halloween also means tricks or treat. Some tricks can be funny; others really annoying. But they change as the generations change.
No one tips over outhouses any more. It’s hard to find someone who remembers having outhouses. My grandfather had one on his property in a small Illinois town, like a lot of his neighbors. This was before cities had plumbing and sewers. Pranksters around Halloween would tip them over but they never got my grandpa’s. He was no fool. A few weeks before Halloween pranks started he pushed his about three feet further so anyone trying to get close enough to get a good push got a rather unpleasant surprise instead.
Young people used to call folks on the phone around Halloween and ask if the caller’s refrigerator was running. Or they’d call stores and ask if they had Prince Albert in the can. Caller ID has rendered that little trick obsolete. Does anyone even carry Prince Albert tobacco any more?
When I was a teenager my cousins and I gathered some old purses, filled them with all kinds of disgusting material (including manure from the garden), and after dark we’d put one on the side of the road and hide. Most people would grab the purse, take off down the road, then brake to a sudden stop and toss the purse out so we would grab it and reuse it. We were aware of recycling even then.
But one night a girl in a very fancy dress grabbed the purse, opened it, and dumped the contents on her lap. I can’t say for sure that she learned a lesson about greed, but we learned one about vocabulary. And by the time the contents of that purse hit the fan, blame for the incident went to “a bunch of boys hiding along the road.” So we learned that being female has its advantages.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Oh for an Apple Z function in life
I don’t know about the rest of you, but computers baffle me. And I use one daily. Computers can be a lot like contrary husbands: they’re fine when they work but when they don’t.....
One aspect of the computer that I do like is its ability to undo a mistake. Whenever I’ve accidentally wiped out a line of copy, I can simply hit the Apple button and the letter Z and there it is like it was before I accidentally sent it to cyber limbo.
What would life be, I wonder, if we all had the Apple Z ability? A “do over” if you will. Back your car into the mailbox post and dent the bumper? An Apple Z button would straighten out the bumper and bring the mailbox back into its upright position.
Make a mistake balancing your checkbook? Apple Z will automatically restore your balance and keep your checks from turning from paper to rubber.
I have an email account with one of the large networks that offer free email. A few months ago it worked just fine, but then a group of computer geeks looked up from their cyber games, noticed the email chugging along like a fine watch, and said, “ Hey, that works great! Let’s fix it.” I’d like to take an Apple Z to their new improved email account and restore it to where I can actually use it.
But it’s probably best that if there were such a thing, Apple Z would be something that would control only ourselves, and not anyone else. If someone sitting behind you in the movies talks nonstop and keeps you from enjoying the show, it would be tempting to Apple Z that person’s mouth so full of popcorn he couldn’t speak for the rest of the picture, but probably in the long run not a good idea. Eventually he’ll swallow all the popcorn, gulp down his soda, and hit his own Apple Z button in your direction.
Unrestrained use of Apple Z could create pandemonium at a level never before seen in an election year. If you thought the Bush-Gore race of 2000 was chaotic, imagine a county full of people hitting their Apple Z buttons all the way up to the Supreme Court.
Probably best just to mind your own Apple Z buttons in your own life, right? But wouldn’t it be nice to have one?
One aspect of the computer that I do like is its ability to undo a mistake. Whenever I’ve accidentally wiped out a line of copy, I can simply hit the Apple button and the letter Z and there it is like it was before I accidentally sent it to cyber limbo.
What would life be, I wonder, if we all had the Apple Z ability? A “do over” if you will. Back your car into the mailbox post and dent the bumper? An Apple Z button would straighten out the bumper and bring the mailbox back into its upright position.
Make a mistake balancing your checkbook? Apple Z will automatically restore your balance and keep your checks from turning from paper to rubber.
I have an email account with one of the large networks that offer free email. A few months ago it worked just fine, but then a group of computer geeks looked up from their cyber games, noticed the email chugging along like a fine watch, and said, “ Hey, that works great! Let’s fix it.” I’d like to take an Apple Z to their new improved email account and restore it to where I can actually use it.
But it’s probably best that if there were such a thing, Apple Z would be something that would control only ourselves, and not anyone else. If someone sitting behind you in the movies talks nonstop and keeps you from enjoying the show, it would be tempting to Apple Z that person’s mouth so full of popcorn he couldn’t speak for the rest of the picture, but probably in the long run not a good idea. Eventually he’ll swallow all the popcorn, gulp down his soda, and hit his own Apple Z button in your direction.
Unrestrained use of Apple Z could create pandemonium at a level never before seen in an election year. If you thought the Bush-Gore race of 2000 was chaotic, imagine a county full of people hitting their Apple Z buttons all the way up to the Supreme Court.
Probably best just to mind your own Apple Z buttons in your own life, right? But wouldn’t it be nice to have one?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
You want proof why you should vote for me for president, and ultimately ruler of the world? I offer you Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson, and the warning that no good deed goes unpunished.
Their plight is proof that the country needs a DIMWIT for president (Do It My Way, It's Time). Because you just gotta wonder what kind of BB-stackers are in charge.
Deck and Herson, both 28, toured the United States this spring, wiping out errors on government and private signs. According to the Associated Press, they were interviewed by National Public Radio and the Chicago Tribune, which called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation."
It seems they got caught correcting grammar on a sign at Grand Canyon National Park, and now they're banned from all national parks for a year and have been ordered to pay more than $3,000 to fix the sign. Why? They already fixed it for free. What are they supposed to do now — bring it back to its original incorrect form?
They removed an unneeded apostrophe and added a comma. The two men said they wanted to correct a really immense spelling mistake (they wanted to correct the spelling of immense from emense, but reluctantly decided not to take that chance). So for doing a good thing, they were arrested and eventually pleaded guilty to vandalizing government property.
Oh please! I'm so impressed that someone so young actually knows about — and CARES about — correct grammar and punctuation that I almost don't have the energy to work up a good righteous snit about their guilty plea. Vandalism? Give me a break.
If I were president and eventually ruler of the world, I'd commute the sentence and give those young men a medal. At least. In fact, I'd pay them to go across country and continue their efforts. It would take them the rest of their lives. Talk about job security!
I'd even encourage them correct blatant spelling errors meant to be clever or cute: Kut 'n Kurl for a styling salon. Kuntry Kitchen Restaurant featuring good old-fashioned home kuntry kooking. Kut's Plus (what is it about some hair stylists that they can't spell? Do we really want to trust them with scissors so close to our heads?).
Then I'd recruit others to do other jobs (and I know there are others because I've seen their blogs: apostrophe abuse and the blog of unnecessary quotations). I'd recruit people who could teach newscasters, some editors, and writers for TV programs and commercials the difference between lie and lay, between and among, when to use 'I' and when to use 'me.' Don't even get me started on split infinitives.
Why are Americans so worried about immigrants not wanting to learn English? Some native born Americans don't speak it either. They certainly don't write it correctly. Those who do care about grammar and punctuation, and want to preserve the language in its correct form are punished for it. That's just un-American and no DIMWIT should allow it to continue.
I can only hope that once their probation is over Deck and Herson come back with a vengeance — and more Sharpies.
Their plight is proof that the country needs a DIMWIT for president (Do It My Way, It's Time). Because you just gotta wonder what kind of BB-stackers are in charge.
Deck and Herson, both 28, toured the United States this spring, wiping out errors on government and private signs. According to the Associated Press, they were interviewed by National Public Radio and the Chicago Tribune, which called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation."
It seems they got caught correcting grammar on a sign at Grand Canyon National Park, and now they're banned from all national parks for a year and have been ordered to pay more than $3,000 to fix the sign. Why? They already fixed it for free. What are they supposed to do now — bring it back to its original incorrect form?
They removed an unneeded apostrophe and added a comma. The two men said they wanted to correct a really immense spelling mistake (they wanted to correct the spelling of immense from emense, but reluctantly decided not to take that chance). So for doing a good thing, they were arrested and eventually pleaded guilty to vandalizing government property.
Oh please! I'm so impressed that someone so young actually knows about — and CARES about — correct grammar and punctuation that I almost don't have the energy to work up a good righteous snit about their guilty plea. Vandalism? Give me a break.
If I were president and eventually ruler of the world, I'd commute the sentence and give those young men a medal. At least. In fact, I'd pay them to go across country and continue their efforts. It would take them the rest of their lives. Talk about job security!
I'd even encourage them correct blatant spelling errors meant to be clever or cute: Kut 'n Kurl for a styling salon. Kuntry Kitchen Restaurant featuring good old-fashioned home kuntry kooking. Kut's Plus (what is it about some hair stylists that they can't spell? Do we really want to trust them with scissors so close to our heads?).
Then I'd recruit others to do other jobs (and I know there are others because I've seen their blogs: apostrophe abuse and the blog of unnecessary quotations). I'd recruit people who could teach newscasters, some editors, and writers for TV programs and commercials the difference between lie and lay, between and among, when to use 'I' and when to use 'me.' Don't even get me started on split infinitives.
Why are Americans so worried about immigrants not wanting to learn English? Some native born Americans don't speak it either. They certainly don't write it correctly. Those who do care about grammar and punctuation, and want to preserve the language in its correct form are punished for it. That's just un-American and no DIMWIT should allow it to continue.
I can only hope that once their probation is over Deck and Herson come back with a vengeance — and more Sharpies.
Friday, August 8, 2008
The DIMWIT party doesn't need Paris
Just when you thought the world was safe again, Paris Hilton shows up like a zit on prom night. By now everyone has seen her video clip on You Tube where she refers to Sen. John McCain as "a wrinkly old white haired dude," and suggests that people vote for her for president because, as she says "I'm hot."
Paris, Paris, Paris. You blonde bimbo. If I didn't know any better I'd think you were cutting in on my campaign for president first, then ruler of the world.
I have formed my own political party and want to run for president, as a start, not because I'm hot because hot will get you nowhere but sweaty. My party, Do It My Way, It's Time (DIMWIT) might appeal to Paris because she is a bit of a — well, never mind, now isn't the time to sling anything. People should vote for me because I know best. Hot is fleeting; right stays around forever, and I am always right. It's time to do things the DIMWIT way.
It might improve my campaign chances if I included Paris in the DIMWIT campaign as my running mate. She certainly has the cash to wage a good campaign, and she has name recognition. I've even heard people say she is a bit of a — well, you know.
But I'm not sure the world is ready for a political team made up of a blonde bimbo and a gracefully aging political diva who has avoided wrinkles, white hair and reality, and really doesn't need any help. As I've said before, being president is only a stepping stone to where I rightfully belong, ruler of the world. Whoever heard of a vice ruler? No, Paris. I work alone. And I'm always right.
Paris may think she's hot, but she won't know hot at all until it comes at her in flashes. I've survived PMS, menopause, sexism, chauvinism, wedgie-inducing pantyhose, static cling, ugly shoes and more bad hair days than I care to think about. That's the kind of grace under pressure that can get anyone through summit talks on any continent.
All Paris knows how to do is lean backward and smile with her mouth open like she's read for someone to throw in a beanbag and win a prize. Is that the person you want to be only a heartbeat away from the presidency and rulercy of the world?
My campaign so far has been low key because, well, it needed to be. The others have been making so much noise we're all sick of them and we still have months to go before we vote. Paris may say she's hot, but hot fizzles and burns out. I'm subtle, refreshing. I don't flip-flop on issues because, right or wrong, I am always right.
I'm too old to scandalize the populace with any hanky-panky behind the scenes (mostly for lack of opportunity) and I don't suffer fools gladly. That's my first goal as potential ruler of the world: get rid of all the fools in government. They're just taking up space, causing trouble and don't need to be replaced. That ought to be a huge improvement until I come up with my next project.
So when you go to the polls in November, and you don't want to vote for the "old wrinkly white-haired dude," don't think of the hot one, think instead of the DIMWIT. And if you have trouble telling them apart, well, you're just not paying attention.
