I am very interested in the weather lately. I don't remember being all that interested in weather when I was a child. Unless it was raining when I wanted to be outside--then I certainly noticed. Weather was something that just was, like Walter Kronkite.
But as I got older and moved to Texas, weather started to matter. I can remember being fascinated one day because I could see it raining way off in the distance. Because buildings seem to unfurl from the center of San Antonio like a rug, there's no tall buildings in my way. I can see what is coming, weather-wise. If you look outside your window and there's a black wall of clouds rolling in, it's kind of hard to miss. I like that.
I used to just watch the weather everyday, but the internet has allowed me 24 hour access to weather information. Hurricane season is especially interesting to me, and I love checking out the tropical waves rolling off the coast of Africa. I try to guess which ones will become hurricanes. That sounds much geekier typed out than it did in my head. But my husband encourages my minor weather obsession, because I tell him when he needs to turn off all the computers so they won't get fried during a storm.
Then I found this extremely cool website, the National Hurricane Situation Page. It's my new all time favorite website that I visit every day. The company that offers this site also does emergency situation pages for emergency management, and that is how the page is set up. Go check it out.
Right now, Texas is in a drought and a heat wave, so the weather pages have been kind of boring. But I am hopeful that soon I will see green or yellow on the radar map, indicating mild to moderate rain. I don't want to see red or fuschia, because that would mean bad storms. And no rotating circles, indicating possible tornadoes. Just pleasant, mild, happy, green or yellow. Rain. That's all I am looking for on the weather websites these days. And maybe I keep visiting those pages hoping that they will tell me something new.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Remembered: Knight on a Shining Bicycle
Prompt:As a writing teacher, I often have my students write memoir/nonfiction pieces. In the beginning, most students want to write strictly about themselves. One of the lessons I teach them is that other people help shape who we are through their words to us, their actions, or their lack of action. Your assignment for this week is to write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else.
I can't remember his name, just that he was older than me. Old enough to be a hero in the eyes of a second grader, anyway. He'll always be larger than life in my memory, stuck in the fifth grade. But I will call him Mr. Knight.
There was a bully in my life. A boy in my class had started teasing me, taking things from my lunchbox, and otherwise making my life miserable. I had no defenses at the time, no fortifications for my Self to hunker behind.
I was a victim. Until Mr. Knight rescued me.
It was recess, I remember, and the bully had pushed me down. Encircled, I was lying there in the dirt, crying. There weren't any teachers around to watch us back then, but kids didn't 'tattle', so it wouldn't have mattered.
All of a sudden there was this fifth grader standing between me and my bully. He was yelling at my bully and his entourage. They scattered in the face of his rage. He turned to me, held out his hand and helped me to stand up. Mr. Knight patted me on the shoulder, and he spoke to me.
I don't remember exactly what Mr. Knight said. The gist of it, I believe, was that it was wrong of the bully to hurt me, it would be okay now, and that he would protect me. I had to look up at him, and I remember the sun was right behind his head, because it kept shining in my eyes. I remember that I was awestruck at the idea that someone, anyone, would stand up for someone that they did not know. This was a novel concept, this idea of being protected, just because I couldn't protect myself.
I suddenly had my very own superhero, who would appear whenever I was in danger. My bully did not want to give me up. And there was Mr. Knight, riding to my rescue on his bike, his friends trailing behind him. We moved to Germany soon after that, and I never saw him again. Or maybe I've seen him again, whenever I see my son helping one of his playmates or comforting them when they're crying.
I stopped thinking of myself as a victim, that day, when Mr. Knight rescued me. In fact, I tried to follow his example and protect other kids, especially the ones smaller than me. That did not work as well for me as it did for him, but I kept trying. I am still trying.
I can't remember his name, just that he was older than me. Old enough to be a hero in the eyes of a second grader, anyway. He'll always be larger than life in my memory, stuck in the fifth grade. But I will call him Mr. Knight.
There was a bully in my life. A boy in my class had started teasing me, taking things from my lunchbox, and otherwise making my life miserable. I had no defenses at the time, no fortifications for my Self to hunker behind.
I was a victim. Until Mr. Knight rescued me.
It was recess, I remember, and the bully had pushed me down. Encircled, I was lying there in the dirt, crying. There weren't any teachers around to watch us back then, but kids didn't 'tattle', so it wouldn't have mattered.
All of a sudden there was this fifth grader standing between me and my bully. He was yelling at my bully and his entourage. They scattered in the face of his rage. He turned to me, held out his hand and helped me to stand up. Mr. Knight patted me on the shoulder, and he spoke to me.
I don't remember exactly what Mr. Knight said. The gist of it, I believe, was that it was wrong of the bully to hurt me, it would be okay now, and that he would protect me. I had to look up at him, and I remember the sun was right behind his head, because it kept shining in my eyes. I remember that I was awestruck at the idea that someone, anyone, would stand up for someone that they did not know. This was a novel concept, this idea of being protected, just because I couldn't protect myself.
I suddenly had my very own superhero, who would appear whenever I was in danger. My bully did not want to give me up. And there was Mr. Knight, riding to my rescue on his bike, his friends trailing behind him. We moved to Germany soon after that, and I never saw him again. Or maybe I've seen him again, whenever I see my son helping one of his playmates or comforting them when they're crying.
I stopped thinking of myself as a victim, that day, when Mr. Knight rescued me. In fact, I tried to follow his example and protect other kids, especially the ones smaller than me. That did not work as well for me as it did for him, but I kept trying. I am still trying.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Keen!
When I started blogging, one of my goals was to sharpen up my writing skills. Most of what I had been writing were psycho-educational reports, and if you've ever read one of those reports, they are extremely good sleeping pills. I apologize for those reports. They all have to be written in the same standard format. After 20 years of that, I needed to 'stretch' myself with a challenge, and blogging proved to be a great way to do that. I loved responding to prompts and reading the writing of other people and commenting.
At the beginning of 2011, I made a resolution that I would try to blog every single day. Having various websites out there that offered prompts helped, as did the A to Z Blog Challenge. Sometimes you just need a little push to get your brain going. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog post using a prompt from NaBloPoMo.com. NaBloPoMo is short for National Blog Posting Month, and to join, all you have to do is blog every day for a month. That the site provides a theme each month as well as several days of prompts, told me that these people understand how difficult creating a blog post every day can be.
Occasionally, what I write is not very interesting. Occasionally, what I write is rather boring. I am very critical of my own writing, and sometimes I just have to get up and turn off the computer because I get obsessive about editing my work. But occasionally, I think I get it right. I liked what I wrote on that day so much that I submitted it to a contest on NaBloPoMo. I wrote about the perfect reading chair, which is something that I intend to have one day. I thought that it was a good blog post, and I was proud of it.
I won the contest. It freaked me out--at first, I thought that the email telling me that I had won was spam or something! It wasn't so much that I won, I think, as it was that it was recognized. I always wonder about those people who have to choose articles or submissions for magazines, websites, and newspapers. I wonder if they have red pens, and if they circle all the mistakes or underline misspelled words several times or write comments in the margins, like a teacher. I could totally see them do that, even if they kept those comments to themselves. For those people to read what I had written was great enough, but to win their contest was just awesome.
Of course, now I have this really high bar hanging over my head. I will probably bang my head on it a few times, or maybe I will knock it loose and conk myself on the head. But that's okay--it's the journey that counts more than the destination. I remember why I loved writing in the first place, and maybe this contest is the Universe telling me that I am on the right track.
At the beginning of 2011, I made a resolution that I would try to blog every single day. Having various websites out there that offered prompts helped, as did the A to Z Blog Challenge. Sometimes you just need a little push to get your brain going. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog post using a prompt from NaBloPoMo.com. NaBloPoMo is short for National Blog Posting Month, and to join, all you have to do is blog every day for a month. That the site provides a theme each month as well as several days of prompts, told me that these people understand how difficult creating a blog post every day can be.
Occasionally, what I write is not very interesting. Occasionally, what I write is rather boring. I am very critical of my own writing, and sometimes I just have to get up and turn off the computer because I get obsessive about editing my work. But occasionally, I think I get it right. I liked what I wrote on that day so much that I submitted it to a contest on NaBloPoMo. I wrote about the perfect reading chair, which is something that I intend to have one day. I thought that it was a good blog post, and I was proud of it.
I won the contest. It freaked me out--at first, I thought that the email telling me that I had won was spam or something! It wasn't so much that I won, I think, as it was that it was recognized. I always wonder about those people who have to choose articles or submissions for magazines, websites, and newspapers. I wonder if they have red pens, and if they circle all the mistakes or underline misspelled words several times or write comments in the margins, like a teacher. I could totally see them do that, even if they kept those comments to themselves. For those people to read what I had written was great enough, but to win their contest was just awesome.
Of course, now I have this really high bar hanging over my head. I will probably bang my head on it a few times, or maybe I will knock it loose and conk myself on the head. But that's okay--it's the journey that counts more than the destination. I remember why I loved writing in the first place, and maybe this contest is the Universe telling me that I am on the right track.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Parenting by Example
We teach our kids that bullying of ANY kind is wrong.
We teach our kids that intolerance of ANY kind is wrong.
Do we really believe that? Do we truly practice what we preach? Or do we just tell the kids that just to make ourselves feel better? Do as I say and not as I do, in other words?
If we say that bullying is wrong, but push people around(figuratively or literally), THAT is what a child learns.
If we say that intolerance is wrong, but act with hatred toward anyone who doesn't agree with us, THAT is what a child learns.
If we say that conflicts need to be resolved, but refuse to talk to our cousin Merle because he borrowed our lawnmower and broke it, THAT is what a child learns.
Children are always watching, always listening. They are taking their cue from their parents and the adults around them, but they soon forget what you say to them. They never forget what the see you DO. Actions speak louder than words is not just a pithy quote; it is a stone-cold truth.
There is bullying, intolerance, and much more happening right now in the public eye in politics. I am not going to get into who is right and who is wrong, because I tend to get rant-y over idiocy. Democrats declared Republicans to be stupid conservatives who--gasp!--hate the poor, children, and puppies. Republicans declared Democrats to be stupid liberals who--gasp!--hate capitalism and cats. If you don't believe as I do then you are evil and must be destroyed and I will never, ever agree with you is the message that I get out of all that. It extends outside of Washington.
What do children think when they see their parent stop driving just to rip an Obama bumper sticker off of someone's car? What do children think, when they see their parent start screaming obscenities at the grocery cashier because she is wearing a pro-life button? What do children think, when they hear the preacher at their church declare every Sunday that anyone who is gay or Muslim or whatever is going to hell, and watch their parents nod in agreement?
Should it really be do as I say, not as I do for something this important?
All the anti-bullying programs.
All the tolerance training.
All the effort.
Negated by the behavior of the adults around them.
If we truly believe that it is wrong to be intolerant of others, then we need to do more than tell our children that. We need to BE what we tell them, and parent by example. Be the change you want to see in the world, the saying goes. If you want your kids to learn to be tolerant, loving people... be a loving, tolerant person yourself. The children are watching.
We teach our kids that intolerance of ANY kind is wrong.
Do we really believe that? Do we truly practice what we preach? Or do we just tell the kids that just to make ourselves feel better? Do as I say and not as I do, in other words?