Paris, Paris, Paris. You blonde bimbo. If I didn't know any better I'd think you were cutting in on my campaign for president first, then ruler of the world.
I have formed my own political party and want to run for president, as a start, not because I'm hot because hot will get you nowhere but sweaty. My party, Do It My Way, It's Time (DIMWIT) might appeal to Paris because she is a bit of a — well, never mind, now isn't the time to sling anything. People should vote for me because I know best. Hot is fleeting; right stays around forever, and I am always right. It's time to do things the DIMWIT way.
It might improve my campaign chances if I included Paris in the DIMWIT campaign as my running mate. She certainly has the cash to wage a good campaign, and she has name recognition. I've even heard people say she is a bit of a — well, you know.
But I'm not sure the world is ready for a political team made up of a blonde bimbo and a gracefully aging political diva who has avoided wrinkles, white hair and reality, and really doesn't need any help. As I've said before, being president is only a stepping stone to where I rightfully belong, ruler of the world. Whoever heard of a vice ruler? No, Paris. I work alone. And I'm always right.
Paris may think she's hot, but she won't know hot at all until it comes at her in flashes. I've survived PMS, menopause, sexism, chauvinism, wedgie-inducing pantyhose, static cling, ugly shoes and more bad hair days than I care to think about. That's the kind of grace under pressure that can get anyone through summit talks on any continent.
All Paris knows how to do is lean backward and smile with her mouth open like she's read for someone to throw in a beanbag and win a prize. Is that the person you want to be only a heartbeat away from the presidency and rulercy of the world?
My campaign so far has been low key because, well, it needed to be. The others have been making so much noise we're all sick of them and we still have months to go before we vote. Paris may say she's hot, but hot fizzles and burns out. I'm subtle, refreshing. I don't flip-flop on issues because, right or wrong, I am always right.
I'm too old to scandalize the populace with any hanky-panky behind the scenes (mostly for lack of opportunity) and I don't suffer fools gladly. That's my first goal as potential ruler of the world: get rid of all the fools in government. They're just taking up space, causing trouble and don't need to be replaced. That ought to be a huge improvement until I come up with my next project.
So when you go to the polls in November, and you don't want to vote for the "old wrinkly white-haired dude," don't think of the hot one, think instead of the DIMWIT. And if you have trouble telling them apart, well, you're just not paying attention.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Hey Oprah! Here's an idea for your program
With this one great idea, I plan to solve social problems that plague both sexes and even save a business some money.
Got your attention? Good.
Last week I was watching Oprah. A matchmaker was a guest on her program, and the matchmaker was dispensing advice about why it's so difficult for single women in their 30s, 40s and up to find men to date.
Never mind supply and demand issues, this woman said that one problem women have is that men have a problem with independent, competent women. Men like to feel needed, she said, so she advises women — her words here — "Let him open the pickle jar."
Now that got me to thinking. I can handle a pickle jar, but what I really want from a man is for him to pump gas into my car. I miss full service gas stations. I've heard other women say the same thing. They can pump their own gas; they'd just rather not.
Then it hit me like a falling pyramid of oil cans: why don't older single men who are interested in meeting a nice single woman hang around gas stations, convenience stores, anywhere gas is sold, and offer to pump gas whenever they see a woman they'd like to meet.
There is no down side to this. If a woman wants her gas pumped all she has to do is accept the offer. But if she isn't interested in the gentleman she is under no obligation.
The guy can check out the woman, chat with her, and if he's interested he can ask for her phone number, and if he isn't — well, then he's done something nice for a stranger and the woman has her car filled. At least pumping gas and getting turned down is a lot easier than walking across a room to ask for a dance and getting turned down.
If she's interested and he isn't, all she has to do is drive away and no one will see her disappointment. But she can comfort herself knowing that the jerk who can't notice a prize when he sees her at least filled her gas tank.
For women who like pumping their own gas, all it takes is a polite, no thanks. The guy moves on to the next woman he might want to meet, or he can chat up the first one while she's pumping gas into her car, if that doesn't threaten his ego.
Ideally, the two chat a bit while he's holding onto the pump handle, and if they click, well great. They might not otherwise have met. He feels needed and she doesn't smell like gasoline for the rest of the day instead of like Chanel. If they're really clicking, he can prolong the visit by checking her oil and tires and wiping down the windshield.
It's a win/win situation.
The money savings? While the guys are hanging around the gas pumps looking to meet women, they would also deter those who pump and leave without paying. Business owners ought to take this idea and run with it, provide incentives for lonely guys to hang around and bring in lonely women customers.
OK Oprah, whattya think?
Got your attention? Good.
Last week I was watching Oprah. A matchmaker was a guest on her program, and the matchmaker was dispensing advice about why it's so difficult for single women in their 30s, 40s and up to find men to date.
Never mind supply and demand issues, this woman said that one problem women have is that men have a problem with independent, competent women. Men like to feel needed, she said, so she advises women — her words here — "Let him open the pickle jar."
Now that got me to thinking. I can handle a pickle jar, but what I really want from a man is for him to pump gas into my car. I miss full service gas stations. I've heard other women say the same thing. They can pump their own gas; they'd just rather not.
Then it hit me like a falling pyramid of oil cans: why don't older single men who are interested in meeting a nice single woman hang around gas stations, convenience stores, anywhere gas is sold, and offer to pump gas whenever they see a woman they'd like to meet.
There is no down side to this. If a woman wants her gas pumped all she has to do is accept the offer. But if she isn't interested in the gentleman she is under no obligation.
The guy can check out the woman, chat with her, and if he's interested he can ask for her phone number, and if he isn't — well, then he's done something nice for a stranger and the woman has her car filled. At least pumping gas and getting turned down is a lot easier than walking across a room to ask for a dance and getting turned down.
If she's interested and he isn't, all she has to do is drive away and no one will see her disappointment. But she can comfort herself knowing that the jerk who can't notice a prize when he sees her at least filled her gas tank.
For women who like pumping their own gas, all it takes is a polite, no thanks. The guy moves on to the next woman he might want to meet, or he can chat up the first one while she's pumping gas into her car, if that doesn't threaten his ego.
Ideally, the two chat a bit while he's holding onto the pump handle, and if they click, well great. They might not otherwise have met. He feels needed and she doesn't smell like gasoline for the rest of the day instead of like Chanel. If they're really clicking, he can prolong the visit by checking her oil and tires and wiping down the windshield.
It's a win/win situation.
The money savings? While the guys are hanging around the gas pumps looking to meet women, they would also deter those who pump and leave without paying. Business owners ought to take this idea and run with it, provide incentives for lonely guys to hang around and bring in lonely women customers.
OK Oprah, whattya think?
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Independence Day and buffalo toenails
Every now and then something comes at you sideways. You're just bebopping along, and then WHAM! Where did that come from?
It never really occurred to me until just recently that a whole generation of people, maybe even two, weren't here to celebrate the bicentennial. I remember the bicentennial. I even remember a joke about the bicentennial: What do you get when you trim the hooves of 444 buffalo? 1776 bison toenails.
I never really thought about it, but it's been 30 years since the bicentennial. That makes me feel old. However, on the eve of Independence Day, I am staging my own revolution. And I can be pretty revolting.
I declare independence from any young twit who thinks the bicentennial is ancient history. It seems to me like just yesterday.
I declare independence from any notion that someone who's been around as many blocks as I have should sit down and tend to her knitting. I never did learn how to knit. I ain't gonna learn it now. And you know I'm not talking about long needles and yarn.
I demand the independence to say what I think. Really, that isn't necessary. When a woman of a certain age says what she thinks, three things can happen: 1) someone says, oh, she's just old. 2) Someone else says, oh isn't that cute/shocking/scandalous what that old lady said? 3) Nothing because no one pays attention to anyone older than 30.
I declare independence from having to trust anyone under 30. It used to be never trust anyone over 30, but like my bustline, that's shifted.
I declare independence from being called "young lady." I'm NOT a young lady, dammit, I am old enough to command respect. And why do you think it's necessary for me to think I'm young, or for you to think I'm not old, so you patronize me by calling me young lady?
If you can't remember my name, call me ma'am. And I'll kneecap any little twerp that calls me old lady.
So there!
I long for independence from invisibility. To certain older gentlemen who I've on occasion noticed checking me out, thanks! I needed that. And if you were looking because I had a hanging booger, then thank you for letting me think it was for that other reason.
There are no doubt other reasons to declare independence from or to, but right now I'm declaring independence from having to think about this. I need a nap.
It never really occurred to me until just recently that a whole generation of people, maybe even two, weren't here to celebrate the bicentennial. I remember the bicentennial. I even remember a joke about the bicentennial: What do you get when you trim the hooves of 444 buffalo? 1776 bison toenails.
I never really thought about it, but it's been 30 years since the bicentennial. That makes me feel old. However, on the eve of Independence Day, I am staging my own revolution. And I can be pretty revolting.
I declare independence from any young twit who thinks the bicentennial is ancient history. It seems to me like just yesterday.
I declare independence from any notion that someone who's been around as many blocks as I have should sit down and tend to her knitting. I never did learn how to knit. I ain't gonna learn it now. And you know I'm not talking about long needles and yarn.
I demand the independence to say what I think. Really, that isn't necessary. When a woman of a certain age says what she thinks, three things can happen: 1) someone says, oh, she's just old. 2) Someone else says, oh isn't that cute/shocking/scandalous what that old lady said? 3) Nothing because no one pays attention to anyone older than 30.
I declare independence from having to trust anyone under 30. It used to be never trust anyone over 30, but like my bustline, that's shifted.
I declare independence from being called "young lady." I'm NOT a young lady, dammit, I am old enough to command respect. And why do you think it's necessary for me to think I'm young, or for you to think I'm not old, so you patronize me by calling me young lady?
If you can't remember my name, call me ma'am. And I'll kneecap any little twerp that calls me old lady.
So there!
I long for independence from invisibility. To certain older gentlemen who I've on occasion noticed checking me out, thanks! I needed that. And if you were looking because I had a hanging booger, then thank you for letting me think it was for that other reason.
There are no doubt other reasons to declare independence from or to, but right now I'm declaring independence from having to think about this. I need a nap.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Remembering, and maybe missing, Florence
Something in the news has really disturbed me — more so than the onslaught of primary election campaign coverage.
In Massachusetts, 17 teenage girls deliberately got pregnant. Some girls were reportedly upset to find out they weren't pregnant. It seems they'd made a pact, and apparently they wanted — well, who knows what they wanted.
I know times are changing and things aren't like they used to be. Sometimes that's good. Not this time.
In a way, it's good that the stigma of unwed motherhood has lessened. When I was a teenager, it would have been the end of the world to be knocked up.
Back in that day, you could say the name Florence Crittenden and people would know what you were talking about. No one wanted to know Florence Crittenden all that well. A passing knowledge was enough; it was more of a threat.
For the uninitiated Florence Crittenden was the name of a home for unwed mothers. There were such things back then. Girls went there to have their babies and give them up for adoption, then come back home and pretend they'd been on an extended visit to a relative out of state.
A girl in a class behind mine got pregnant her senior year. She was told she couldn't wear maternity clothes to school. It might influence the other girls.
Influence them to do what? Be comfortable?
Another girl my sophomore year led her phys ed class in the number of situps and pushups she did during a test. The next day she delivered a son. No one, not even her parents, knew she was pregnant. People talked about that for years afterward.
Some girls hid their pregnancies then let it all hang out under their graduation gowns when it no longer mattered.
Yet, these girls were the exception. Most girls hung onto their virginity for dear life. Not being one was a scandal. Birth control was a lot iffier then, but not for long when the pill became popular. Getting pregnant was even worse than being found out you weren't a virgin.
And now we've come to the point where a group of girls deliberately got pregnant, one or more of them by a homeless man in his 20s. Makes one wonder what kind of thought went into who would be a good partner, father, provider. Sperm donor - is that all the father is regarded as? There's talk of bringing charges against some of the males involved since the girls are under age.
Have they thought beyond their bulging abdomens? What about the babies? What about their own future? What will marriage and sexual relationships be like for them when they're older? Will they be capable of having a mature, satisfying sexual relationship with a husband or boyfriend? What about their own sense of self worth? Don't they realize it doesn't come from a man or a baby but from within?
Maybe times are changing and it's no longer scandalous to be an unwed teenage mother. But it's still not a good idea. I don't know if the answer is abstinence or knowledge. We seem to be failing in our attempts to teach young women to value themselves. I hope their pact continues beyond their delivery date and they continue to support each other when they're overwhelmed by motherhood.
They're going to need all the help they can get.
In Massachusetts, 17 teenage girls deliberately got pregnant. Some girls were reportedly upset to find out they weren't pregnant. It seems they'd made a pact, and apparently they wanted — well, who knows what they wanted.
I know times are changing and things aren't like they used to be. Sometimes that's good. Not this time.
In a way, it's good that the stigma of unwed motherhood has lessened. When I was a teenager, it would have been the end of the world to be knocked up.
Back in that day, you could say the name Florence Crittenden and people would know what you were talking about. No one wanted to know Florence Crittenden all that well. A passing knowledge was enough; it was more of a threat.
For the uninitiated Florence Crittenden was the name of a home for unwed mothers. There were such things back then. Girls went there to have their babies and give them up for adoption, then come back home and pretend they'd been on an extended visit to a relative out of state.
A girl in a class behind mine got pregnant her senior year. She was told she couldn't wear maternity clothes to school. It might influence the other girls.
Influence them to do what? Be comfortable?
Another girl my sophomore year led her phys ed class in the number of situps and pushups she did during a test. The next day she delivered a son. No one, not even her parents, knew she was pregnant. People talked about that for years afterward.
Some girls hid their pregnancies then let it all hang out under their graduation gowns when it no longer mattered.
Yet, these girls were the exception. Most girls hung onto their virginity for dear life. Not being one was a scandal. Birth control was a lot iffier then, but not for long when the pill became popular. Getting pregnant was even worse than being found out you weren't a virgin.
And now we've come to the point where a group of girls deliberately got pregnant, one or more of them by a homeless man in his 20s. Makes one wonder what kind of thought went into who would be a good partner, father, provider. Sperm donor - is that all the father is regarded as? There's talk of bringing charges against some of the males involved since the girls are under age.
Have they thought beyond their bulging abdomens? What about the babies? What about their own future? What will marriage and sexual relationships be like for them when they're older? Will they be capable of having a mature, satisfying sexual relationship with a husband or boyfriend? What about their own sense of self worth? Don't they realize it doesn't come from a man or a baby but from within?
Maybe times are changing and it's no longer scandalous to be an unwed teenage mother. But it's still not a good idea. I don't know if the answer is abstinence or knowledge. We seem to be failing in our attempts to teach young women to value themselves. I hope their pact continues beyond their delivery date and they continue to support each other when they're overwhelmed by motherhood.
They're going to need all the help they can get.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Karma and cats
Every once in a while life has a way of knocking you upside the head as if to say, "Don't get too uppity."
Kind of like what my grandma used to warn about wishing bad things on someone: whatever you wish for that person will instead happen to you.
Call it karma. Call it whatever you want to call it. I've been upbraided.
A while ago I was regaling anyone who'd listen with stories of my tomcat, Arthur, who lives with me and his sister Cleopatra. Cleo is clearly the smarter of the two, but then again, she's female. Of course she's smarter.
Both cats like it sit by the screen door in the living room that leads to a balcony and watch the birds that visit the feeder I put there. Some may say it's sadistic to put a bird feeder so close to where cats live, but a screen door separates them. The cats can't hurt the birds, and the birds get to chow down on seed, suet and peanut butter. Arthur and Cleopatra enjoy the entertainment. The birds ignore the cats. What you'd call a win/win situation.
Occasionally, though, some of the birds that like to pick up the seed that falls on the floor of the balcony get a little too close to the door, and Arthur lunges thinking he's going to get a little in-between meal with feathers. He always hits the screen door head-on.
It was funny the first time it happened. He lunged. Hit the door. Swore in feline, and backed up and resumed the crouching position. It became funnier when he did it again. You'd think he'd learn. Cause and effect. Lunge for the bird you're gonna hit the screen door. Nope. Arthur, ever hopeful, keeps hitting the door. You gotta admire his perserverence, but then again you'd think he'd figure it out and give up. After all, Cleo doesn't do that. She's smarter.
Females of all species are smarter.
So here's where I get upbraided. A few months ago I ordered some nail polish from the Avon representative. One of the shades I ordered was too dark. It didn't look dark on the catalog page, but when I got it home and applied it, I didn't like it.
So some time later I saw some nail polish on special, saw a shade that looked pretty and ordered it.
You guessed it. Same shade.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I did that three times!
And you know, I really don't think Arthur would laugh at me the way I laughed at his hitting the screen door continuously.
His karma no doubt is better than mine will ever be.
Kind of like what my grandma used to warn about wishing bad things on someone: whatever you wish for that person will instead happen to you.
Call it karma. Call it whatever you want to call it. I've been upbraided.
A while ago I was regaling anyone who'd listen with stories of my tomcat, Arthur, who lives with me and his sister Cleopatra. Cleo is clearly the smarter of the two, but then again, she's female. Of course she's smarter.
Both cats like it sit by the screen door in the living room that leads to a balcony and watch the birds that visit the feeder I put there. Some may say it's sadistic to put a bird feeder so close to where cats live, but a screen door separates them. The cats can't hurt the birds, and the birds get to chow down on seed, suet and peanut butter. Arthur and Cleopatra enjoy the entertainment. The birds ignore the cats. What you'd call a win/win situation.
Occasionally, though, some of the birds that like to pick up the seed that falls on the floor of the balcony get a little too close to the door, and Arthur lunges thinking he's going to get a little in-between meal with feathers. He always hits the screen door head-on.
It was funny the first time it happened. He lunged. Hit the door. Swore in feline, and backed up and resumed the crouching position. It became funnier when he did it again. You'd think he'd learn. Cause and effect. Lunge for the bird you're gonna hit the screen door. Nope. Arthur, ever hopeful, keeps hitting the door. You gotta admire his perserverence, but then again you'd think he'd figure it out and give up. After all, Cleo doesn't do that. She's smarter.
Females of all species are smarter.
So here's where I get upbraided. A few months ago I ordered some nail polish from the Avon representative. One of the shades I ordered was too dark. It didn't look dark on the catalog page, but when I got it home and applied it, I didn't like it.
So some time later I saw some nail polish on special, saw a shade that looked pretty and ordered it.
You guessed it. Same shade.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I did that three times!
And you know, I really don't think Arthur would laugh at me the way I laughed at his hitting the screen door continuously.
His karma no doubt is better than mine will ever be.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Ever wonder why.....
Ever wonder why:
Eight ounces of coffee at a convenience store costs more than 32 ounces of soda?
The day before vacation drags by, but the day before you go back to work whizzes past like a tiger was chasing it?
No one makes T-strap flats any more. Or am I the only one who remembers the girl dancers on American Bandstand wearing them, and how cool those shoes were?
Whenever there's a product that's just about perfect the way it is, someone has to go and improve it. But then it isn't really improved. My favorite grocery store has discontinued 10 pound bags of cheap store-brand cat litter, saying it will be back after the manufacturer makes some "packaging changes." I'm taking bets that it'll either cost more, the cats will hate it, or it won't be in convenient 10-pound, easy-to-carry bags, but will be super-sized to the point it can't be carried or lifted into and out of a car trunk.
You take a chance and run into a store for a quick purchase. You're in baggy sweats, no makeup, your hair's a mess and you see everyone you know. Including an old boyfriend who dumped you years ago and you still want him to regret it. But when you're dressed to the nines and lookin' good, you don't see a soul you know.
What does dressed to nines mean?
Correlative: You take that chance running into the store looking like death on a stick and they're out of what you went in for.
You find a flavor of catfood your feline-American will eat willingly and with gusto, and the store doesn't have that flavor in stock. You ask when it will be restocked, and keep coming back asking about that flavor until they're sick of seeing you. They get the stuff in, you load up on it and then the cat won't eat it.
This also applies to children and certain types of breakfast cereal, husbands and brands of beer, teenage girls and yogurt, the list goes on.
Your car develops a symptom that goes away whenever it's within 500 feet of a mechanic.
Your boss is never around when you're busy churning out enough work for three people, but when you have a little down time, he's flitting around like a hungry mosquito.
The more you need to hurry home the greater the likelihood you'll hit every red light on the way.
The possibility that a group of children will sit behind you in a public place is in direct proportion to the possibility they'll kick the row of seats you're in throughout the entire time you're sitting there.
The later you are for work, the greater the likelihood you can't find your car keys.
Correlative: the greater the likelihood also the keys are in an obvious place that you've searched several times already.
Eight ounces of coffee at a convenience store costs more than 32 ounces of soda?
The day before vacation drags by, but the day before you go back to work whizzes past like a tiger was chasing it?
No one makes T-strap flats any more. Or am I the only one who remembers the girl dancers on American Bandstand wearing them, and how cool those shoes were?
Whenever there's a product that's just about perfect the way it is, someone has to go and improve it. But then it isn't really improved. My favorite grocery store has discontinued 10 pound bags of cheap store-brand cat litter, saying it will be back after the manufacturer makes some "packaging changes." I'm taking bets that it'll either cost more, the cats will hate it, or it won't be in convenient 10-pound, easy-to-carry bags, but will be super-sized to the point it can't be carried or lifted into and out of a car trunk.
You take a chance and run into a store for a quick purchase. You're in baggy sweats, no makeup, your hair's a mess and you see everyone you know. Including an old boyfriend who dumped you years ago and you still want him to regret it. But when you're dressed to the nines and lookin' good, you don't see a soul you know.
What does dressed to nines mean?
Correlative: You take that chance running into the store looking like death on a stick and they're out of what you went in for.
You find a flavor of catfood your feline-American will eat willingly and with gusto, and the store doesn't have that flavor in stock. You ask when it will be restocked, and keep coming back asking about that flavor until they're sick of seeing you. They get the stuff in, you load up on it and then the cat won't eat it.
This also applies to children and certain types of breakfast cereal, husbands and brands of beer, teenage girls and yogurt, the list goes on.
Your car develops a symptom that goes away whenever it's within 500 feet of a mechanic.
Your boss is never around when you're busy churning out enough work for three people, but when you have a little down time, he's flitting around like a hungry mosquito.
The more you need to hurry home the greater the likelihood you'll hit every red light on the way.
The possibility that a group of children will sit behind you in a public place is in direct proportion to the possibility they'll kick the row of seats you're in throughout the entire time you're sitting there.
The later you are for work, the greater the likelihood you can't find your car keys.
Correlative: the greater the likelihood also the keys are in an obvious place that you've searched several times already.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Advice for graduates
Sure signs of spring: flowers, birds, allergy sufferers sneezing into their elbows, and graduations.
No one remembers graduation speeches. I don't remember my high school graduation speech although I remember who gave it. I didn't go to my college commencement. Why sit in the sun in a hot gown and goofy hat for hours on end when I can get the diploma through the mail? I didn't go to college without learning at least one practical thing.
No one remembers the speeches probably because no one really listens. They're all waiting to grab that diploma, go to a graduation party, sleep off the hangover and then begin the business of LIVING! Freedom! Emancipation! Great hopes and achievements!
Yeah right.
No one ever asked me to give a graduation speech, but since no one really listens to them, I'm going to give one anyway.