If we say that bullying is wrong, but push people around(figuratively or literally), THAT is what a child learns.
If we say that intolerance is wrong, but act with hatred toward anyone who doesn't agree with us, THAT is what a child learns.
If we say that conflicts need to be resolved, but refuse to talk to our cousin Merle because he borrowed our lawnmower and broke it, THAT is what a child learns.
Children are always watching, always listening. They are taking their cue from their parents and the adults around them, but they soon forget what you say to them. They never forget what the see you DO. Actions speak louder than words is not just a pithy quote; it is a stone-cold truth.
There is bullying, intolerance, and much more happening right now in the public eye in politics. I am not going to get into who is right and who is wrong, because I tend to get rant-y over idiocy. Democrats declared Republicans to be stupid conservatives who--gasp!--hate the poor, children, and puppies. Republicans declared Democrats to be stupid liberals who--gasp!--hate capitalism and cats. If you don't believe as I do then you are evil and must be destroyed and I will never, ever agree with you is the message that I get out of all that. It extends outside of Washington.
What do children think when they see their parent stop driving just to rip an Obama bumper sticker off of someone's car? What do children think, when they see their parent start screaming obscenities at the grocery cashier because she is wearing a pro-life button? What do children think, when they hear the preacher at their church declare every Sunday that anyone who is gay or Muslim or whatever is going to hell, and watch their parents nod in agreement?
Should it really be do as I say, not as I do for something this important?
All the anti-bullying programs.
All the tolerance training.
All the effort.
Negated by the behavior of the adults around them.
If we truly believe that it is wrong to be intolerant of others, then we need to do more than tell our children that. We need to BE what we tell them, and parent by example. Be the change you want to see in the world, the saying goes. If you want your kids to learn to be tolerant, loving people... be a loving, tolerant person yourself. The children are watching.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Same Page, Different Readers
Yesterday, while I was in a meeting on a campus, my cell phone vibrated. I saw that it was my son's daycare. My stomach gave a little lurch.
Crap.
I apologized to the others at the table, and they were very accommodating.
"Hello?" I answered the call. I could barely hear the voice. It was the director of the daycare.
Crap.
"Yes?" I was surprisingly calm, considering. It's that moment before they tell me what is wrong that just kills me. I prepared for the worst, but at the same time I don't want to think about what the "worst" might be.
"Your son snorted a bee," the director told me.
My reaction was immediate.
I snorted, thinking that I had heard wrong. I bit my lip to keep from giggling--how often does any parent even contemplate hearing that sentence on the phone?
The director repeated herself, then elaborated. Zane had been outside playing, and something had flown up his nose. My son thought it was a bee and went to his teacher for help. Not before trying to dig the dead insect out of there, however.
"Is he okay?" I asked, but at that point I kind of knew the answer and I was relieved. They had recovered bug parts, according to the director, and there did not appear to be any swelling or allergic reaction at this time. The comment about 'recovered bug parts' almost got me giggling again as I hung up the phone. It was funny, dammit!
Just a typical boy and a typical bug having an encounter. Maybe flying up noses is what bugs do when they are old; maybe human noses are the equivalent of the Elephant Graveyard. I had a mental picture of a bee trying to fly into Zane's nose; it seemed farfetched, but I wasn't there. If it was a bee, then it didn't sting him, and since Zane has never been stung by a bee before, he should not have an allergic reaction.
I texted my husband and told him that his son had snorted a bee. Next thing I know, the phone vibrated again. It's my husband, and he was freaking out. He was upset that his boy might be hurt, wondering about allergic reactions, and thinking that we would be going to the ER.
How different our reactions were! It's usually the mother who freaks out and the father who talks her off the metaphorical ledge. Yet my husband and I seem to react directly opposite the expected stereotypes. It likely won't be the first time that Zane gets something stuck up his nose, because that is what kids do. They also poke things that aren't supposed to be poked, push the buttons that aren't meant to be pushed, and pull on things that don't necessarily like being pulled. Accidents are going to happen.
My husband will give himself a heart attack from overreacting for the next eighteen years or so, and I worry about that. But things could change. Maybe there will come a day when I will be the one freaking out in an emergency and Larry will be the calm one.
Nah.
Crap.
I apologized to the others at the table, and they were very accommodating.
"Hello?" I answered the call. I could barely hear the voice. It was the director of the daycare.
Crap.
"Yes?" I was surprisingly calm, considering. It's that moment before they tell me what is wrong that just kills me. I prepared for the worst, but at the same time I don't want to think about what the "worst" might be.
"Your son snorted a bee," the director told me.
My reaction was immediate.
I snorted, thinking that I had heard wrong. I bit my lip to keep from giggling--how often does any parent even contemplate hearing that sentence on the phone?
The director repeated herself, then elaborated. Zane had been outside playing, and something had flown up his nose. My son thought it was a bee and went to his teacher for help. Not before trying to dig the dead insect out of there, however.
"Is he okay?" I asked, but at that point I kind of knew the answer and I was relieved. They had recovered bug parts, according to the director, and there did not appear to be any swelling or allergic reaction at this time. The comment about 'recovered bug parts' almost got me giggling again as I hung up the phone. It was funny, dammit!
Just a typical boy and a typical bug having an encounter. Maybe flying up noses is what bugs do when they are old; maybe human noses are the equivalent of the Elephant Graveyard. I had a mental picture of a bee trying to fly into Zane's nose; it seemed farfetched, but I wasn't there. If it was a bee, then it didn't sting him, and since Zane has never been stung by a bee before, he should not have an allergic reaction.
I texted my husband and told him that his son had snorted a bee. Next thing I know, the phone vibrated again. It's my husband, and he was freaking out. He was upset that his boy might be hurt, wondering about allergic reactions, and thinking that we would be going to the ER.
How different our reactions were! It's usually the mother who freaks out and the father who talks her off the metaphorical ledge. Yet my husband and I seem to react directly opposite the expected stereotypes. It likely won't be the first time that Zane gets something stuck up his nose, because that is what kids do. They also poke things that aren't supposed to be poked, push the buttons that aren't meant to be pushed, and pull on things that don't necessarily like being pulled. Accidents are going to happen.
My husband will give himself a heart attack from overreacting for the next eighteen years or so, and I worry about that. But things could change. Maybe there will come a day when I will be the one freaking out in an emergency and Larry will be the calm one.
Nah.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Red Writing Hood: An Ex-Husband's Lament
Prompt: Let’s lighten it up around here. And when I say lighten, I mean REALLY lighten. This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet. That’s right. One hundred and forty characters. Not words. Characters. Make us laugh. Make us think. Make us want more. Mostly, have FUN with this. You’ve earned it.Come back Friday and link up.
Love. A gorgeous wedding.Two kids & a Labrador later, a divorce. So Sad. Due to prenup loophole; she took everything BUT the mistress.
We Want To Know Wednesday-Thursday Edition
Sue me--I'm late! In my defense, I don't get to blog until after the boy goes to bed. But I like these questions and the nice ladies who come up with them, so I try to participate when I can.
1. What is the best advice someone has ever given you?
As an introvert, I tend to get most of my advice from books and movies. One of the quotes that has stayed with me over the years came from the movie The Good, The Bad and The Ugly: "When you gotta shoot, shoot. Don't talk." That meant that people shouldn't just talk about doing things; they should just DO them. Actions speak louder than words! It drives me crazy when people sit around and talk about what they are going to do, but never put their words into actions(hello, Congress!).
The other piece of advice that has stuck with me over the years is that the secret to a happy marriage is separate bathrooms.
2. What is your greatest accomplishment?
Well, I haven't accomplished it yet, so I don't know! But in the meantime, I think that becoming someone's Mama has been pretty great. You really start to think about what you do, how you do it, and why you do it when you're the center of someone's universe. There are things that I've done that I regret now simply because of how I think that my son would view my behavior, even though those things helped make me into the person that I am now.
3. Who do you admire?
I admire my husband for his infinite patience, especially with our son. But I also admire anyone who refuses to be a victim, anyone who takes responsibility for their actions without whining, and anyone who is willing to work hard for their dreams instead of demanding that someone else give it to them.
4. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?
I would like to be able to hide my feelings better. I am one of those people who does not suffer fools very well--it shows in my face as well as my voice. It would be better for everyone if I could keep that sort of information to myself. Since my son was born, I seem to burst into tears at the slightest provocation, or for no reason at all. This drives me nuts. Being able to hide my emotions would also allow me to play poker and win lots of money, and that would be pretty cool.
5. How do you want to be remembered?
I think that I would be happy to just be remembered, good or bad. Yeah, I know that is kind of morbid, but people die every day with no one to mourn them. That is just impossibly sad.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
My Girlie-Girl Side Was Showing
When I was living with my First Cat, Isobel, I knew next to nothing about cats. I knew that she was a cat, and that was next to nothing. I had to take her to the vet to even find out that she was a girl. But we settled into a nice routine, and life was good. Until Isobel decided that I was not contributing sufficiently to the household.
When a cat sees you as an equal, they bring you their kills to share. If a cat thinks that you're an idiot, they bring you LIVE creatures so that YOU can learn to kill them. Isobel started off bringing me dead things, including a white-wing dove that she left underneath my coffee table. I didn't discover that until I hit the poor dead bird with my foot, and I am sure that Isobel got quite a bit of enjoyment watching me hop around with a roiling case of the heebie-jeebies.
Then Isobel started bringing me live things--lizards, toads, small birds, a gigantic cockroach, etc. She would come to the door, meowing until I opened it, then she would walk in and drop her prize. I try to pretend like I'm a tough chick, and when I was single I handled all these creepy-crawly things by myself. I am embarrassed to say this now, but I acted just like all those ridiculous girlie-girl stereotypes. I would squeal hysterically, jump on the couch, run around waving my arms in the air, and generally have a conniption. (I am not casting aspersions on girlie-girls, but that has never been descriptive of my personality.)
The neighbors likely thought I was being murdered, but all I was doing was trying to safely catch whatever critter Isobel had dropped and herd it out the door. Well, except for the cockroach--I pounded that thing so hard that it separated into individual atoms(I have a phobia, and it makes me wacky). Isobel would sulk for days when I would release her prisoners, as if she despaired of my ability to feed myself if she weren't around. My girlie-girl spaz-out was a completely involuntary response on my part, and once I calmed down, I always hoped that nobody saw me flailing about in my apartment.
And for many, many years, my secret was safe. Even the person who knows me best, my husband, had no idea.
Until last night.
I looked outside on our patio and saw our cat Zena heading our way*. She had something in her mouth and a determined look in her eye, which flashed me back to Isobel. I said a very bad word and rushed outside. I had to chase Zena around for a couple of minutes, but I got her to drop what was in her mouth, scooped her up and threw her in the house.
Then I looked down.
It was a dead mouse. On my patio. A dead mouse.
I did what most people do in these situations.
"EEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!"
Yep. I went into full-on girlie-girl mode, screaming, running around, and just completely losing my damn mind over that dead mouse. I was so completely hysterical that I didn't even realize that I was in my backyard.
Until I saw my neighbor out on his patio, watering the grass. And another neighbor grilling. And a bunch of kids playing on their trampoline.