Forget all that stuff people tell you at this time of your life about going forth and being the hope of the future. That's just what people say to motivate young people to get up, get out and get a job. Hope of the future? That's a hell of a load to put on the shoulders of someone who still needs Mom to wash his underwear. Every four years or so we hear about people who claim to be the country's hope for the future if we'll just let them be president, and they still get trapped in bureaucratic mire. Hope is just the carrot on the end of the stick.
You'll hear people who tell you that now's the time to soar. To fly. To be like the eagles. You'll find out soon enough that you'll do well to get a good running start on life. If you try to soar before you learn how to get off the ground, someone's going to grab you by the knees and pull you back to earth. Take it slow and steady. And learn how to kick. Hard.
The future isn't this bright, shining misty moment out there somewhere that you're going to conquer. It's just inevitable. It's day to day. Ups and downs. Laughter and tears. Triumphs and losses. It's life.
Just give it your best shot. Have faith in someone or something bigger than yourself. Be honest, work hard, keep your cell phone in your pocket while you're driving, and don't address older women as "young lady." Don't wear white shoes and belts with polyester pants and matching shirts, and avoid home permanents.
Stop and smell the roses. Be loved by a pet. Avoid Spandex if you're chunky. Don't spend more than you earn. And don't gripe about the government if you didn't vote.
Actually, all anyone really expects from you graduates has nothing to do with soaring with eagles, roaring like lions, or boring like commencement speakers.
Just pay your taxes and keep your nose clean.
That about says it.
No one remembers graduation speeches. I don't remember my high school graduation speech although I remember who gave it. I didn't go to my college commencement. Why sit in the sun in a hot gown and goofy hat for hours on end when I can get the diploma through the mail? I didn't go to college without learning at least one practical thing.
No one remembers the speeches probably because no one really listens. They're all waiting to grab that diploma, go to a graduation party, sleep off the hangover and then begin the business of LIVING! Freedom! Emancipation! Great hopes and achievements!
Yeah right.
No one ever asked me to give a graduation speech, but since no one really listens to them, I'm going to give one anyway.
Forget all that stuff people tell you at this time of your life about going forth and being the hope of the future. That's just what people say to motivate young people to get up, get out and get a job. Hope of the future? That's a hell of a load to put on the shoulders of someone who still needs Mom to wash his underwear. Every four years or so we hear about people who claim to be the country's hope for the future if we'll just let them be president, and they still get trapped in bureaucratic mire. Hope is just the carrot on the end of the stick.
You'll hear people who tell you that now's the time to soar. To fly. To be like the eagles. You'll find out soon enough that you'll do well to get a good running start on life. If you try to soar before you learn how to get off the ground, someone's going to grab you by the knees and pull you back to earth. Take it slow and steady. And learn how to kick. Hard.
The future isn't this bright, shining misty moment out there somewhere that you're going to conquer. It's just inevitable. It's day to day. Ups and downs. Laughter and tears. Triumphs and losses. It's life.
Just give it your best shot. Have faith in someone or something bigger than yourself. Be honest, work hard, keep your cell phone in your pocket while you're driving, and don't address older women as "young lady." Don't wear white shoes and belts with polyester pants and matching shirts, and avoid home permanents.
Stop and smell the roses. Be loved by a pet. Avoid Spandex if you're chunky. Don't spend more than you earn. And don't gripe about the government if you didn't vote.
Actually, all anyone really expects from you graduates has nothing to do with soaring with eagles, roaring like lions, or boring like commencement speakers.
Just pay your taxes and keep your nose clean.
That about says it.
Friday, May 2, 2008
A talent for -- well, what?
When I was a kid growing up, back in the stone age when the price of gasoline was in double digits and both were to the right of the decimal point, my friends and I would imagine what we'd be when we grew up. (I still want to know but that's another blog.)
We were going to be either teachers or secretaries or perhaps housewives, but it never, ever occurred to us to be anything — well, creative.
Like a professional train wreck.
Every now and then I hear something on the news about country music singer Mindy McCready. Who, you say? Yeah, that's right. She hasn't had a song out in about four years, longer than that for a song anyone remembers.
But she gets news time for either being drunk, or being beat up by a boyfriend, or the latest is having messed around as a juvenile with a much-older married sports figure.
Mindy, dear, have you learned nothing from Britney Spears? If you have no particular talent, then go quietly away and find something else to do.
Actually I thought some of her songs were kind of cute, but she doesn't seem to be focusing on her singing as much as she is on the notion that bad publicity is better than none at all.
So maybe she wanted to be a singer, and that hasn't quite worked out. She needs to learn what the next step is. It's a step out.
There are singers and then there are singers like Patsy Cline, who had an "interesting" personal life herself, but the woman could flat out sing the phone book. When we think of Patsy Cline today, we remember her rich voice singing "She's Got You," and it doesn't matter that the song is older than radial tires. It's a great song. All her songs are great because she had a great talent.
Mindy on the other hand gave it a shot. Some of her songs were good, most are forgettable. Sometimes our dreams just don't work out. Time for Plan B.
So Mindy, listen up. No one cares that your life is like the lyrics of a country western song. You don't have the talent to sing it. Go to beauty school. Learn to be a dental technician. Find another way to make a living. Then go quietly into the night.
And stay there.
We were going to be either teachers or secretaries or perhaps housewives, but it never, ever occurred to us to be anything — well, creative.
Like a professional train wreck.
Every now and then I hear something on the news about country music singer Mindy McCready. Who, you say? Yeah, that's right. She hasn't had a song out in about four years, longer than that for a song anyone remembers.
But she gets news time for either being drunk, or being beat up by a boyfriend, or the latest is having messed around as a juvenile with a much-older married sports figure.
Mindy, dear, have you learned nothing from Britney Spears? If you have no particular talent, then go quietly away and find something else to do.
Actually I thought some of her songs were kind of cute, but she doesn't seem to be focusing on her singing as much as she is on the notion that bad publicity is better than none at all.
So maybe she wanted to be a singer, and that hasn't quite worked out. She needs to learn what the next step is. It's a step out.
There are singers and then there are singers like Patsy Cline, who had an "interesting" personal life herself, but the woman could flat out sing the phone book. When we think of Patsy Cline today, we remember her rich voice singing "She's Got You," and it doesn't matter that the song is older than radial tires. It's a great song. All her songs are great because she had a great talent.
Mindy on the other hand gave it a shot. Some of her songs were good, most are forgettable. Sometimes our dreams just don't work out. Time for Plan B.
So Mindy, listen up. No one cares that your life is like the lyrics of a country western song. You don't have the talent to sing it. Go to beauty school. Learn to be a dental technician. Find another way to make a living. Then go quietly into the night.
And stay there.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Why I love Macy's
I just found a new reason to love Macy's.
This is not an unpaid, unsolicited ad for the store. Has nothing to do with their merchandise, sales people, or advertisements.
It also has nothing to do with the fact that a while back I got such a cute sweater there for about 80 percent off.
Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that I have a gift card for Macy's that I haven't used yet but will.
None of that is important.
What Macy's has done is something every business should do.
I had to call there one day this past week. Like every other store, Macy's has automated answering: press 1 for women's fashions, press 2 for someone to explain your credit card bill; etc. ad nauseum. Then, it has an option for you to hang on to be connected to a real person who will actually talk to you.
Now while having a real person to talk to is a wonderful thing itself, and certainly something AT&T needs to look into, that's not why I love Macy's.
I love Macy's because before the automated answering machine put me on hold while I waited for a real person who talked to me, this is what it said: "Please wait during the silence while we connect your call."
Yep. Silence. No tinkling chimes playing "You Light Up My Life." No connection to a radio station. No commercial for what's on sale in Housewares. No elevator music of any genre.
Just pure, golden, blissful silence.
I love Macy's.
This is not an unpaid, unsolicited ad for the store. Has nothing to do with their merchandise, sales people, or advertisements.
It also has nothing to do with the fact that a while back I got such a cute sweater there for about 80 percent off.
Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that I have a gift card for Macy's that I haven't used yet but will.
None of that is important.
What Macy's has done is something every business should do.
I had to call there one day this past week. Like every other store, Macy's has automated answering: press 1 for women's fashions, press 2 for someone to explain your credit card bill; etc. ad nauseum. Then, it has an option for you to hang on to be connected to a real person who will actually talk to you.
Now while having a real person to talk to is a wonderful thing itself, and certainly something AT&T needs to look into, that's not why I love Macy's.
I love Macy's because before the automated answering machine put me on hold while I waited for a real person who talked to me, this is what it said: "Please wait during the silence while we connect your call."
Yep. Silence. No tinkling chimes playing "You Light Up My Life." No connection to a radio station. No commercial for what's on sale in Housewares. No elevator music of any genre.
Just pure, golden, blissful silence.
I love Macy's.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The real qualifications for a president
Much has been made lately of Hillary Clinton's income tax forms. Will she release them to the public or not? Her primary opponent has made much of that and we all know how that kind of political sniping works.
But really, why should we care about her IRS forms? Or anyone else's IRS forms, for that matter. We'd look for ways she's apparently declaring her income and expenses to minimize how much goes to the IRS, but wouldn't we all try to keep as much of our money as possible? And maybe for the sake of snoopiness we'd like to know how much any candidate earns, but really is that any of our business? Any candidate's taxable income or list of deductions is not going to make me vote one way or another.
So if I am to consider whether or not I'll vote for Hillary Clinton, here's what I think is important:
Where does she get those pant suits and how much does she pay for them? If she's buying designer duds and paying full price for them, then that makes a difference. I can't afford designer pantsuits, so why should I vote for someone who can? Would she have my best interests in mind? If she gets her clothes on sale at least 40 percent off, or off a clearance rack marked down 60 percent or more, then I know this is a serious shopper who can squeeze a nickel until the buffalo belches.
Another thing, is she one of those people who cuts off the size tags once she gets her clothes home from the store? Makes you wonder what she has to hide.
Hillary has had the same hairstyle since she got elected to the senate, instead of changing almost weekly like she did when she was First Lady. What I want to know is does she wash it and blow it dry herself every morning? What does her haircut cost? Does she go to a salon and gossip with the stylist and the other customers? Is she just one of us or does she have a stylist on retainer kind of like an attorney?
Fragrance. I've never met the woman, so I don't know if she uses a fragrance, but if she does how much does she pay for it? Would she ever consider buying a knockoff version of her favorite designer perfume and save a few dollars? Has she ever ripped out a perfume ad from a magazine and run the sample scent over her pulse points?
Does she get her makeup from Walgreen's? From the Avon Lady? Has she ever been to a Mary Kay party? Or does she go to those high end department stores and buy her makeup? Can we trust a president who pays more than six bucks for mascara?
Does she ask for a "go" box when she eats out, or does she let food go to waste if she can't finish her lunch? Surely she, of all people, should know where people in the world are starving.
Is she a coupon clipper? I mean, coupons other than on stock certificates. I recently got two packages of toilet paper for a dollar with a coupon; can she relate to that kind of bargain and the smug satisfaction that goes with it?
Has she ever experienced the joy of finding a buy one, get one free shoe sale, and actually found two pairs of shoes that she likes, that fit, and don't rub blisters?
I wonder if she's ever pushed a cart through a Target store. Browsed through a half-off rack at a sidewalk sale. Found treasures at a flea market. Can any candidate lead the country if they don't know how ordinary taxpayers cope because they don't have the option of increasing their budgets without regard for how it'll be paid back. Well, maybe some people do, but that's why we have credit counseling services now. Has she ever been to one of those — or sent a congressional delegation to learn from such a service? Bottom line: Is she, or any other candidate, just one of us? Can any candidate really relate to the average wage-earner who casts a ballot?
One more thing: Think twice about voting for any candidate who can walk by a cat or a dog and not pet it.
But really, why should we care about her IRS forms? Or anyone else's IRS forms, for that matter. We'd look for ways she's apparently declaring her income and expenses to minimize how much goes to the IRS, but wouldn't we all try to keep as much of our money as possible? And maybe for the sake of snoopiness we'd like to know how much any candidate earns, but really is that any of our business? Any candidate's taxable income or list of deductions is not going to make me vote one way or another.
So if I am to consider whether or not I'll vote for Hillary Clinton, here's what I think is important:
Where does she get those pant suits and how much does she pay for them? If she's buying designer duds and paying full price for them, then that makes a difference. I can't afford designer pantsuits, so why should I vote for someone who can? Would she have my best interests in mind? If she gets her clothes on sale at least 40 percent off, or off a clearance rack marked down 60 percent or more, then I know this is a serious shopper who can squeeze a nickel until the buffalo belches.
Another thing, is she one of those people who cuts off the size tags once she gets her clothes home from the store? Makes you wonder what she has to hide.
Hillary has had the same hairstyle since she got elected to the senate, instead of changing almost weekly like she did when she was First Lady. What I want to know is does she wash it and blow it dry herself every morning? What does her haircut cost? Does she go to a salon and gossip with the stylist and the other customers? Is she just one of us or does she have a stylist on retainer kind of like an attorney?
Fragrance. I've never met the woman, so I don't know if she uses a fragrance, but if she does how much does she pay for it? Would she ever consider buying a knockoff version of her favorite designer perfume and save a few dollars? Has she ever ripped out a perfume ad from a magazine and run the sample scent over her pulse points?
Does she get her makeup from Walgreen's? From the Avon Lady? Has she ever been to a Mary Kay party? Or does she go to those high end department stores and buy her makeup? Can we trust a president who pays more than six bucks for mascara?
Does she ask for a "go" box when she eats out, or does she let food go to waste if she can't finish her lunch? Surely she, of all people, should know where people in the world are starving.
Is she a coupon clipper? I mean, coupons other than on stock certificates. I recently got two packages of toilet paper for a dollar with a coupon; can she relate to that kind of bargain and the smug satisfaction that goes with it?
Has she ever experienced the joy of finding a buy one, get one free shoe sale, and actually found two pairs of shoes that she likes, that fit, and don't rub blisters?
I wonder if she's ever pushed a cart through a Target store. Browsed through a half-off rack at a sidewalk sale. Found treasures at a flea market. Can any candidate lead the country if they don't know how ordinary taxpayers cope because they don't have the option of increasing their budgets without regard for how it'll be paid back. Well, maybe some people do, but that's why we have credit counseling services now. Has she ever been to one of those — or sent a congressional delegation to learn from such a service? Bottom line: Is she, or any other candidate, just one of us? Can any candidate really relate to the average wage-earner who casts a ballot?
One more thing: Think twice about voting for any candidate who can walk by a cat or a dog and not pet it.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Economic stimulus
I got a notice from the IRS recently about the economic stimulus check they're going to send me. That got me to thinking. How much stimulus does the economy need? Will a lousy "up to 600 dollars" be enough for me to do my part for my country, and why can't they be more specific than "up to $600"? Are they going to run out of money before they get to me, and have to cut back so I won't be overstimulated?
There's an Internet joke going around saying that these checks aren't going to help the economy because the only thing left made in America are beer and hookers. Given that women do the bulk of the spending, it looks pretty grim for an economy based on that joke.
Paul McCartney has a lot of money, and his ex-wife Heather Mills is trying her best to get her hands on it to spread some around. I'd hate to think that the fate of the American economy depends on whether or not a gold-digging bimbo gets her hands on money that rightfully belongs to the Cute Beatle. Yeah, he's British, but she's no doubt a global spender. But do we need the cash that badly? Leave Sir Paul alone; preferably with me. He needs consoling.
There seems to be plenty of money being spent already. There's those two young women who just recently netted $1,350 on an e-Bay auction for a cornflake that looks like Illinois. That transaction just goes to show that some people have too much money. But if someone wants to spend it on state-shaped breakfast cereal, then that's his privilege. If that person would just get in touch with me, I've got some cold oatmeal that looks like the profile of Alfred Hitchcock. Or I will fairly soon.
And what about former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer? If he's got $1,000 for one hour with a tough-looking hooker — and we all know he sprang for more than an hour — he's got money to throw around and kick up the economy a bit. No doubt his wife will make the most of his excess cash when she takes him for all he has and then some. You go Silda! Spend your way out of your public embarrassment! Start with Tiffany's.
And if the hooker is making a grand an hour, assuming she's working a 40-hour week like the rest of us, she's probably socking some back for when her looks and youth head south and she has to rely on her — what? Wits? Job skills? Yeah right. She surely has a little money she can spread around like a social disease.
But if the government wants to give me up to $600 to stimulate the economy, I"ll do my best to help. I can buy gasoline with it, maybe a couple of trips to the supermarket to buy some cornflakes that might look like Rhode Island. But I buy gas and groceries anyway. If I'm going to be a good American and do my part to help the economy and spread some bucks around, then let's do it right, and add another zero on the right-hand end of that amount.
Hey, why settle for being a good American when I can be a great American?
There's an Internet joke going around saying that these checks aren't going to help the economy because the only thing left made in America are beer and hookers. Given that women do the bulk of the spending, it looks pretty grim for an economy based on that joke.
Paul McCartney has a lot of money, and his ex-wife Heather Mills is trying her best to get her hands on it to spread some around. I'd hate to think that the fate of the American economy depends on whether or not a gold-digging bimbo gets her hands on money that rightfully belongs to the Cute Beatle. Yeah, he's British, but she's no doubt a global spender. But do we need the cash that badly? Leave Sir Paul alone; preferably with me. He needs consoling.
There seems to be plenty of money being spent already. There's those two young women who just recently netted $1,350 on an e-Bay auction for a cornflake that looks like Illinois. That transaction just goes to show that some people have too much money. But if someone wants to spend it on state-shaped breakfast cereal, then that's his privilege. If that person would just get in touch with me, I've got some cold oatmeal that looks like the profile of Alfred Hitchcock. Or I will fairly soon.
And what about former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer? If he's got $1,000 for one hour with a tough-looking hooker — and we all know he sprang for more than an hour — he's got money to throw around and kick up the economy a bit. No doubt his wife will make the most of his excess cash when she takes him for all he has and then some. You go Silda! Spend your way out of your public embarrassment! Start with Tiffany's.
And if the hooker is making a grand an hour, assuming she's working a 40-hour week like the rest of us, she's probably socking some back for when her looks and youth head south and she has to rely on her — what? Wits? Job skills? Yeah right. She surely has a little money she can spread around like a social disease.
But if the government wants to give me up to $600 to stimulate the economy, I"ll do my best to help. I can buy gasoline with it, maybe a couple of trips to the supermarket to buy some cornflakes that might look like Rhode Island. But I buy gas and groceries anyway. If I'm going to be a good American and do my part to help the economy and spread some bucks around, then let's do it right, and add another zero on the right-hand end of that amount.
Hey, why settle for being a good American when I can be a great American?
Friday, March 14, 2008
It's in the cards
I think I've made a huge mistake, and I don't know what to do about it. In fact, I've made this mistake many times. I simply had no idea.
Last week I bought some items at a health food store, and the checkout guy stuck a health-related magazine in my bag of stuff. I flipped through it and saw one of those subscription cards in it. You know the cards; all magazines have at least a dozen of them. Normally I just mindlessly rip them out and throw them away, but for some reason, I read this one. It had a checkoff list of health concerns I might want information about in future issues, and a box to check indicating that I wanted a free subscription to the magazine. Next to that was a little box to mark if I didn't want a free subscription.
Huh?
I'm supposed to fill these things out if I DON'T want a subscription too? Think of how many of those cards I failed to fill out and mail thinking that if they didn't get a card from me, then they must know that I decline their invitation to subscribe.
I wonder how many people are searching for all those people who, like myself, failed to turn in a card saying "No thanks. I don't want one."
I am so, so sorry. I didn't know.
All those little cards are postage pre-paid, so you don't have to use your own stamp. I wonder what kind of tizzy the people at the magazine office get into when they get cards back saying, no thanks, but no one bothered to fill out the rest of the card. They'd have a rejection, but wouldn't know who it came from. And they'd have to pay for it too.
Some years ago I saw author Calvin Trillin on a TV program talking about those little prepaid cards. He said he would politely write something cheery on the face of them and send them back so as not to waste the prepaid postage. Something like "no, I don't want the free offer, but thank you for asking anyway."
Web sites exist that are devoted to suggestions for doing the same thing with those prepaid envelopes that come with offers for credit cards, with a cautionary note to be sure to remove anything that can be traced back to you. Some even suggest even shredding the offer, stuffing it in the prepaid envelope and mailing it back. What a clever thought: it frees up landfill space and makes good use of the postage paid envelope.
Some subscription offers come on post cards where you can indicate that you do want the subscription and want to be billed, or you can check a little box that says "check enclosed." On a post card. Where do they think you're going to put the check? If you fill out the card, write a check and put it in an envelope, you've wasted the money they spent on prepaid postage, not to mention your own stamp. So it takes twice as much postage than it should to get the card to its destination. Considering this, why does the price of postage go up every year? The Postal Service should be rolling in money.
So now I wonder what to do with that card from the health magazine. Should I fill it out and check the box that says no, and send it back? If I do, will they send me a letter asking why I turned down something free? If I don't fill out my name and address, but send back the check-marked card, will someone track me down? I also wonder how much they spend on postage to get a pile of blank cards back? Who's writing the copy on those cards, anyway? What were they thinking? Or did some higher-paid higher-up look over a submitted prototype and say, "you know, this is good, but I think we need a box for people to say they don't want it."
And as soon as I figure out all that, I'm going to work on why voice mail messages say, "If you have a touch tone phone, and you know your party's extension, you may DIAL it at any time.
Last week I bought some items at a health food store, and the checkout guy stuck a health-related magazine in my bag of stuff. I flipped through it and saw one of those subscription cards in it. You know the cards; all magazines have at least a dozen of them. Normally I just mindlessly rip them out and throw them away, but for some reason, I read this one. It had a checkoff list of health concerns I might want information about in future issues, and a box to check indicating that I wanted a free subscription to the magazine. Next to that was a little box to mark if I didn't want a free subscription.
Huh?
I'm supposed to fill these things out if I DON'T want a subscription too? Think of how many of those cards I failed to fill out and mail thinking that if they didn't get a card from me, then they must know that I decline their invitation to subscribe.
I wonder how many people are searching for all those people who, like myself, failed to turn in a card saying "No thanks. I don't want one."
I am so, so sorry. I didn't know.
All those little cards are postage pre-paid, so you don't have to use your own stamp. I wonder what kind of tizzy the people at the magazine office get into when they get cards back saying, no thanks, but no one bothered to fill out the rest of the card. They'd have a rejection, but wouldn't know who it came from. And they'd have to pay for it too.
Some years ago I saw author Calvin Trillin on a TV program talking about those little prepaid cards. He said he would politely write something cheery on the face of them and send them back so as not to waste the prepaid postage. Something like "no, I don't want the free offer, but thank you for asking anyway."
Web sites exist that are devoted to suggestions for doing the same thing with those prepaid envelopes that come with offers for credit cards, with a cautionary note to be sure to remove anything that can be traced back to you. Some even suggest even shredding the offer, stuffing it in the prepaid envelope and mailing it back. What a clever thought: it frees up landfill space and makes good use of the postage paid envelope.
Some subscription offers come on post cards where you can indicate that you do want the subscription and want to be billed, or you can check a little box that says "check enclosed." On a post card. Where do they think you're going to put the check? If you fill out the card, write a check and put it in an envelope, you've wasted the money they spent on prepaid postage, not to mention your own stamp. So it takes twice as much postage than it should to get the card to its destination. Considering this, why does the price of postage go up every year? The Postal Service should be rolling in money.