Even that German Shepherd, who never stops barking, was silently staring at me, mouth agape.
I shivered, still feeling those heebie-jeebies, and 'calmly' walked back into my house. I took a deep breath and nicely asked my husband to please go outside and dispose of the mouse carcass. He did it, but he teased me unmercifully about it.
If anyone asks, I'm going to say that I had a bee down my shirt.
*We don't 'let' Zena outside. She usually gets out before we even notice, because she is that fast. Luckily, she knows where we live.
When a cat sees you as an equal, they bring you their kills to share. If a cat thinks that you're an idiot, they bring you LIVE creatures so that YOU can learn to kill them. Isobel started off bringing me dead things, including a white-wing dove that she left underneath my coffee table. I didn't discover that until I hit the poor dead bird with my foot, and I am sure that Isobel got quite a bit of enjoyment watching me hop around with a roiling case of the heebie-jeebies.
Then Isobel started bringing me live things--lizards, toads, small birds, a gigantic cockroach, etc. She would come to the door, meowing until I opened it, then she would walk in and drop her prize. I try to pretend like I'm a tough chick, and when I was single I handled all these creepy-crawly things by myself. I am embarrassed to say this now, but I acted just like all those ridiculous girlie-girl stereotypes. I would squeal hysterically, jump on the couch, run around waving my arms in the air, and generally have a conniption. (I am not casting aspersions on girlie-girls, but that has never been descriptive of my personality.)
The neighbors likely thought I was being murdered, but all I was doing was trying to safely catch whatever critter Isobel had dropped and herd it out the door. Well, except for the cockroach--I pounded that thing so hard that it separated into individual atoms(I have a phobia, and it makes me wacky). Isobel would sulk for days when I would release her prisoners, as if she despaired of my ability to feed myself if she weren't around. My girlie-girl spaz-out was a completely involuntary response on my part, and once I calmed down, I always hoped that nobody saw me flailing about in my apartment.
And for many, many years, my secret was safe. Even the person who knows me best, my husband, had no idea.
Until last night.
I looked outside on our patio and saw our cat Zena heading our way*. She had something in her mouth and a determined look in her eye, which flashed me back to Isobel. I said a very bad word and rushed outside. I had to chase Zena around for a couple of minutes, but I got her to drop what was in her mouth, scooped her up and threw her in the house.
Then I looked down.
It was a dead mouse. On my patio. A dead mouse.
I did what most people do in these situations.
"EEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!"
Yep. I went into full-on girlie-girl mode, screaming, running around, and just completely losing my damn mind over that dead mouse. I was so completely hysterical that I didn't even realize that I was in my backyard.
Until I saw my neighbor out on his patio, watering the grass. And another neighbor grilling. And a bunch of kids playing on their trampoline.
Even that German Shepherd, who never stops barking, was silently staring at me, mouth agape.
I shivered, still feeling those heebie-jeebies, and 'calmly' walked back into my house. I took a deep breath and nicely asked my husband to please go outside and dispose of the mouse carcass. He did it, but he teased me unmercifully about it.
If anyone asks, I'm going to say that I had a bee down my shirt.
*We don't 'let' Zena outside. She usually gets out before we even notice, because she is that fast. Luckily, she knows where we live.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Remembered: What Cannot Be
Prompt: We all have them. Memories that we wish we could forget…things that we wish we could banish from our minds. Imagine that writing down your worst memory will free you of it.
December 8th, 2003. I was 19 weeks into my first pregnancy. I had had a headache for the past weekend, so I stayed at home that day. My mother-in-law picked me up and drove me to the doctor's office.
My appointment wasn't with my regular doctor, but with a very young man who looked like he wasn't old enough to drink. He was very nice as he took my blood pressure. He was very nice when he told me that I needed to go to the hospital because of my blood pressure.
I still hate that guy.
I hate that he was so nice.
Nice that day implied that my situation wasn't serious.
Nice did not convey the fact that I was in the process of dying.
That doctor was so nice that I didn't understand what he was saying at first, when he came to tell us that our baby was going to have to come out. He had to repeat himself.
Pre eclampsia. Which NEVER happens at 19 weeks, I have been told.
My husband got it; he understood what was going on. I was the one who had to hear it multiple times. I stared blankly at these people telling me what I didn't want to hear. Didn't this sort of thing happen a lot? Didn't they know what to do? People did this all the time. All I had to do was stay in bed for the rest of the pregnancy, and everything would be okay, right?
No. It wouldn't be okay.
My body knew what would happen before my heart did. Just as I was fighting to keep my daughter, Zoe, my water broke and the decision was made for me. I didn't even feel her dying inside of me. Shouldn't you feel something that tells you that a life is passing from your body, even if it's not your life?
And I was done. Finished. Whatever happened to me after that moment was white noise. I asked the nurses for something so I could lose myself in sleep. Maybe when I woke up, this would all be a dream. I just could not deal with the reality.
The next morning, my OB was there, standing at the foot of my bed with that Nice Doctor. I felt a small red burst of rage; if he had been there, this wouldn't have happened, I thought. That anger subsided as quickly as it flared; I truly had given up.
I knew that I was dying, and I guess that I didn't care. That was pretty selfish of me, because my husband was grieving, too, but as they wheeled me out of the room away from my family and my friends, I did not want to live. But I did live.
And I have a beautiful, wonderful, healthy son who lights up the dark places of my heart. I smile and laugh with him and I love him fiercely.
But still...
I live every day wondering if my daughter would have looked like me.
December 8th, 2003. I was 19 weeks into my first pregnancy. I had had a headache for the past weekend, so I stayed at home that day. My mother-in-law picked me up and drove me to the doctor's office.
My appointment wasn't with my regular doctor, but with a very young man who looked like he wasn't old enough to drink. He was very nice as he took my blood pressure. He was very nice when he told me that I needed to go to the hospital because of my blood pressure.
I still hate that guy.
I hate that he was so nice.
Nice that day implied that my situation wasn't serious.
Nice did not convey the fact that I was in the process of dying.
That doctor was so nice that I didn't understand what he was saying at first, when he came to tell us that our baby was going to have to come out. He had to repeat himself.
Pre eclampsia. Which NEVER happens at 19 weeks, I have been told.
My husband got it; he understood what was going on. I was the one who had to hear it multiple times. I stared blankly at these people telling me what I didn't want to hear. Didn't this sort of thing happen a lot? Didn't they know what to do? People did this all the time. All I had to do was stay in bed for the rest of the pregnancy, and everything would be okay, right?
No. It wouldn't be okay.
My body knew what would happen before my heart did. Just as I was fighting to keep my daughter, Zoe, my water broke and the decision was made for me. I didn't even feel her dying inside of me. Shouldn't you feel something that tells you that a life is passing from your body, even if it's not your life?
And I was done. Finished. Whatever happened to me after that moment was white noise. I asked the nurses for something so I could lose myself in sleep. Maybe when I woke up, this would all be a dream. I just could not deal with the reality.
The next morning, my OB was there, standing at the foot of my bed with that Nice Doctor. I felt a small red burst of rage; if he had been there, this wouldn't have happened, I thought. That anger subsided as quickly as it flared; I truly had given up.
I knew that I was dying, and I guess that I didn't care. That was pretty selfish of me, because my husband was grieving, too, but as they wheeled me out of the room away from my family and my friends, I did not want to live. But I did live.
And I have a beautiful, wonderful, healthy son who lights up the dark places of my heart. I smile and laugh with him and I love him fiercely.
But still...
I live every day wondering if my daughter would have looked like me.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Don't Ask About the Ninjas
I was at my campus last Thursday, visiting a special education teacher. Another teacher approached me while I was talking to someone. She looked at me for a minute or two. I looked right back, curious. Then she pointed to my abdomen, reached over and patted it.
"Are you expecting?" she asked.
"No, I am just fat," I replied, smiling. I had to give her an honest answer, but I didn't want her to be embarrassed. She was embarrassed, of course, and quickly made an exit.
We are consistently taught to ask direct questions. You have to ask the questions to learn the answers, we are told. That rule is great if you are asking about Science homework or directions to someone's house. It doesn't work so good for social interactions, however.
There are tons of hidden social rules out there. They're like ninjas. They change constantly, just when you think you know them. Sometimes it's okay to ask a person a question. Sometimes it's not. How do you know which is which? I certainly would not be able to tell you. I tend to wing it, to fool the ninjas. Most of the time, that is a successful social strategy, but ONLY if you are paying attention to the facial expression, eye gaze, voice intonation, and other aspects of communication between two people. The more interactions you have with other people, the easier it becomes for a person to pick up the little hidden rules about life.
Hidden rules such as the correct way to enter an elevator, where to stand, which way to face, how formations might shift as people got on and off the elevator. There is no elevator class to tell you these answers. I know because I looked it up. See--it's a ninja social skill.
But how does a person know that they are supposed to do this? There really should some sort of organized effort to standardize some of these hidden rules. I am not asking for myself. People with disabilities, such as people with autism, don't have an awareness of all the secret social rules out there. They are known to say or do the wrong thing on many occasions just because they are not aware of the visual cues which alert them that they should not run naked across the football field during the game just because someone said that it was a tradition. I think that it is up to NTs to get off our butts and start sharing our dictionaries of social cues with kids or adults around us. For instance, is there a a poster of different facial expression in a classroom? A teacher could use that to teach differences in social cues just by pointing to the faces on the poster. Something simple, but effective.
How do you moms teach your child, NT or not, all those hidden aspects of social interaction?
"Are you expecting?" she asked.
"No, I am just fat," I replied, smiling. I had to give her an honest answer, but I didn't want her to be embarrassed. She was embarrassed, of course, and quickly made an exit.
We are consistently taught to ask direct questions. You have to ask the questions to learn the answers, we are told. That rule is great if you are asking about Science homework or directions to someone's house. It doesn't work so good for social interactions, however.
There are tons of hidden social rules out there. They're like ninjas. They change constantly, just when you think you know them. Sometimes it's okay to ask a person a question. Sometimes it's not. How do you know which is which? I certainly would not be able to tell you. I tend to wing it, to fool the ninjas. Most of the time, that is a successful social strategy, but ONLY if you are paying attention to the facial expression, eye gaze, voice intonation, and other aspects of communication between two people. The more interactions you have with other people, the easier it becomes for a person to pick up the little hidden rules about life.
Hidden rules such as the correct way to enter an elevator, where to stand, which way to face, how formations might shift as people got on and off the elevator. There is no elevator class to tell you these answers. I know because I looked it up. See--it's a ninja social skill.
But how does a person know that they are supposed to do this? There really should some sort of organized effort to standardize some of these hidden rules. I am not asking for myself. People with disabilities, such as people with autism, don't have an awareness of all the secret social rules out there. They are known to say or do the wrong thing on many occasions just because they are not aware of the visual cues which alert them that they should not run naked across the football field during the game just because someone said that it was a tradition. I think that it is up to NTs to get off our butts and start sharing our dictionaries of social cues with kids or adults around us. For instance, is there a a poster of different facial expression in a classroom? A teacher could use that to teach differences in social cues just by pointing to the faces on the poster. Something simple, but effective.
How do you moms teach your child, NT or not, all those hidden aspects of social interaction?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The State of Undress
We have been having a long running "discussion" with my son. When Zane was younger, clothing was essential; everybody had to be dressed. He even chastised characters on television if they weren't fully clothed.