So now I wonder what to do with that card from the health magazine. Should I fill it out and check the box that says no, and send it back? If I do, will they send me a letter asking why I turned down something free? If I don't fill out my name and address, but send back the check-marked card, will someone track me down? I also wonder how much they spend on postage to get a pile of blank cards back? Who's writing the copy on those cards, anyway? What were they thinking? Or did some higher-paid higher-up look over a submitted prototype and say, "you know, this is good, but I think we need a box for people to say they don't want it."
And as soon as I figure out all that, I'm going to work on why voice mail messages say, "If you have a touch tone phone, and you know your party's extension, you may DIAL it at any time.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
A little Boomer whining
Three ice storms in three weeks' time is getting a little redundant. Not to mention depressing.
And now a snow storm is on the way.
DId I mention this was getting redundant and depressing?
The Groundhog is no fool. He came out, predicted more winter, and hotfooted it back into his burrow where no weather-crazed people can get to him. If he'd predicted early spring, it would be open season on groundhogs by now.
I'm going to indulge in a little Boomer whining. Boomers are good at that; we've had at most 60 years of learning how, and even the youngest Boomers have had a while to perfect their skills. Winter is whining weather.
I'm cordially sick of boots right now. They're no longer a fashion statement; they're an instrument of pain. My feet hurt when I try to balance myself on ice-covered sidewalks and yards while encased in all that leather. Since I can't kick them off under my desk like I do my shoes, my feet feel trapped. Boots remind me of bad weather. I wanna wear my flip flops again. Better yet, I am counting the days until I can go barefooting through the clover.
Whine, whine, gripe.
I long for the bright yellow happy face of dandelions. And I ache to see tulips and crocus poking up through the ground. Dandelions, tulips and daffodils are sure signs of spring. So are robins, but they've been at my bird feeder lately, and they've been launching attacks on the chickadees and cardinals who also visit. The robins are no doubt as depressed by all the ice and gloom as I am, and are taking it out on the other birds. Bird rage, as it were. If it weren't for watching the enjoyment my cats get out of sitting in front of the door that separates them from the bird feeder, the bird battles would put me in a real funk.
Whi-i-i-i-nnne!
Now here's the real problem. Some yahoos in Washington, D. C., took an already bad idea and made it worse. They made daylight saving time start earlier this year. This weekend. After three weeks of sleet and freezing rain and another week of snow, it's going to be daylight saving time. What daylight? Storm clouds keep hiding the daylight. Daylight saving time has always been a stupid idea. The days get longer anyway. So what's another hour? It doesn't save any utilities - it just shifts the hours we use the same amount of energy. What's the point of that?
But when one thinks of DST, one thinks of summer coming. Spring warmth; sunshine. An end to winter blahs, ice and snow and scraping windshields and knocking the blocks of cruddy snow off the bottom of the car. Now we have DST AND all the blahs associated with winter. It stinks!
So this weekend I'm really going to go deep into my suffering. A heavy accumulation of snow is predicted. It'll be dark. Gloomy. Cold. Slippery. Confining.
And with the early advent of daylight saving time I'll lose a valuable hour. The sun, such as it is, will be out longer, but I'll lose an hour. Of pouting time.
Might as well get a start on it now.
And now a snow storm is on the way.
DId I mention this was getting redundant and depressing?
The Groundhog is no fool. He came out, predicted more winter, and hotfooted it back into his burrow where no weather-crazed people can get to him. If he'd predicted early spring, it would be open season on groundhogs by now.
I'm going to indulge in a little Boomer whining. Boomers are good at that; we've had at most 60 years of learning how, and even the youngest Boomers have had a while to perfect their skills. Winter is whining weather.
I'm cordially sick of boots right now. They're no longer a fashion statement; they're an instrument of pain. My feet hurt when I try to balance myself on ice-covered sidewalks and yards while encased in all that leather. Since I can't kick them off under my desk like I do my shoes, my feet feel trapped. Boots remind me of bad weather. I wanna wear my flip flops again. Better yet, I am counting the days until I can go barefooting through the clover.
Whine, whine, gripe.
I long for the bright yellow happy face of dandelions. And I ache to see tulips and crocus poking up through the ground. Dandelions, tulips and daffodils are sure signs of spring. So are robins, but they've been at my bird feeder lately, and they've been launching attacks on the chickadees and cardinals who also visit. The robins are no doubt as depressed by all the ice and gloom as I am, and are taking it out on the other birds. Bird rage, as it were. If it weren't for watching the enjoyment my cats get out of sitting in front of the door that separates them from the bird feeder, the bird battles would put me in a real funk.
Whi-i-i-i-nnne!
Now here's the real problem. Some yahoos in Washington, D. C., took an already bad idea and made it worse. They made daylight saving time start earlier this year. This weekend. After three weeks of sleet and freezing rain and another week of snow, it's going to be daylight saving time. What daylight? Storm clouds keep hiding the daylight. Daylight saving time has always been a stupid idea. The days get longer anyway. So what's another hour? It doesn't save any utilities - it just shifts the hours we use the same amount of energy. What's the point of that?
But when one thinks of DST, one thinks of summer coming. Spring warmth; sunshine. An end to winter blahs, ice and snow and scraping windshields and knocking the blocks of cruddy snow off the bottom of the car. Now we have DST AND all the blahs associated with winter. It stinks!
So this weekend I'm really going to go deep into my suffering. A heavy accumulation of snow is predicted. It'll be dark. Gloomy. Cold. Slippery. Confining.
And with the early advent of daylight saving time I'll lose a valuable hour. The sun, such as it is, will be out longer, but I'll lose an hour. Of pouting time.
Might as well get a start on it now.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Opposable thumbs and 'pooshy cats'
You may not realize the seriousness of the occasion, but National What if Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs Day is approaching. It's March 3.
I don’t know who comes up with these dubious holidays, but this one is definitely food for thought. As a cat person, I shudder to think what would happen if my two feline-Americans had opposable thumbs. I’ve always said if they could pop open their own catfood cans and get a government check, I would become superfluous.
But maybe the little beasties are more noble than that.
Some years ago I had a remarkable tuxedo-marked black and white cat who taught me, among many other things, not to judge a book by its cover. That not everyone is as he seems.
His name was Catsanova, and he liked people. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. He could be rude sometimes if he encountered a person he didn’t think measured up to his standards, but what he really liked was the attention people gave him.
Like the notorious lover for whom he was named — with a variation in spelling — Catsanova liked to be adored. Adore him and he’s yours forever, or at least until he remembers who feeds him.
He also liked to ride in the car. He learned early on that when we were moving slowly or stopped, there was a likelihood that if he sat upright on my lap and looked out the window, someone would see him, point and exclaim, “Oh, look at the kitty.” He loved that.
So here’s the situation. Catsanova and I are in the car, at a filling station, waiting for the gas tank to fill. This was back in the day when you could still get full service at a gas station. The full service pumps were usually farthest away from the station, reserving the closer pumps for people who pumped their own.
It’s a beautiful fall day, and the window is partially open. The cat is wearing a harness and leash to protect him from impulse. He’s curled up on my lap.
At the next set of pumps is a guy on a Harley. A typical-looking guy on a Harley. Big, burly, bearded. Dressed in black leather. Kind of tough looking. Typical biker kind of guy.
He’s sitting on his hog just looking around. As he glances in the direction of my car, Catsanova took that moment to sit up and look out the window. From outside, I heard kind of a bellow: “Aaaawwwwww!”
I look around, and the biker is getting off his bike, lumbering toward my car, exclaiming: “Aaaaw. Look at the pooshy cat. Hello pooshy cat. Can I pet your pooshy cat ma’am?”
He reached in the window, stroked the cat and said, “Hello, pooshy cat. What’s your name?”
He sees his wife coming out of the ladies room, and hollers at her: “Hey Dorothy. Come here and look at the pooshy cat.”
Catsanova was eating it up like caviar catfood. He had met a kindred spirit.
After a few minutes conversation, I realized I’d met a fellow cat person. Nice guy. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but hey, if the pooshy cat liked him, he must be all right.
That day I learned people aren’t always the way they seem. You can’t judge a book by its cover. Even biker dudes have a soft spot.
So as I contemplate National What if Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs Day, I come to the conclusion that it’s a good thing they don’t. If Catsanova had had opposable thumbs, he’d probably have thumbed down the Harley, booted Dorothy off the back of it, and ridden off into the sunset with the biker where together they would find America.
I don’t know who comes up with these dubious holidays, but this one is definitely food for thought. As a cat person, I shudder to think what would happen if my two feline-Americans had opposable thumbs. I’ve always said if they could pop open their own catfood cans and get a government check, I would become superfluous.
But maybe the little beasties are more noble than that.
Some years ago I had a remarkable tuxedo-marked black and white cat who taught me, among many other things, not to judge a book by its cover. That not everyone is as he seems.
His name was Catsanova, and he liked people. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. He could be rude sometimes if he encountered a person he didn’t think measured up to his standards, but what he really liked was the attention people gave him.
Like the notorious lover for whom he was named — with a variation in spelling — Catsanova liked to be adored. Adore him and he’s yours forever, or at least until he remembers who feeds him.
He also liked to ride in the car. He learned early on that when we were moving slowly or stopped, there was a likelihood that if he sat upright on my lap and looked out the window, someone would see him, point and exclaim, “Oh, look at the kitty.” He loved that.
So here’s the situation. Catsanova and I are in the car, at a filling station, waiting for the gas tank to fill. This was back in the day when you could still get full service at a gas station. The full service pumps were usually farthest away from the station, reserving the closer pumps for people who pumped their own.
It’s a beautiful fall day, and the window is partially open. The cat is wearing a harness and leash to protect him from impulse. He’s curled up on my lap.
At the next set of pumps is a guy on a Harley. A typical-looking guy on a Harley. Big, burly, bearded. Dressed in black leather. Kind of tough looking. Typical biker kind of guy.
He’s sitting on his hog just looking around. As he glances in the direction of my car, Catsanova took that moment to sit up and look out the window. From outside, I heard kind of a bellow: “Aaaawwwwww!”
I look around, and the biker is getting off his bike, lumbering toward my car, exclaiming: “Aaaaw. Look at the pooshy cat. Hello pooshy cat. Can I pet your pooshy cat ma’am?”
He reached in the window, stroked the cat and said, “Hello, pooshy cat. What’s your name?”
He sees his wife coming out of the ladies room, and hollers at her: “Hey Dorothy. Come here and look at the pooshy cat.”
Catsanova was eating it up like caviar catfood. He had met a kindred spirit.
After a few minutes conversation, I realized I’d met a fellow cat person. Nice guy. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but hey, if the pooshy cat liked him, he must be all right.
That day I learned people aren’t always the way they seem. You can’t judge a book by its cover. Even biker dudes have a soft spot.
So as I contemplate National What if Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs Day, I come to the conclusion that it’s a good thing they don’t. If Catsanova had had opposable thumbs, he’d probably have thumbed down the Harley, booted Dorothy off the back of it, and ridden off into the sunset with the biker where together they would find America.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Valentines We'd Like to See
Hillary,
You wowed them in New Hampshire.
In Iowa, not so much.
When you let a few tears fall
You showed a human touch.
While you’re out trail-blazing
Campaigning in a whirl,
Remember now, if you don’t win
You’re still my little girl.
Love ya, Bill
Hillary,
My fine, worthy opponent
You’ve really shown your stuff.
While you don’t have my charisma
You’re still no bit of fluff.
The issues notwithstanding,
This race is getting tough.
So I say with sheer sarcasm,
That you’re likeable enough.
Your buddy, Barack
Barack, John, Mitt, Rudy, et al.:
You’re such a bunch of good ol’ boys
Won’t give a girl a break.
So let me tell you here and now,
And please make no mistake.
I won’t take discrimination
That you all use to fight me.
As far as this woman’s concerned,
You boys can all just bite me.
Love and kisses, Hillary
TV Writers
While you’re out walking picket lines
We’ve occupied our days
With reading, games and exercise
And many other ways
Of finding entertainment.
So it’s good luck that we wish you.
Don’t worry ‘bout returning
‘Cause quite frankly, we don’t miss you.
(Former) TV watching public
To American voting public:
We’re going to back off a while
And give you all a break.
You’ve heard about us far too long,
We know, for pity’s sake.
So in the coming months ahead
A gift to you we’re bringing:
An end to nuance, slams, insults,
Trash talk and all mud-slinging.
No longer will your mind be filled
With rumor and distortion
And comments we direct to blow
All things out of proportion.
Did you really think we would?
Or are we being cruel
And mixing up St. Valentine’s
With an early April Fool?
Gotcha, The Candidates
You wowed them in New Hampshire.
In Iowa, not so much.
When you let a few tears fall
You showed a human touch.
While you’re out trail-blazing
Campaigning in a whirl,
Remember now, if you don’t win
You’re still my little girl.
Love ya, Bill
Hillary,
My fine, worthy opponent
You’ve really shown your stuff.
While you don’t have my charisma
You’re still no bit of fluff.
The issues notwithstanding,
This race is getting tough.
So I say with sheer sarcasm,
That you’re likeable enough.
Your buddy, Barack
Barack, John, Mitt, Rudy, et al.:
You’re such a bunch of good ol’ boys
Won’t give a girl a break.
So let me tell you here and now,
And please make no mistake.
I won’t take discrimination
That you all use to fight me.
As far as this woman’s concerned,
You boys can all just bite me.
Love and kisses, Hillary
TV Writers
While you’re out walking picket lines
We’ve occupied our days
With reading, games and exercise
And many other ways
Of finding entertainment.
So it’s good luck that we wish you.
Don’t worry ‘bout returning
‘Cause quite frankly, we don’t miss you.
(Former) TV watching public
To American voting public:
We’re going to back off a while
And give you all a break.
You’ve heard about us far too long,
We know, for pity’s sake.
So in the coming months ahead
A gift to you we’re bringing:
An end to nuance, slams, insults,
Trash talk and all mud-slinging.
No longer will your mind be filled
With rumor and distortion
And comments we direct to blow
All things out of proportion.
Did you really think we would?
Or are we being cruel
And mixing up St. Valentine’s
With an early April Fool?
Gotcha, The Candidates
Friday, February 1, 2008
Happy Fat Tuesday
Hallmark is missing out in a great opportunity. Fat Tuesday is coming up.
Now there's a day that we've not capitalized on. We party hard for Mardi Gras, but it's all in the revelry and the parades and throwing beads and getting plastered.
Isn't Super Bowl enough? C'mon! Listen to the name. Fat Tuesday. Fat.
Traditionally, the day has been observed as a way of using up items in the pantry before fasting at Lent, so as not to waste any food. Cooks would use up fat and eggs by making pancakes.
Fat Tuesday. Not wasting ingredients. Oh, the potential.
Here's a day to pig out. Like eating as much of your favorite foods as you can before the day you plan to go on a diet. I did that once. I'd decided to join Weight Watchers, so before the day I was going to sign up, I chowed down. And I enjoyed every bite of it. Right up to the time when I weighed in for the first meeting and realized that I could have gotten a jump start by actually doing nothing at all and not gaining the weight I did during the preceding days.
I digress here, but you get the concept.
You're gonna be giving up something for Lent. Might as well take Fat Tuesday for one last blowout.
Picture it. A Hallmark card to send to your Best Friend Forever (or Best Fat Friend, whichever): "Roses are red; Willows are bent; Stuff your face today; For tomorrow starts Lent."
Before the Valentine hearts go on half price sale (actually this year, before they even go on sale at all), stock the store shelves with Fat Tuesday boxes of chocolate. Wrap little chocolate balls in green, purple and gold foil, string them into necklaces, and you've got Mardi Gras beads worth collecting.
Start with a hearty Fat Tuesday breakfast of pancakes, followed by a midmorning snack of jelly doughnuts. Hit the KFC for lunch, then so you shouldn't grow weak from hunger midafternoon, indulge in a little pizza. Call your friends, invite them over after work, and serve up pasta Alfredo and cannoli for dessert.
Best of all, you don't have to feel guilty. It's Fat Tuesday. You're supposed to celebrate it; it's like you're expected to drink New Year's Eve. It's a holiday, for heaven's sake.
Newspapers will report on how grocery stores and delis raked in big bucks over the holiday, giving the name Fat Tuesday another meaning. It'll take on such gigantic proportions that, like Christmas, it'll lose its orignal sacred meaning.
Another American tradition whose time has come.
Let's get started on it!
Now there's a day that we've not capitalized on. We party hard for Mardi Gras, but it's all in the revelry and the parades and throwing beads and getting plastered.
Isn't Super Bowl enough? C'mon! Listen to the name. Fat Tuesday. Fat.
Traditionally, the day has been observed as a way of using up items in the pantry before fasting at Lent, so as not to waste any food. Cooks would use up fat and eggs by making pancakes.
Fat Tuesday. Not wasting ingredients. Oh, the potential.
Here's a day to pig out. Like eating as much of your favorite foods as you can before the day you plan to go on a diet. I did that once. I'd decided to join Weight Watchers, so before the day I was going to sign up, I chowed down. And I enjoyed every bite of it. Right up to the time when I weighed in for the first meeting and realized that I could have gotten a jump start by actually doing nothing at all and not gaining the weight I did during the preceding days.
I digress here, but you get the concept.
You're gonna be giving up something for Lent. Might as well take Fat Tuesday for one last blowout.
Picture it. A Hallmark card to send to your Best Friend Forever (or Best Fat Friend, whichever): "Roses are red; Willows are bent; Stuff your face today; For tomorrow starts Lent."
Before the Valentine hearts go on half price sale (actually this year, before they even go on sale at all), stock the store shelves with Fat Tuesday boxes of chocolate. Wrap little chocolate balls in green, purple and gold foil, string them into necklaces, and you've got Mardi Gras beads worth collecting.
Start with a hearty Fat Tuesday breakfast of pancakes, followed by a midmorning snack of jelly doughnuts. Hit the KFC for lunch, then so you shouldn't grow weak from hunger midafternoon, indulge in a little pizza. Call your friends, invite them over after work, and serve up pasta Alfredo and cannoli for dessert.
Best of all, you don't have to feel guilty. It's Fat Tuesday. You're supposed to celebrate it; it's like you're expected to drink New Year's Eve. It's a holiday, for heaven's sake.
Newspapers will report on how grocery stores and delis raked in big bucks over the holiday, giving the name Fat Tuesday another meaning. It'll take on such gigantic proportions that, like Christmas, it'll lose its orignal sacred meaning.
Another American tradition whose time has come.
Let's get started on it!
Friday, January 25, 2008
If I Ruled the World
If I ruled the world — that's more than just a song by Tony Bennett. It's a lament for some order in this chaotic place. The world is going nuts.
I'm not talking about the obvious war and pestilence. I'm talking about the little things that can make someone snap like a dry twig under an Ugg boot.
Take apostrophes for instance. Please. Take them out of words they don't need to be in. Such as beauty shops with big honking signs that say "Kut's and More."
Kut's what? What belongs to Kut?
And while we're on the subject, for heaven's sake what's wrong with "Cuts"? Are you reaching out for illiterate clientele who think cuts is spelled with a K? They probably cut their own hair. Spell it right! Same with restaurants. I would be afraid to eat in a place called Kuntry Kitchen. If they can't spell, I certainly don't feel safe eating their food.
The world would be a better place if people would just treat vegetables with respect. That means cooking them properly so one can actually taste the vegetable. The Campbell's Soup Company had the nerve recently to celebrate the anniversary of the horrible thing it did to green beans when it dumped mushroom soup concentrate on them and came up with that goshawful green bean casserole. And who decreed that broccoli is improved by soaking it with melted cheese? Both dishes ruined the veggies by adding fat, cholestrol, and a load of salt, causing arteries over the world to back up like a failing septic tank.
Some poor creatures out there are lamenting their bad health. "I don't know why my cholesterol is so high and I can't lose weight. I eat my five vegetables a day." Yeah. Green bean casserole, broccoli and cheese, fried zucchini, squash and rice casserole, and fried okra. They're the same people who eat "nothing but salad" made up of a little lettuce, cheese, eggs, salami, and a cup and a half of mayonnaise.
If I ruled the world, children would not be allowed to record the message on telephone answering machines. Hell, they wouldn't be allowed to answer the phone until they were old enough to pay the bill.
And while we're on that subject, answering machines would have to give you enough time to record your message before clicking off. If you don't want to listen to the message, then don't get a machine. By the time a person says his name and please call me at 555- the thing clicks off. I once called back one company with that kind of answering machine right after being disconnected and left the message: "Your tape is too short." And then I hung up.
And the world is a better place since I did that. At least I feel better about it.
I have other things I would like to change about the world. But it's a big world and change comes slowly. Might as well start small.
Besides, I may need to use them in another blog someday.
I'm not talking about the obvious war and pestilence. I'm talking about the little things that can make someone snap like a dry twig under an Ugg boot.
Take apostrophes for instance. Please. Take them out of words they don't need to be in. Such as beauty shops with big honking signs that say "Kut's and More."
Kut's what? What belongs to Kut?
And while we're on the subject, for heaven's sake what's wrong with "Cuts"? Are you reaching out for illiterate clientele who think cuts is spelled with a K? They probably cut their own hair. Spell it right! Same with restaurants. I would be afraid to eat in a place called Kuntry Kitchen. If they can't spell, I certainly don't feel safe eating their food.
The world would be a better place if people would just treat vegetables with respect. That means cooking them properly so one can actually taste the vegetable. The Campbell's Soup Company had the nerve recently to celebrate the anniversary of the horrible thing it did to green beans when it dumped mushroom soup concentrate on them and came up with that goshawful green bean casserole. And who decreed that broccoli is improved by soaking it with melted cheese? Both dishes ruined the veggies by adding fat, cholestrol, and a load of salt, causing arteries over the world to back up like a failing septic tank.
Some poor creatures out there are lamenting their bad health. "I don't know why my cholesterol is so high and I can't lose weight. I eat my five vegetables a day." Yeah. Green bean casserole, broccoli and cheese, fried zucchini, squash and rice casserole, and fried okra. They're the same people who eat "nothing but salad" made up of a little lettuce, cheese, eggs, salami, and a cup and a half of mayonnaise.
If I ruled the world, children would not be allowed to record the message on telephone answering machines. Hell, they wouldn't be allowed to answer the phone until they were old enough to pay the bill.
And while we're on that subject, answering machines would have to give you enough time to record your message before clicking off. If you don't want to listen to the message, then don't get a machine. By the time a person says his name and please call me at 555- the thing clicks off. I once called back one company with that kind of answering machine right after being disconnected and left the message: "Your tape is too short." And then I hung up.
And the world is a better place since I did that. At least I feel better about it.
I have other things I would like to change about the world. But it's a big world and change comes slowly. Might as well start small.
Besides, I may need to use them in another blog someday.
Friday, January 18, 2008
15 minutes of fame
Andy Warhol once said everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Everyone?
I'm waiting.
Where's my 15 minutes? Did Andy use up some of my time? He certainly had more than 15 minutes. Maybe Britney, Paris, Lindsay, ad nauseum crowded in on my 15 minutes. They've had way too much fame-time, and if you ask me they squandered it. I'd make much better use of it.
Maybe I missed out on my 15 minutes because I wasn't at the right place at the right time. Story of my life. When they were passing out fame magnets, I was in another line getting extra fat molecules. Who knew?
I must have been struggling to get my voluptuous body into skinny jeans when my 15 minutes came due. It takes time to get jeans over lush curves. Then again, that ought to qualify for some kind of fame, zipping up jeans once you get them on.