Then my son decided that he wasn't going to wear any clothing at all. Since they frown on this at most public places, we informed him that he could not go out of the house naked. We stuck to our guns. That seemed to work for a bit. Zane has now decided that clothing is optional. As soon as he enters a home, he immediately strips to his skivvies, even if the home in question is not his. This has certainly made the idea of attending children's birthday parties more interesting.
Is this stripping a guy thing? My husband doesn't run around the house naked, but as soon as he walks in the door after work, he strips down and gets "comfortable". I've heard similar stories from other women about their men, enough to know that it is not just my house that strips. I don't know, nor have I ever heard, of this phenomenon occurring in women. I might change into shorts or my jammies after a long day, but I don't walk in the door and strip. I suppose that this tendency might reflect the generally positive body image that med seem to share. Or maybe it's all about comfort. All I know is that I sometimes get a little jealous of that ability to just throw off clothing and let go of the cares of the day.
We will leave clothes for Zane to put on, but odds are that my son won't be wearing them.
Instead, he will put on a hat. When we ask him about clothes, Zane exclaims that he is NOT NAKED! in a loud and proud voice.
Or he will put on just his shirt, and again point out that he is NOT NAKED.
One day, I came down stairs and he was wearing nothing but his backpack and shoes. He was ready to go to his grandma's house, he told me. I told him that he could not go outside naked.
"I not naked!" Zane asserted. And technically he was right--he was not naked.
I don't think that would have been enough for Grandma's tender sensibilities, but it might have been worth it to see the look on her face.
Then my son decided that he wasn't going to wear any clothing at all. Since they frown on this at most public places, we informed him that he could not go out of the house naked. We stuck to our guns. That seemed to work for a bit. Zane has now decided that clothing is optional. As soon as he enters a home, he immediately strips to his skivvies, even if the home in question is not his. This has certainly made the idea of attending children's birthday parties more interesting.
Is this stripping a guy thing? My husband doesn't run around the house naked, but as soon as he walks in the door after work, he strips down and gets "comfortable". I've heard similar stories from other women about their men, enough to know that it is not just my house that strips. I don't know, nor have I ever heard, of this phenomenon occurring in women. I might change into shorts or my jammies after a long day, but I don't walk in the door and strip. I suppose that this tendency might reflect the generally positive body image that med seem to share. Or maybe it's all about comfort. All I know is that I sometimes get a little jealous of that ability to just throw off clothing and let go of the cares of the day.
We will leave clothes for Zane to put on, but odds are that my son won't be wearing them.
Instead, he will put on a hat. When we ask him about clothes, Zane exclaims that he is NOT NAKED! in a loud and proud voice.
Or he will put on just his shirt, and again point out that he is NOT NAKED.
One day, I came down stairs and he was wearing nothing but his backpack and shoes. He was ready to go to his grandma's house, he told me. I told him that he could not go outside naked.
"I not naked!" Zane asserted. And technically he was right--he was not naked.
I don't think that would have been enough for Grandma's tender sensibilities, but it might have been worth it to see the look on her face.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Perfect Reading Chair
The very best place to read is a chair.
Not just any chair, however.
A person would not be able to read comfortably sitting in a 14th century replica of King Patooie the 221st's throne, for instance. Nor would it be a good idea to try to read anything while sitting on a chair made out of nails or porcupine hide, unless you like that sort of thing. No, it takes a very special chair for the ultimate reading experience.
When we were all children and learning to read, we were wide-eyed and adventurous with our reading material. Therefore, the perfect reading chair must be so very large that it makes an adult feel small, like a child. The kind of chair where a person can curl up in a ball, or dangle their swinging legs over the edge while they read. A chair that was made to sometimes share with a friend so a book can be read together.
A very BIG chair, in other words.
One of my greatest disappointments as a child was reading Where The Red Fern Grows and not having the right chair to soothe me. A desk chair just doesn't have the same feel. Some stories, such as To Kill A Mockingbird or Lord of the Flies, might also reveal parts of ourselves that are secret, hidden away from even our own eyes. At that point, a hug might be very reassuring. This perfect reading chair should be overstuffed, enveloping the reader in a soft, comforting embrace.
The perfect reading chair must not be a dull color. It is supposed to be special, unusual, and unique.
Beige is not worthy.
White won't cut it.
Black is definitely out.
An iridescent blue the color of a waterfall?
A green the color of dragon's scales?
A purple that is an exact match to a rare Amazonian carnivorous butterfly? Perfect. My favorite would be the purple, just because I like the idea of a carnivorous butterfly.
Nothing ruins a reading experience quite so suddenly as the rapid disintegration of a chair leg. This perfect reading chair must have the sturdiness to carry the reader forward on their journey of exploration and discovery. It should be able to withstand rocketships blasting off, cattle stampedes through the living room, and broadsword-flailing Beserkers charging the shore.
When our imaginations are fired up, ready to pull us into the pages of the book we are reading, our efforts may be extinguished if all we have around us are walls. The perfect reading chair would be situated next to a big window, which is a natural imaginary doorway and an easily identifiable beacon to bring us home again. There should be a lamp next to the chair, so we can continue reading even after darkness chases the daylight away. And finally, there should be a little table next to the chair, where the reader might place a glass of water or other libation, for traipsing through the desert with Lawrence of Arabia leaves one with a powerful thirst.
A BIG, comfy, purple, sturdy, chair is the very most perfect place to read.
I have yet to actually see such a wondrous chair in my life, but I am sure that it exists. I see it in my dreams often. I know that one day it will find me. It may even be stalking me now, waiting to leap out of the purple sage in my yard and pounce on me when the next box from Amazon arrives at the door.
Not just any chair, however.
A person would not be able to read comfortably sitting in a 14th century replica of King Patooie the 221st's throne, for instance. Nor would it be a good idea to try to read anything while sitting on a chair made out of nails or porcupine hide, unless you like that sort of thing. No, it takes a very special chair for the ultimate reading experience.
When we were all children and learning to read, we were wide-eyed and adventurous with our reading material. Therefore, the perfect reading chair must be so very large that it makes an adult feel small, like a child. The kind of chair where a person can curl up in a ball, or dangle their swinging legs over the edge while they read. A chair that was made to sometimes share with a friend so a book can be read together.
A very BIG chair, in other words.
One of my greatest disappointments as a child was reading Where The Red Fern Grows and not having the right chair to soothe me. A desk chair just doesn't have the same feel. Some stories, such as To Kill A Mockingbird or Lord of the Flies, might also reveal parts of ourselves that are secret, hidden away from even our own eyes. At that point, a hug might be very reassuring. This perfect reading chair should be overstuffed, enveloping the reader in a soft, comforting embrace.
The perfect reading chair must not be a dull color. It is supposed to be special, unusual, and unique.
Beige is not worthy.
White won't cut it.
Black is definitely out.
An iridescent blue the color of a waterfall?
A green the color of dragon's scales?
A purple that is an exact match to a rare Amazonian carnivorous butterfly? Perfect. My favorite would be the purple, just because I like the idea of a carnivorous butterfly.
Nothing ruins a reading experience quite so suddenly as the rapid disintegration of a chair leg. This perfect reading chair must have the sturdiness to carry the reader forward on their journey of exploration and discovery. It should be able to withstand rocketships blasting off, cattle stampedes through the living room, and broadsword-flailing Beserkers charging the shore.
When our imaginations are fired up, ready to pull us into the pages of the book we are reading, our efforts may be extinguished if all we have around us are walls. The perfect reading chair would be situated next to a big window, which is a natural imaginary doorway and an easily identifiable beacon to bring us home again. There should be a lamp next to the chair, so we can continue reading even after darkness chases the daylight away. And finally, there should be a little table next to the chair, where the reader might place a glass of water or other libation, for traipsing through the desert with Lawrence of Arabia leaves one with a powerful thirst.
A BIG, comfy, purple, sturdy, chair is the very most perfect place to read.
I have yet to actually see such a wondrous chair in my life, but I am sure that it exists. I see it in my dreams often. I know that one day it will find me. It may even be stalking me now, waiting to leap out of the purple sage in my yard and pounce on me when the next box from Amazon arrives at the door.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Everybody Knows About Mama and Her Coffee
Occasionally my wonderful husband will let me sleep a little late, and will go downstairs with Zane so I have some quiet. He does this sometimes when he knows that I’ve had trouble sleeping, and other times he does this to be nice. I'll take it either way.
This morning I was still in bed, sound asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of Zane stomping up the stairs.
“Mama, wake up!” he yelled. I rolled over bleary-eyed, mumbling and grumbling, because I could have used another hour or three of blessed sleep. I am not ever to be confused with a morning person.
“Mama, wake up! Time to get up!” Zane gets as close as he can to my face to tell me this.
I mumble some more, slowly, trying to motivate myself to get up. I even make a halfhearted attempt to push myself to a sitting position.
Did I mention that I am not a morning person? Because if I didn't mention that, I can say it again. I even have a t-shirt that says I'm not a morning person stashed away somewhere. I just wake up cranky.
I hear Zane running toward the stairs. My heart speeds up at the thought of him falling down the stairs, which certainly helps with the waking up. But the boy stops just at the top of the stairs.
“Daddy!” he calls. “Mama needs coffee!”
What can I say? He was right.
This morning I was still in bed, sound asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of Zane stomping up the stairs.
“Mama, wake up!” he yelled. I rolled over bleary-eyed, mumbling and grumbling, because I could have used another hour or three of blessed sleep. I am not ever to be confused with a morning person.
“Mama, wake up! Time to get up!” Zane gets as close as he can to my face to tell me this.
I mumble some more, slowly, trying to motivate myself to get up. I even make a halfhearted attempt to push myself to a sitting position.
Did I mention that I am not a morning person? Because if I didn't mention that, I can say it again. I even have a t-shirt that says I'm not a morning person stashed away somewhere. I just wake up cranky.
I hear Zane running toward the stairs. My heart speeds up at the thought of him falling down the stairs, which certainly helps with the waking up. But the boy stops just at the top of the stairs.
“Daddy!” he calls. “Mama needs coffee!”
What can I say? He was right.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Sometimes I Use Bad Words
Hi. My name is Tina and I am addicted to bad words. There will be some minor profanity present in this post. Also, I may not be coherent; I am very tired.
I said my first curse word before the age of ten. I got that word from my mother, who occasionally exclaimed "shit" when she would see the messy state of my room. Other words soon followed.
Curse words were fun to say around your friends, fun to write on desks and walls, fun to mumble when the teacher reprimanded you. Everyone was doing it!! Behind that feeling of fun was the danger of being caught speaking or writing curse words. That made it even MORE fun to use those words.
In college, I let loose and cursed only as much as the other women I hung out with did. It was like smoking a cigarette for me--say a few curse words and release that tension. Much better than nicotine. In grad school, I cursed because everyone else in the bar did that. That's sort of the secret language of bartenders, especially when nobody's tipping. At that point, I was mainlining those curse words every chance I got.