Perhaps I slept through it. Must have been waiting for my vitamins to kick in and dozed off.
Or rather I was caught in traffic. Yeah, that's it. I was stuck in traffic when my fame time came. Instead of looking out for signs of 15 minutes of fame, I was focusing on cars coming out from the McDonald's drive-through. Some of the drivers were on cell phones, some were chowing down on Big Macs, some were doing both. None of them saw the other cars on the street they were pulling into. They caused me to miss my fame. Almost caused me to set off my airbags.
And if I missed my 15 minutes of fame because I was being force-fed political propaganda that comes at me from all sides, I'm really going to be ticked. Ninety percent of those people running for office could have used their own 15 minutes for better reasons than running for office, and now they're cutting in on mine. Probably tax me for it too.
I've missed out on so many opportunities for my 15 minutes of fame that if I ever stumbled onto them, I'd probably never recognize them. And if I did, I wouldn't know what to do with them.
I want my 15 minutes of fame, but I want them on my terms. In my own good time. My way.
That's not asking much.
Is it?
I'm waiting.
Where's my 15 minutes? Did Andy use up some of my time? He certainly had more than 15 minutes. Maybe Britney, Paris, Lindsay, ad nauseum crowded in on my 15 minutes. They've had way too much fame-time, and if you ask me they squandered it. I'd make much better use of it.
Maybe I missed out on my 15 minutes because I wasn't at the right place at the right time. Story of my life. When they were passing out fame magnets, I was in another line getting extra fat molecules. Who knew?
I must have been struggling to get my voluptuous body into skinny jeans when my 15 minutes came due. It takes time to get jeans over lush curves. Then again, that ought to qualify for some kind of fame, zipping up jeans once you get them on.
Perhaps I slept through it. Must have been waiting for my vitamins to kick in and dozed off.
Or rather I was caught in traffic. Yeah, that's it. I was stuck in traffic when my fame time came. Instead of looking out for signs of 15 minutes of fame, I was focusing on cars coming out from the McDonald's drive-through. Some of the drivers were on cell phones, some were chowing down on Big Macs, some were doing both. None of them saw the other cars on the street they were pulling into. They caused me to miss my fame. Almost caused me to set off my airbags.
And if I missed my 15 minutes of fame because I was being force-fed political propaganda that comes at me from all sides, I'm really going to be ticked. Ninety percent of those people running for office could have used their own 15 minutes for better reasons than running for office, and now they're cutting in on mine. Probably tax me for it too.
I've missed out on so many opportunities for my 15 minutes of fame that if I ever stumbled onto them, I'd probably never recognize them. And if I did, I wouldn't know what to do with them.
I want my 15 minutes of fame, but I want them on my terms. In my own good time. My way.
That's not asking much.
Is it?
Friday, January 11, 2008
Do You Know What Day It Is?
Isn't January a tedious month? The weather's lousy for the most part; couple that with post-Christmas letdown, and you have a month worth forgetting. Valentine's Day is coming with its attendant chocolate fest, but what do you do in the meantime?
Well, January ain't International Creativity Month for nothing. Let's get creative about what to do for fun in such a bleak, cold, joy-sucking month.
Let's forget that it's California Dried Plum Digestive Month. That's just another way of saying eat prunes to make you regular, and who wants to celebrate that?
It's also Oatmeal Month and Resolve to Eat Breakfast Month: overkill I'd say.
Not only is January National Lose Weight, Feel Great month, but the first week of the month is National Lose Weight, Feel Great week. Maybe January should be National Overkill month; we've just seen two instances of it.
Jan. 11-17 is National Cuckoo Dancing Week. I didn't know cuckoos could dance. Or maybe that one was prompted by watching "Dancing with the Stars."
National Chocolate Covered Cherry day was Jan. 3. Now there's a celebration that should last a month.
Someone must have gotten turned around when Jan. 7 was proclaimed Thank God It's Monday day. Who the hell is grateful for Monday? Someone who didn't expect to make it until then? That person has other reasons to celebrate. Monday stinks!
National Clean Of Your Desk Day is Jan. 14. Rename that one "That'll be the day."
Jan. 12 and Jan. 21 have something in common other than reversed digits: the first celebrates awareness of penguins, the second appreciates squirrels. The following day is Answer Your Cats Questions Day." My cats ask me "when are you going to feed me?" That's easy to answer. On demand. There is no other way with cats. That same day is National Speak up and Succeed Day; the cats are not stupid.
Jan. 24 is both Women in Blue Jeans Day and Women's Healthy Weight Day. It's also Belly Laugh Day. Draw your own conclusions.
Know who Thomas Crapper is? He invented the flush toilet. He just happened to have an unfortunate surname. Jan. 27 is his day. For whateaver reason.
Bubble Wrap day falls on Jan. 28. I visited the UPS store not long ago and stood in awe of a huge roll of bubble wrap there. I wanted to roll around on it. When I asked the clerk there if she were ever tempted to dive into that enormous roll of bubble wrap, she didn't share my enthusiasm for it. In fact, she looked like she thought I was crazy.
We'll wish her a happy Someday We'll Laugh About This week (Jan. 2-5) or a Hunt for Happiness Week (Jan. 20-26). Without popping bubble wrap and a little whimsy, all that's left is Nothing Day (Jan. 16).
Whatever the occasion, have a good one.
Well, January ain't International Creativity Month for nothing. Let's get creative about what to do for fun in such a bleak, cold, joy-sucking month.
Let's forget that it's California Dried Plum Digestive Month. That's just another way of saying eat prunes to make you regular, and who wants to celebrate that?
It's also Oatmeal Month and Resolve to Eat Breakfast Month: overkill I'd say.
Not only is January National Lose Weight, Feel Great month, but the first week of the month is National Lose Weight, Feel Great week. Maybe January should be National Overkill month; we've just seen two instances of it.
Jan. 11-17 is National Cuckoo Dancing Week. I didn't know cuckoos could dance. Or maybe that one was prompted by watching "Dancing with the Stars."
National Chocolate Covered Cherry day was Jan. 3. Now there's a celebration that should last a month.
Someone must have gotten turned around when Jan. 7 was proclaimed Thank God It's Monday day. Who the hell is grateful for Monday? Someone who didn't expect to make it until then? That person has other reasons to celebrate. Monday stinks!
National Clean Of Your Desk Day is Jan. 14. Rename that one "That'll be the day."
Jan. 12 and Jan. 21 have something in common other than reversed digits: the first celebrates awareness of penguins, the second appreciates squirrels. The following day is Answer Your Cats Questions Day." My cats ask me "when are you going to feed me?" That's easy to answer. On demand. There is no other way with cats. That same day is National Speak up and Succeed Day; the cats are not stupid.
Jan. 24 is both Women in Blue Jeans Day and Women's Healthy Weight Day. It's also Belly Laugh Day. Draw your own conclusions.
Know who Thomas Crapper is? He invented the flush toilet. He just happened to have an unfortunate surname. Jan. 27 is his day. For whateaver reason.
Bubble Wrap day falls on Jan. 28. I visited the UPS store not long ago and stood in awe of a huge roll of bubble wrap there. I wanted to roll around on it. When I asked the clerk there if she were ever tempted to dive into that enormous roll of bubble wrap, she didn't share my enthusiasm for it. In fact, she looked like she thought I was crazy.
We'll wish her a happy Someday We'll Laugh About This week (Jan. 2-5) or a Hunt for Happiness Week (Jan. 20-26). Without popping bubble wrap and a little whimsy, all that's left is Nothing Day (Jan. 16).
Whatever the occasion, have a good one.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Ways to keep warm
It's cold enough to make Al Gore re-think global warming.
Remember back a few months ago when we were all griping about how hot it was? Try to remember how hot it really was, and maybe that will warm you up a little now.
Not working? Here are a few suggestions to get warm on a frosty day.
Think about really thin people, and how much colder it must be for them. They have no reserves. There's no extra padding to warm them up. That ought to make you feel warmer.
No? Let's get specific. Think about that poor scrawny Callista Flockhart. If she turned sideways and stuck out her tongue she'd look like a zipper. Now think abour that poor bony thing snuggling up to Harrison Ford. That makes me all warm and envious. Shoot, skip Callista and think about Harrison. He lights my fire.
Conjure up someone who lights your fire, and let it simmer.
Whip up some hot cocoa.
Or a frenzy.
If you don't have to go anywhere, make a pot of coffee (or tea or cocoa), and find a favorite book. Cuddle up in an overstuffed chair with a blanket and the coffee, in front of a sunny window and enjoy the book. A cat on your lap is optional, but warm.
Chicken noodle soup.
A big bowl of steaming oatmeal with raisins.
Thick cozy socks.
Bulky sweater over jeans. Or a new sweatsuit. New ones always seem warmer.
Get into a political discussion. They're usually heated.
Get busy and chase those dust buffalo out from under your bed. That'll work up a little heat. Forget dust bunnies; it's better to go after the big dust buffalo. You'll feel all warm and fuzzy because you finally cleaned under the bed and because you worked up a sweat doing it.
Consider that those obnoxious kids you see everywhere on skateboards — with baggy clothes and baseball caps worn backwards — will someday lead the county. Or maybe they'll vote. If that doesn't chill you, it'll make you warm with fear.
Homemade bread. You'll heat up the kitchen with the oven and work up some heat kneading it. Sorry, the bread machine doesn't cut it. Gotta do it the hard way. Then enjoy the warm results with some hot tea.
Hot Dr. Pepper with a lemon slice floating in it. Really. It's good; try it.
Bake some cookies.
Cook some chili.
A chenille robe with warm socks.
Snuggle with the dog. Or a cat. Or your sweetie. Or all of the above.
Think about the price of gasoline. If that doesn't make you hot under the collar, then nothing will.
Remember back a few months ago when we were all griping about how hot it was? Try to remember how hot it really was, and maybe that will warm you up a little now.
Not working? Here are a few suggestions to get warm on a frosty day.
Think about really thin people, and how much colder it must be for them. They have no reserves. There's no extra padding to warm them up. That ought to make you feel warmer.
No? Let's get specific. Think about that poor scrawny Callista Flockhart. If she turned sideways and stuck out her tongue she'd look like a zipper. Now think abour that poor bony thing snuggling up to Harrison Ford. That makes me all warm and envious. Shoot, skip Callista and think about Harrison. He lights my fire.
Conjure up someone who lights your fire, and let it simmer.
Whip up some hot cocoa.
Or a frenzy.
If you don't have to go anywhere, make a pot of coffee (or tea or cocoa), and find a favorite book. Cuddle up in an overstuffed chair with a blanket and the coffee, in front of a sunny window and enjoy the book. A cat on your lap is optional, but warm.
Chicken noodle soup.
A big bowl of steaming oatmeal with raisins.
Thick cozy socks.
Bulky sweater over jeans. Or a new sweatsuit. New ones always seem warmer.
Get into a political discussion. They're usually heated.
Get busy and chase those dust buffalo out from under your bed. That'll work up a little heat. Forget dust bunnies; it's better to go after the big dust buffalo. You'll feel all warm and fuzzy because you finally cleaned under the bed and because you worked up a sweat doing it.
Consider that those obnoxious kids you see everywhere on skateboards — with baggy clothes and baseball caps worn backwards — will someday lead the county. Or maybe they'll vote. If that doesn't chill you, it'll make you warm with fear.
Homemade bread. You'll heat up the kitchen with the oven and work up some heat kneading it. Sorry, the bread machine doesn't cut it. Gotta do it the hard way. Then enjoy the warm results with some hot tea.
Hot Dr. Pepper with a lemon slice floating in it. Really. It's good; try it.
Bake some cookies.
Cook some chili.
A chenille robe with warm socks.
Snuggle with the dog. Or a cat. Or your sweetie. Or all of the above.
Think about the price of gasoline. If that doesn't make you hot under the collar, then nothing will.
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