And then it all had to change. I started working for a school district. I started trying to clean up my language. I had to go cold turkey, otherwise I was afraid that I would slip up. I was successful, for the most part. I have also been pretty good at watching my sporadic cursing around Zane, using colorful 'alternative' words. It is somewhat ironic/annoying to me that my husband is the one who chastises me for my occasional use of bad words in front of our son. Larry cusses like a lonely sailor on shore leave--he just doesn't do it around Zane. But this is about me. I had to admit I had an addiction to cursing after this particular event.
It was seven thirty in the morning a few years ago. I was at my elementary campus, waiting in the conference room for a meeting to start. All was quiet; the only ones nearby were the secretaries.
I was still sleepy, because my circadian wake up time is ten in the morning. Because I was still sleepy, I had one of those gigantor cups of coffee. I had it sitting next to me while I typed on my laptop. My cell phone rang and in the general melee which occurs whenever I have to answer a phone, I knocked over that gigantor cup of coffee.
On my laptop.
Under the circumstances, I did what any normal person would do: I yelled 'Fuck!' word at the top of my lungs. (okay, maybe a normal person wouldn't yell the 'F' word, but they would definitely yell a word.)
The second the word left my mouth, I wanted it back.
I wasn't at home.
I wasn't with friends.
I was at work.
At an elementary school.
I didn't want to talk to that caller anyway, I decided. It was probably some parent with a complaint about a report.
I was mortified, suddenly more concerned about what I said than about my laptop. What if a kid had been out in the office with their parents? What if it was an impressionable child, with autism, who liked words to stim by? I had visions of a little blonde boy flapping his hands and saying "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck" for two hours. If anyone had heard me, I was going to be pilloried.
Luckily, the secretaries were the most wonderful people in the world. Either that, or they were used to people screaming obscenities, but let's think positively in this case.
I've come to realize that sometimes, a bad word is the only word that fits the situation. I'm not going to tell anyone which situations might apply; everyone has their individual tipping point, and I don't want to cast aspersions on anyone. Those who occasionally cuss know what I am talking about.
And let's get it out there: sometimes it feels VERY good to say a bad word. It releases from your mouth and carries with it something that might have been bothering you. A good curse word sometimes acts like a pressure valve, releasing the frustration within you that is about to blow up in your face.
I don't mind if other people curse, in fact I sometimes stand close to them just so I can inhale the smoke of their profanity and gain some vicarious enjoyment.
If that's not an addict, I don't know what is. I wonder if anyone will come up with a patch for cursing. You could wear it over your mouth to keep you from cursing. Or it could give you an electric shock when you do curse. I would wear one!
I said my first curse word before the age of ten. I got that word from my mother, who occasionally exclaimed "shit" when she would see the messy state of my room. Other words soon followed.
Curse words were fun to say around your friends, fun to write on desks and walls, fun to mumble when the teacher reprimanded you. Everyone was doing it!! Behind that feeling of fun was the danger of being caught speaking or writing curse words. That made it even MORE fun to use those words.
In college, I let loose and cursed only as much as the other women I hung out with did. It was like smoking a cigarette for me--say a few curse words and release that tension. Much better than nicotine. In grad school, I cursed because everyone else in the bar did that. That's sort of the secret language of bartenders, especially when nobody's tipping. At that point, I was mainlining those curse words every chance I got.
And then it all had to change. I started working for a school district. I started trying to clean up my language. I had to go cold turkey, otherwise I was afraid that I would slip up. I was successful, for the most part. I have also been pretty good at watching my sporadic cursing around Zane, using colorful 'alternative' words. It is somewhat ironic/annoying to me that my husband is the one who chastises me for my occasional use of bad words in front of our son. Larry cusses like a lonely sailor on shore leave--he just doesn't do it around Zane. But this is about me. I had to admit I had an addiction to cursing after this particular event.
It was seven thirty in the morning a few years ago. I was at my elementary campus, waiting in the conference room for a meeting to start. All was quiet; the only ones nearby were the secretaries.
I was still sleepy, because my circadian wake up time is ten in the morning. Because I was still sleepy, I had one of those gigantor cups of coffee. I had it sitting next to me while I typed on my laptop. My cell phone rang and in the general melee which occurs whenever I have to answer a phone, I knocked over that gigantor cup of coffee.
On my laptop.
Under the circumstances, I did what any normal person would do: I yelled 'Fuck!' word at the top of my lungs. (okay, maybe a normal person wouldn't yell the 'F' word, but they would definitely yell a word.)
The second the word left my mouth, I wanted it back.
I wasn't at home.
I wasn't with friends.
I was at work.
At an elementary school.
I didn't want to talk to that caller anyway, I decided. It was probably some parent with a complaint about a report.
I was mortified, suddenly more concerned about what I said than about my laptop. What if a kid had been out in the office with their parents? What if it was an impressionable child, with autism, who liked words to stim by? I had visions of a little blonde boy flapping his hands and saying "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck" for two hours. If anyone had heard me, I was going to be pilloried.
Luckily, the secretaries were the most wonderful people in the world. Either that, or they were used to people screaming obscenities, but let's think positively in this case.
I've come to realize that sometimes, a bad word is the only word that fits the situation. I'm not going to tell anyone which situations might apply; everyone has their individual tipping point, and I don't want to cast aspersions on anyone. Those who occasionally cuss know what I am talking about.
And let's get it out there: sometimes it feels VERY good to say a bad word. It releases from your mouth and carries with it something that might have been bothering you. A good curse word sometimes acts like a pressure valve, releasing the frustration within you that is about to blow up in your face.
I don't mind if other people curse, in fact I sometimes stand close to them just so I can inhale the smoke of their profanity and gain some vicarious enjoyment.
If that's not an addict, I don't know what is. I wonder if anyone will come up with a patch for cursing. You could wear it over your mouth to keep you from cursing. Or it could give you an electric shock when you do curse. I would wear one!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Getting A Few Things Off My Chest
My brain still has not adjusted to being back at work, and we are still having computer problems, which hasn't helped. Sitting around with nothing to do(everything I need to do is on the effing computer!) gets my panties in a serious bunch. When I finally do get my computers fixed, I'll be all stressed out because I'll feel behind. Phooey.
Why do they put the most horrific colors on the underpants that they sell in packs? Why can't I just buy a three-pack of black? Men can buy packs of underpants in reasonable colors. Why do I get stuck with a florescent yellow-green pair? Do these companies know how huge my butt looks in florescent yellow-green? Who decides this? Tell me, because I want to punch them right in the face. I have enough of a complex about how I look without dealing with that!
Last week I spent a great deal of time writing for a prompt from a website, posted my link, read and commented on several of the other blogger offerings...and not ONE person from that writer's site even looked at what I had written. I've kind of felt like the kid who just doesn't fit over there, the kid who tries too hard to be accepted(OMG, I am reliving my childhood!), and this sort of sealed the deal for me. If it weren't for my virtual blog-friends(is that the right term?) commenting, I probably would have cried because I was feeling hormonal. So...I give up trying to earn their approval for my writing. If I feel like it, I'll write for the prompt. But I'm not going to stress about it, and I'm not going to spend hours reading and commenting when it's not reciprocated. Instead, I will save all my love for my regular, and beloved, readers.
Last night I tried to cook a seven-steak. I hadn't ever heard of seven-steak before; I had to go look it up to even figure out what the hell it was. I wanted to put it in the crock pot all day, but when I said something to Larry about it, he got this 'ew' look on his face, so I didn't. So I ruined it, trying to cook it on the stove. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother trying to cook at all. Even my own child would rather eat waffles! Somebody else needs to do the cooking; I feel too incompetent with a spatula. Plus I keep setting my kitchen on fire and the alarm company is probably going to start charging us extra.
And why the hell can't my gray hairs gather in one spot like Jo Beth Williams in Poltergeist? It's bad enough that I HAVE gray hairs, can't I at least look trendy or cutting edge for once?
There just isn't enough chocolate to put me in a good mood today. I hope that tomorrow is better!
This concludes the venting/whining. We now continue with your regularly scheduled programming...
Why do they put the most horrific colors on the underpants that they sell in packs? Why can't I just buy a three-pack of black? Men can buy packs of underpants in reasonable colors. Why do I get stuck with a florescent yellow-green pair? Do these companies know how huge my butt looks in florescent yellow-green? Who decides this? Tell me, because I want to punch them right in the face. I have enough of a complex about how I look without dealing with that!
Last week I spent a great deal of time writing for a prompt from a website, posted my link, read and commented on several of the other blogger offerings...and not ONE person from that writer's site even looked at what I had written. I've kind of felt like the kid who just doesn't fit over there, the kid who tries too hard to be accepted(OMG, I am reliving my childhood!), and this sort of sealed the deal for me. If it weren't for my virtual blog-friends(is that the right term?) commenting, I probably would have cried because I was feeling hormonal. So...I give up trying to earn their approval for my writing. If I feel like it, I'll write for the prompt. But I'm not going to stress about it, and I'm not going to spend hours reading and commenting when it's not reciprocated. Instead, I will save all my love for my regular, and beloved, readers.
Last night I tried to cook a seven-steak. I hadn't ever heard of seven-steak before; I had to go look it up to even figure out what the hell it was. I wanted to put it in the crock pot all day, but when I said something to Larry about it, he got this 'ew' look on his face, so I didn't. So I ruined it, trying to cook it on the stove. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother trying to cook at all. Even my own child would rather eat waffles! Somebody else needs to do the cooking; I feel too incompetent with a spatula. Plus I keep setting my kitchen on fire and the alarm company is probably going to start charging us extra.
And why the hell can't my gray hairs gather in one spot like Jo Beth Williams in Poltergeist? It's bad enough that I HAVE gray hairs, can't I at least look trendy or cutting edge for once?
There just isn't enough chocolate to put me in a good mood today. I hope that tomorrow is better!
This concludes the venting/whining. We now continue with your regularly scheduled programming...
Monday, August 15, 2011
Maybe I Went A Little Overboard
Helmets are important safety gear for a number of occupations and sports, most notably for bike riding. Because some inattentive motorists may be texting/eating/putting on makeup/watching a movie/having a seizure while driving, wearing a helmet makes sense. It won't make a cyclist invincible, but it does make a difference most of the time.
I want my son to wear a helmet if he rides his bike. He is just learning, he is not very steady, and we live at the bottom of a hill. That's a recipe for disaster right there. My husband was not as interested in helmet wearing, offering up the "he'll look funny" and the "none of the other kids will be wearing them" arguments. I refused to budge on this issue. I've seen the results of head injuries, and I don't want that to happen to Zane, not if it can be prevented or at least mitigated. So the boy has a very cool Spiderman bike helmet, perfect for bike riding.
To encourage Zane to wear his helmet, I started to point out to him cyclists and motorcyclists who weren't wearing helmets.
"Look Zane!" I said. "That boy/man/woman/girl isn't wearing a helmet! Think of how sad his Mama will be if he falls down and gets hurt! He/She made a bad choice!"
Soon Zane began happily pointing out to me those who were not wearing helmets. He would say that they were "bad". I would remind him that the person wasn't bad, only that they had made a bad choice. Zane seemed to only hear the word "bad", and I could not dissuade him. Being lazy, I just decided not to say anything more about the "bad". Maybe Zane would get bored with the whole thing and just move on.
Except my son decided to generalize.
"He's not wearing a helmet! He's bad!"
"Uh, Zane...that guy is walking."
I want my son to wear a helmet if he rides his bike. He is just learning, he is not very steady, and we live at the bottom of a hill. That's a recipe for disaster right there. My husband was not as interested in helmet wearing, offering up the "he'll look funny" and the "none of the other kids will be wearing them" arguments. I refused to budge on this issue. I've seen the results of head injuries, and I don't want that to happen to Zane, not if it can be prevented or at least mitigated. So the boy has a very cool Spiderman bike helmet, perfect for bike riding.
To encourage Zane to wear his helmet, I started to point out to him cyclists and motorcyclists who weren't wearing helmets.
"Look Zane!" I said. "That boy/man/woman/girl isn't wearing a helmet! Think of how sad his Mama will be if he falls down and gets hurt! He/She made a bad choice!"
Soon Zane began happily pointing out to me those who were not wearing helmets. He would say that they were "bad". I would remind him that the person wasn't bad, only that they had made a bad choice. Zane seemed to only hear the word "bad", and I could not dissuade him. Being lazy, I just decided not to say anything more about the "bad". Maybe Zane would get bored with the whole thing and just move on.
Except my son decided to generalize.
"He's not wearing a helmet! He's bad!"
"Uh, Zane...that guy is walking."
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Passing Down the Habits
My son is like all small children, in that he likes to watch movies, etc. over and over and over and over and over and over. He's seen the movie UP about 400,000,000 times just in the past month, for instance!
I kid...it's only been about 200,000,000 times.
We have tried many times to get Zane to watch other movies instead of the same one a kajillion times, finally resorting to telling him that the movie is in time out. For instance, Finding Nemo is currently in time out because Nemo did not listen to his father. The Toy Story movies are all doing time because the toys didn't put themselves away when they were done playing. Up is on the shelf because that little boy did not ask his mother for permission to head to South America. My son is learning valuable life lessons from the 'punishment' of his dvd collection.
I understand that kids have to watch movies repeatedly. I know that it is developmentally appropriate to repeat a task over and over again. I did the same thing with my Donny Osmond records. At least until they disappeared under 'mysterious circumstances' and somehow ended up on the top shelf of my parents' closet.
What I find interesting is that after about 10 minutes of watching, my son starts playing with his toys, wandering around the house and following me around. He seems completely oblivious to the television and what is on it, so I turn it off. The second the television is off or the channel is changed, Zane comes running, hollering that he was watching that. Huh?
Are viewing habits genetic? My husband has to be sitting right there in front of the television from the second the show starts. He cannot handle missing any part of the sequence of events; it completely ruins his enjoyment of the show. He enjoys watching the shows that he likes multiple times, and will buy the blu-rays of his favorites. On the other hand, I wander about while watching television, doing laundry and various brief tasks. I am pretty good about extrapolating what is happening, so it doesn't bother me if I miss a bit here and there. You can even tell me the end first, and I will still enjoy what comes before it. But there are very few movies or television shows that I want to watch more than once.
I focus more on the conversations and the people in books. Too many extraneous details(as if people stand around counting the windows on buildings!) make my eyes cross. I skim those parts to get to the meat of the story. I read submersively, from beginning to end, without a break. Once I read a book, unless it is an absolutely awesome book(such as Lonesome Dove) on a colossal scale, I am not likely to read it again. There are too many books and too little time for me to go back.
My husband, on the other hand, reads very slowly. He reads every single word painstakingly, sticking his mind into the smallest detail and committing them to memory. If he loves a book, he reads it again and again, until that particular book becomes a part of him. For example, Larry can quote Tolkien because he's read all the books so many times. He's currently rereading the books of A Song of Ice and Fire, just so he can then read A Dance With Dragons with the previous books still fresh in his mind.
My son isn't really old enough to have habits, but he seems to be taking after his father in the book reading. Whatever book he is 'reading'(meaning that Dad or Mom read to him) must be read repeatedly. Zane can repeat, almost word for word, the book When Dinosaurs Say Goodnight, and he points out specific details in the pictures on the pages, like the fact that the dinosaur got water on the floor while taking a bath, and his Mama was going to be mad. I think that is pretty awesome, whether it is genetic or not.
I kid...it's only been about 200,000,000 times.
We have tried many times to get Zane to watch other movies instead of the same one a kajillion times, finally resorting to telling him that the movie is in time out. For instance, Finding Nemo is currently in time out because Nemo did not listen to his father. The Toy Story movies are all doing time because the toys didn't put themselves away when they were done playing. Up is on the shelf because that little boy did not ask his mother for permission to head to South America. My son is learning valuable life lessons from the 'punishment' of his dvd collection.
I understand that kids have to watch movies repeatedly. I know that it is developmentally appropriate to repeat a task over and over again. I did the same thing with my Donny Osmond records. At least until they disappeared under 'mysterious circumstances' and somehow ended up on the top shelf of my parents' closet.
What I find interesting is that after about 10 minutes of watching, my son starts playing with his toys, wandering around the house and following me around. He seems completely oblivious to the television and what is on it, so I turn it off. The second the television is off or the channel is changed, Zane comes running, hollering that he was watching that. Huh?
Are viewing habits genetic? My husband has to be sitting right there in front of the television from the second the show starts. He cannot handle missing any part of the sequence of events; it completely ruins his enjoyment of the show. He enjoys watching the shows that he likes multiple times, and will buy the blu-rays of his favorites. On the other hand, I wander about while watching television, doing laundry and various brief tasks. I am pretty good about extrapolating what is happening, so it doesn't bother me if I miss a bit here and there. You can even tell me the end first, and I will still enjoy what comes before it. But there are very few movies or television shows that I want to watch more than once.
I focus more on the conversations and the people in books. Too many extraneous details(as if people stand around counting the windows on buildings!) make my eyes cross. I skim those parts to get to the meat of the story. I read submersively, from beginning to end, without a break. Once I read a book, unless it is an absolutely awesome book(such as Lonesome Dove) on a colossal scale, I am not likely to read it again. There are too many books and too little time for me to go back.
My husband, on the other hand, reads very slowly. He reads every single word painstakingly, sticking his mind into the smallest detail and committing them to memory. If he loves a book, he reads it again and again, until that particular book becomes a part of him. For example, Larry can quote Tolkien because he's read all the books so many times. He's currently rereading the books of A Song of Ice and Fire, just so he can then read A Dance With Dragons with the previous books still fresh in his mind.
My son isn't really old enough to have habits, but he seems to be taking after his father in the book reading. Whatever book he is 'reading'(meaning that Dad or Mom read to him) must be read repeatedly. Zane can repeat, almost word for word, the book When Dinosaurs Say Goodnight, and he points out specific details in the pictures on the pages, like the fact that the dinosaur got water on the floor while taking a bath, and his Mama was going to be mad. I think that is pretty awesome, whether it is genetic or not.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Commitment
My husband and I were relaxing the other night, watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report. One of those commercials came on, with a lovingly compensated couple crooning about the wonderfulness that is their partner. We rolled our eyes.
"Yeah, we'll see how loving you are when you have to hold her hair while she's barfing on you!" I hooted.
We laughed together about the absurdity of those match-up commercials as we went to sleep. I'm not knocking these websites specifically. I just think that they portray love in a very distorted way.
There's so much more to a relationship than that goofy initiation phase, and I get very tired of having that kind of love in relationships emphasized over and over. It sets a bad example, you see. People(aka impressionable teenagers) see that version and think that that is what romantic love is all about, 24/7. On television and in the movies, couples are either madly in love or they hate each other. Reality is very different. Reality is about making a commitment to each other.
My husband decided that he loved me when I quickly downed a bottle of beer and then burped louder than him in the parking lot outside the bar.
But his commitment was sitting in the ICU while I was in a coma and he didn't know if I would ever wake up. I, in turn, held his hand throughout his cancer diagnosis and treatment. That is what commitment means: sticking around during the bad parts.
Life happens, and things can get ugly. Messy. People fart. People snore. People scratch themselves in embarrassing places. Sometimes they do all this in close proximity to you. At those times, love is not really the word that may describe your feelings, unless you are really weird.
It is in the trenches of the relationship that you forge a relationship, not the peaks. 'For better'...that part of the vow everyone remembers, and that is what those dating websites are selling. It's the 'for worse' that nobody thinks about before walking down the aisle. If you're not willing to stay with your partner during the 'for worse' times, however, you're not as committed to the relationship as you may need to be.
"Yeah, we'll see how loving you are when you have to hold her hair while she's barfing on you!" I hooted.
We laughed together about the absurdity of those match-up commercials as we went to sleep. I'm not knocking these websites specifically. I just think that they portray love in a very distorted way.
There's so much more to a relationship than that goofy initiation phase, and I get very tired of having that kind of love in relationships emphasized over and over. It sets a bad example, you see. People(aka impressionable teenagers) see that version and think that that is what romantic love is all about, 24/7. On television and in the movies, couples are either madly in love or they hate each other. Reality is very different. Reality is about making a commitment to each other.
My husband decided that he loved me when I quickly downed a bottle of beer and then burped louder than him in the parking lot outside the bar.
But his commitment was sitting in the ICU while I was in a coma and he didn't know if I would ever wake up. I, in turn, held his hand throughout his cancer diagnosis and treatment. That is what commitment means: sticking around during the bad parts.
Life happens, and things can get ugly. Messy. People fart. People snore. People scratch themselves in embarrassing places. Sometimes they do all this in close proximity to you. At those times, love is not really the word that may describe your feelings, unless you are really weird.
It is in the trenches of the relationship that you forge a relationship, not the peaks. 'For better'...that part of the vow everyone remembers, and that is what those dating websites are selling. It's the 'for worse' that nobody thinks about before walking down the aisle. If you're not willing to stay with your partner during the 'for worse' times, however, you're not as committed to the relationship as you may need to be.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Red Writing Hood: The Kiss
Prompt: Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me). This is based on a dream I had. A really, really, happy dream.
He was standing by the door, bare chested, when I walked out of the bathroom stall.
I have been known to be inattentive to my surroundings, but in retrospect, I would have noticed if anyone had come into the Ladies' room while I was in the stall, because the door creaks. Somehow, he got there without making a sound.
Of this I was certain: he was waiting for me.
I looked up, into his face, so I could stop staring at his perfect abs and how his taut skin disappeared into his pants.
My body reacted viscerally. For the first time I understood what the romance novels meant by their use of the word "lusted".
My Ladies' Room visitor was big, broad shouldered, solid looking, the top of his head nearly touching the ceiling.
Cropped hair so dark that it reflected a blue sheen in the fluorescent lighting.
A jawline carved from stone, dusted with the beginnings of stubble.
Eyes the green of a forest nested between high cheekbones fixed on me with what I can only describe as hunger.
Hunger?
I had time to blink, my mouth slightly agape.
Then this strange, stunning man was holding my face in his huge hands and his lips were on mine.
A sigh escaped him, as if he had been waiting his entire life just to kiss me.
What the heck is a girl to do in these sorts of situations, when a gorgeous, half naked man kisses you?
I kissed him back, of course.
I shivered with intensity of his apparent passion for me. All coherent thought poured out of my head. Goosebumps flowed over my skin, immediately followed by a tingling heat. My legs seemed to lose the power to keep me standing. He pulled me into a tight embrace, lifting me so that my feet no longer touched the floor.
I wanted more. I tried to melt into him, so the kiss would never end.
But it did, dammit.
I remember making a sound of frustration as he pulled away. I was suddenly back on my unsteady feet and he was backing up. Swaying, I touched my lips, staring at my mystery man.
"You are mine," he whispered, smiling. And then he vanished.
He was standing by the door, bare chested, when I walked out of the bathroom stall.
I have been known to be inattentive to my surroundings, but in retrospect, I would have noticed if anyone had come into the Ladies' room while I was in the stall, because the door creaks. Somehow, he got there without making a sound.
Of this I was certain: he was waiting for me.
I looked up, into his face, so I could stop staring at his perfect abs and how his taut skin disappeared into his pants.
My body reacted viscerally. For the first time I understood what the romance novels meant by their use of the word "lusted".
My Ladies' Room visitor was big, broad shouldered, solid looking, the top of his head nearly touching the ceiling.
Cropped hair so dark that it reflected a blue sheen in the fluorescent lighting.
A jawline carved from stone, dusted with the beginnings of stubble.
Eyes the green of a forest nested between high cheekbones fixed on me with what I can only describe as hunger.
Hunger?
I had time to blink, my mouth slightly agape.
Then this strange, stunning man was holding my face in his huge hands and his lips were on mine.
A sigh escaped him, as if he had been waiting his entire life just to kiss me.
What the heck is a girl to do in these sorts of situations, when a gorgeous, half naked man kisses you?
I kissed him back, of course.
I shivered with intensity of his apparent passion for me. All coherent thought poured out of my head. Goosebumps flowed over my skin, immediately followed by a tingling heat. My legs seemed to lose the power to keep me standing. He pulled me into a tight embrace, lifting me so that my feet no longer touched the floor.
I wanted more. I tried to melt into him, so the kiss would never end.
But it did, dammit.
I remember making a sound of frustration as he pulled away. I was suddenly back on my unsteady feet and he was backing up. Swaying, I touched my lips, staring at my mystery man.
"You are mine," he whispered, smiling. And then he vanished.
Just 'Cuz
"Zane, stop throwing your toys at the television."
"Why?"
"Because you'll break it."
"Why?"
"Because it's a television and it's not made by Fisher Price."
"Why?"
"Because they don't make televisions."
"Why?"
"Because they are busy making other toys."
"Why?"
"AAARGH!!!! Stop saying that!"
"Why?"
(face palm)
"Why you do that, Mama?"
"Because you're driving me crazy, son."
"Why?"
(Rips out hair)
Please, please, PLEASE, somebody tell me that this is a very short phase of development. I am afraid that I am going to start hitting myself in the head out of frustration...and never stop!
"Why?"
"Because you'll break it."
"Why?"
"Because it's a television and it's not made by Fisher Price."
"Why?"
"Because they don't make televisions."
"Why?"
"Because they are busy making other toys."
"Why?"
"AAARGH!!!! Stop saying that!"
"Why?"
(face palm)
"Why you do that, Mama?"
"Because you're driving me crazy, son."
"Why?"
(Rips out hair)
Please, please, PLEASE, somebody tell me that this is a very short phase of development. I am afraid that I am going to start hitting myself in the head out of frustration...and never stop!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
We Want To Know Wednesday: Thursday Edition
This is my first week back at work after having oodles of time to think of wonderful blog posts, and I have not yet adjusted my brain. I am a bit behind as a result. Please forgive me, and I promise to try to do better. Although the way this first week back has gone, with all the computer glitches and hysterical people calling me, I may end up breaking that promise. Then I'll feel bad.
{1} If you could be on any game show what would it be?
Jeopardy! I am a stone cold trivia geek, and I loves me some Alex Trebec. If I were on Wheel of Fortune, on the other hand, I would mock the other contestants for their choice of consonants, and they would probably rise up and smite me. That wouldn’t be good.
{2} If you could choose to stay any certain age forever, what age would it be?
That is a difficult one! In my head I still feel 26, although I have no idea why. Except when I was 26, I didn’t have my husband and my sweet boy, and I would not be the person that I am now. So I guess that I would like to be the age that I am now, with my 26 year old body that didn’t have high blood pressure and all the aches and pains and near death experiences. That would be good.
{3} What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
‘Hiding’ in the bathroom reading an Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter novel. But don’t tell anyone!
{4} What would i find in your fridge right now?
Milk, cheese, ketchup, mustard, jelly, and apple juice. I need to go shopping, but I’m working 10 hour days.
{5} If you were a piece of furniture what would you be? why?
A huge, overstuffed, purple, comfy chair where a person could curl up with a good book and escape into a fictional world. Or take a little nap. Because I believe in the power of a good book to transport us somewhere else, and I think that you ought to be comfortable while you are on your trip.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Wordless Wednesday: Farewell to Summer
I love this picture, taken at the Texas State Aquarium in Corpus Christi, Texas.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Life You Save
Yesterday I attended CPR/AED certification training. For those who might not recognize those particular initials, CPR stands for Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, and AED stands for Automated Electronic Defibrillator. The AED is a machine that essentially tells you how to shock someone's heart back into rhythm. The machine will tell a person, step by step, what to do, from placing the pads to administering the shock. Some machines even remind you to move a couple of feet away from the victim so you don't accidentally get shocked. Pretty awesome. The American Heart Association recommends the use of AEDs because they work. They work best in combination with CPR, but even a kid can use the AED to help save a life. They can be used on children and adults.
CPR, in my opinion, is something that every single person should be trained to do. It can mean the difference between life or death in some cases, when seconds count. Since world-wide CPR training isn't going to happen anytime soon, everyone should know how to use an AED, because there are lots of public places that currently have AEDs on the premises. If you can't locate the AED in an establishment, ask an employee if they have one and the location. If the employees don't look at you strangely, chances are good that they have an AED.
If you are a parent, I would pay particular attention as to whether the schools your child attends have them. My school district has at least one in every school. The high school and the two middle schools have more than one, because they have athletic events. The PTA paid for some of our AEDs, and a state grant paid for the rest We even have one available for school board meetings, and given the current budget crisis, it might soon be put to use!
If your school does not have AEDs on campuses, start asking about them. It may not seem like it, but parents are often the people who can get things done. The school nurse should know something about them, and she would love to help. Parents can make the point that there are a lot of children these days who have health issues, and some of those issues have gone undiscovered. This especially applies to children with special needs, because health issues often accompany many conditions.
It is better to have them and not ever need them than to need an AED and not have it.
CPR, in my opinion, is something that every single person should be trained to do. It can mean the difference between life or death in some cases, when seconds count. Since world-wide CPR training isn't going to happen anytime soon, everyone should know how to use an AED, because there are lots of public places that currently have AEDs on the premises. If you can't locate the AED in an establishment, ask an employee if they have one and the location. If the employees don't look at you strangely, chances are good that they have an AED.
If you are a parent, I would pay particular attention as to whether the schools your child attends have them. My school district has at least one in every school. The high school and the two middle schools have more than one, because they have athletic events. The PTA paid for some of our AEDs, and a state grant paid for the rest We even have one available for school board meetings, and given the current budget crisis, it might soon be put to use!
If your school does not have AEDs on campuses, start asking about them. It may not seem like it, but parents are often the people who can get things done. The school nurse should know something about them, and she would love to help. Parents can make the point that there are a lot of children these days who have health issues, and some of those issues have gone undiscovered. This especially applies to children with special needs, because health issues often accompany many conditions.
It is better to have them and not ever need them than to need an AED and not have it.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Soon To Be Soccer Mom
We signed up my son for soccer. There were several reasons for this, but the main reason is that the boy loves to run, and we thought that soccer would be a good way for him to do that. Fortunately, the local league just started a 3-4 year old program. So we went to one of their open registrations and signed the boy up.
I thought it was a little strange that they made me sign an oath that I wouldn't be one of those parents who scream epithets and other unmentionables at the children, the referees, and the coaches. These are three-year-olds, not professionals. Are you kidding? I said. Is this really a problem? They don't even keep score! The looks I got when I asked that question spoke volumes. But it's like unicorns--I have to see one to believe it. I just can't fathom that level of, pardon the term, douchebaggery. It's foreign to me.
I don't consider myself to be competitive, except when I play along with Jeopardy!--then I rule. But my experiences with athletics were slim to nil--I never liked to get my hands dirty, I had the attention span of a gnat, and I couldn't catch a ball to save my life. The kid the coaches always sent out to "deep right field", where the grass was very tall and the ball never came? That would be me. I thought about running cross country, but then I decided that intellectual pursuits were much, much more air conditioned. What is more important to me is that I try my best; I have no illusions about my athletic skills. That is what I expect of my son--that he try his best.
My husband played football until he was in high school, but he didn't really have a choice. In Texas, high school football is king and you aren't a "man" if you don't at least try to play it. So Larry has a little competitiveness in him, which is mainly channeled into the San Antonio Spurs. I can't see either of us ever screaming at coaches or players or even referees during the course of a soccer game. If someone deliberately hurts my son, maybe. Okay, probably. I would likely be more concerned about the injury to my son than whether or not his team was winning or losing. I can't say for sure.
I have other concerns. My brother and his sons are very involved in soccer, and everyone knows their names. Soccer comes easy to those boys; they are natural athletes. There may be some expectations of my boy because of who he is related to. I feel like I need to guard him from overzealous coaches, and he hasn't even started playing.
The heat this summer has been horrific, especially in the afternoons. That can't be healthy for anyone, let alone a little kid, but I guess they have to get used to it at some point. I plan on having tons of water available for practice and games, and have bought several cases of 4000SPF Broad Spectrum sunscreen.
On top of all of this is my reluctance to see myself in the category of "soccer mom". I refuse to drive a minivan, and not just because my best friend would disown me. I just never thought of myself in that role, although I probably should have at least considered it. I don't even know what the "soccer mom" uniform is supposed to look like--do we all have to wear the same shoes? What if the pants make my butt look especially large?
I have tried to rein in my rush to overreact, but because this is a new experience for the entire family, I can't entirely let it go just yet. Like I said, I have to see it to believe it. He's only three, and he's never played on a team before. Learning to play as a team is a big deal, and I doubt that Zane, or anyone his age, is developmentally ready for that. The games will probably consist of a bunch of aimless running around punctuated by coincidental kicks of the ball. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about at all.
I thought it was a little strange that they made me sign an oath that I wouldn't be one of those parents who scream epithets and other unmentionables at the children, the referees, and the coaches. These are three-year-olds, not professionals. Are you kidding? I said. Is this really a problem? They don't even keep score! The looks I got when I asked that question spoke volumes. But it's like unicorns--I have to see one to believe it. I just can't fathom that level of, pardon the term, douchebaggery. It's foreign to me.
I don't consider myself to be competitive, except when I play along with Jeopardy!--then I rule. But my experiences with athletics were slim to nil--I never liked to get my hands dirty, I had the attention span of a gnat, and I couldn't catch a ball to save my life. The kid the coaches always sent out to "deep right field", where the grass was very tall and the ball never came? That would be me. I thought about running cross country, but then I decided that intellectual pursuits were much, much more air conditioned. What is more important to me is that I try my best; I have no illusions about my athletic skills. That is what I expect of my son--that he try his best.
My husband played football until he was in high school, but he didn't really have a choice. In Texas, high school football is king and you aren't a "man" if you don't at least try to play it. So Larry has a little competitiveness in him, which is mainly channeled into the San Antonio Spurs. I can't see either of us ever screaming at coaches or players or even referees during the course of a soccer game. If someone deliberately hurts my son, maybe. Okay, probably. I would likely be more concerned about the injury to my son than whether or not his team was winning or losing. I can't say for sure.
I have other concerns. My brother and his sons are very involved in soccer, and everyone knows their names. Soccer comes easy to those boys; they are natural athletes. There may be some expectations of my boy because of who he is related to. I feel like I need to guard him from overzealous coaches, and he hasn't even started playing.
The heat this summer has been horrific, especially in the afternoons. That can't be healthy for anyone, let alone a little kid, but I guess they have to get used to it at some point. I plan on having tons of water available for practice and games, and have bought several cases of 4000SPF Broad Spectrum sunscreen.
On top of all of this is my reluctance to see myself in the category of "soccer mom". I refuse to drive a minivan, and not just because my best friend would disown me. I just never thought of myself in that role, although I probably should have at least considered it. I don't even know what the "soccer mom" uniform is supposed to look like--do we all have to wear the same shoes? What if the pants make my butt look especially large?
I have tried to rein in my rush to overreact, but because this is a new experience for the entire family, I can't entirely let it go just yet. Like I said, I have to see it to believe it. He's only three, and he's never played on a team before. Learning to play as a team is a big deal, and I doubt that Zane, or anyone his age, is developmentally ready for that. The games will probably consist of a bunch of aimless running around punctuated by coincidental kicks of the ball. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about at all.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Really Pay It Forward
I mourn the loss of any bookstore, since it lowers the IQ as well as the property values of the area around it. But money is tight these days and so I was among the other vultures picking over the corpse that was once Borders, looking at children's books. I had waited in a long line, I was hot, I was tired, I was cranky.
After I paid, I took my cranky self and my purchases and stood outside. Then I saw a woman walking toward me. She was a big girl like myself, but she had on a beautiful dress. She looked fabulous. As she approached me, I decided to do something that I hardly ever do: I told a complete stranger that I liked what she was wearing. I made sure that my tone was polite and cheerful just to counteract my crankiness. Her response was a sarcastic "Thanks" as she passed, as if I had insulted her.
My immediate reaction was extremely negative. I wanted to grab her, sling her around, and slap her silly. Look, I wanted to say, I was paying you a compliment. I was doing something NICE, and you just crapped on it.
But I didn't. I remembered something important.
If you give a gift, pay a compliment, or otherwise display kindness toward another and expect or demand a thank you for it, then you've negated the kindness, compliment, or gift. Gifts of kindness should be given freely, without expectation of reward. That warm feeling that we all get for performing some kindness should be enough. If you expect to be rewarded or 'owed' for your gift, then you are being kind for YOU, not the other person.
We've probably all had someone who did something nice for us at some point in our lives. Did we say "thank you"? Was our thanks enough? When we perform a kindness for another person, do we expect them to grovel at our feet in their professions of thanks? What does that say about us, that many of us feel entitled to that gratitude?
Sometimes I will do something nice for someone anonymously. I do this to remind myself that I don't have to be thanked. Nobody "owes" me anything in those situations because they don't know that I am the giver.
I still feel that warm glow, and that is thanks enough.
After I paid, I took my cranky self and my purchases and stood outside. Then I saw a woman walking toward me. She was a big girl like myself, but she had on a beautiful dress. She looked fabulous. As she approached me, I decided to do something that I hardly ever do: I told a complete stranger that I liked what she was wearing. I made sure that my tone was polite and cheerful just to counteract my crankiness. Her response was a sarcastic "Thanks" as she passed, as if I had insulted her.
My immediate reaction was extremely negative. I wanted to grab her, sling her around, and slap her silly. Look, I wanted to say, I was paying you a compliment. I was doing something NICE, and you just crapped on it.
But I didn't. I remembered something important.
If you give a gift, pay a compliment, or otherwise display kindness toward another and expect or demand a thank you for it, then you've negated the kindness, compliment, or gift. Gifts of kindness should be given freely, without expectation of reward. That warm feeling that we all get for performing some kindness should be enough. If you expect to be rewarded or 'owed' for your gift, then you are being kind for YOU, not the other person.
We've probably all had someone who did something nice for us at some point in our lives. Did we say "thank you"? Was our thanks enough? When we perform a kindness for another person, do we expect them to grovel at our feet in their professions of thanks? What does that say about us, that many of us feel entitled to that gratitude?
Sometimes I will do something nice for someone anonymously. I do this to remind myself that I don't have to be thanked. Nobody "owes" me anything in those situations because they don't know that I am the giver.
I still feel that warm glow, and that is thanks enough.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
What's Your Name Again?
Note: This is my post for today, 08/06/2011. But for some odd, she-must-have-been-drinking sort of reason, it published as May 6th. What can I say? Houlihan's has good chocolate martinis!
As parents, we decided that we did not want our son to call us by our given names. It would be too weird, we thought, and calling us by our first names would not clearly establish to others our relationship. We agreed that it would be best for all concerned if Zane called us Mama and Daddy or some variation of those names. Problem solved. I did not take into account my horrible difficulty with names.
I am great with faces. If I see a face a couple of times, I seem to remember that face for a very long time. It might take me awhile, but eventually I will remember where I saw that face, and then why. Yet I am terrible with names. Not only do I have trouble recalling names, even of people I know, I sometimes call people that I know well by other names. For example, I have called my boss "Mom", and my husband "Jim". Important tip: husbands don't seem to respond well to being called someone else's name any more than bosses do.
This unfortunate tendency gets me into quite a few embarrassing situations. Names that start with the letter 'T' for example, may cause me to go through a veritable laundry list of other 'T' names before I get to the right one. My nephews Tristan and Tyler have learned to just respond when I call them "Tris-Tyler" or "Ty-Tristan", but other people aren't as generous.
I get dirty looks and worse. But is that really fair? The only person I've ever given a hard time about not remembering my name is my mother. She only has one daughter, and she called me my brother's name. That faux pas requires a bit of teasing; it is some sort of law somewhere.
If everyone would just wear name tags all the time, this wouldn't be an issue. I hate wearing name tags, however, which is probably some sort of irony. I really can't expect others to do what I won't do myself.
I've worked so hard to get my son to call his parents Mama and Daddy. I did not count on those names embedding themselves so deeply into my brain. For the past two months, I have had to stop myself from calling every single female I meet "Mama". It actually takes me a couple of seconds to pause and locate the correct name. Any man who approaches me risks being referred to as "Daddy", whether he is one or not.
I am not sure what the answer is to this dilemma. My instinctive solution is to just not say the name at all, to just fake it. This is probably rude, but I hate having to ask for someone's name every time I see them. I also tend to insert a term of endearment in place of a name, so I may call the person "sweetie" or "my little cheesy-poof". That doesn't necessarily go over well at school board meetings.
Yeah, faking it is probably my best option.
As parents, we decided that we did not want our son to call us by our given names. It would be too weird, we thought, and calling us by our first names would not clearly establish to others our relationship. We agreed that it would be best for all concerned if Zane called us Mama and Daddy or some variation of those names. Problem solved. I did not take into account my horrible difficulty with names.
I am great with faces. If I see a face a couple of times, I seem to remember that face for a very long time. It might take me awhile, but eventually I will remember where I saw that face, and then why. Yet I am terrible with names. Not only do I have trouble recalling names, even of people I know, I sometimes call people that I know well by other names. For example, I have called my boss "Mom", and my husband "Jim". Important tip: husbands don't seem to respond well to being called someone else's name any more than bosses do.
This unfortunate tendency gets me into quite a few embarrassing situations. Names that start with the letter 'T' for example, may cause me to go through a veritable laundry list of other 'T' names before I get to the right one. My nephews Tristan and Tyler have learned to just respond when I call them "Tris-Tyler" or "Ty-Tristan", but other people aren't as generous.
I get dirty looks and worse. But is that really fair? The only person I've ever given a hard time about not remembering my name is my mother. She only has one daughter, and she called me my brother's name. That faux pas requires a bit of teasing; it is some sort of law somewhere.
If everyone would just wear name tags all the time, this wouldn't be an issue. I hate wearing name tags, however, which is probably some sort of irony. I really can't expect others to do what I won't do myself.
I've worked so hard to get my son to call his parents Mama and Daddy. I did not count on those names embedding themselves so deeply into my brain. For the past two months, I have had to stop myself from calling every single female I meet "Mama". It actually takes me a couple of seconds to pause and locate the correct name. Any man who approaches me risks being referred to as "Daddy", whether he is one or not.
I am not sure what the answer is to this dilemma. My instinctive solution is to just not say the name at all, to just fake it. This is probably rude, but I hate having to ask for someone's name every time I see them. I also tend to insert a term of endearment in place of a name, so I may call the person "sweetie" or "my little cheesy-poof". That doesn't necessarily go over well at school board meetings.
Yeah, faking it is probably my best option.
Friday, August 5, 2011
All Over The Place
The tag said that this was a crocodile, but I'm pretty sure that it's a alligator. My husband just mentioned that this particular fake reptile made him a little nervous, and I come downstairs and find this. I know that there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Alligators don't like frosted animal crackers.
They do like marshmallows, however. I learned that from watching True Blood. You can actually learn useful things from the television, I don't care what all those psychologists say! I was about to go on a tour of the swamps of Louisiana with marshmallows for snacking, and now I know to take chocolate instead.
Why are they called marshmallows, anyway? And there isn't any ham in hamburgers, so why are they called that? Who decides this sort of thing? Is there a government office somewhere? If so, where do I apply?
I can't talk about politics around here because there are too many Republicans who have concealed handgun licenses. I refuse to own a gun, however, because the rule in our house is that if you kill it, you eat it. There isn't enough ketchup in the world.
Say what you will about Tom Cruise, I kind of like him in action movies. Of course, he doesn't do very much talking in those movies, which is a plus.
My cat Pounce is sitting on the printer next to me, like a vulture. Does she know something?
My thinking is pretty random today, isn't it?
This is my last "work-free" day. Technically, anyway. I've already been logging in from home, trying to figure out some computer glitches here and there. Serves me right for answering the dang phone. It has been wonderful not thinking about work.
Someone needs to give me a couple million dollars so I can stay home all day and just be a philanthropist-type who wears big hats and 'lunches'.
I could learn to love big hats, if I got free lunches out of the deal.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Prodigal Cat Has Returned
I got a call from my vet yesterday. The receptionist asked if we still had a cat named Morris.
"What?" I said. She repeated her question.
I said that he'd disappeared a week ago, and she told me that someone had found him!
There was much rejoicing.
Morris ended up about a quarter mile from our house if you take the drainage ditch behind it, and just around the corner if you take the sidewalk. Right around the freakin' corner. We still aren't sure how he got out of our yard, but we were even more surprised that he made it so far away.
The lady who found him was petting him under the chin when I got to her house. I said his name, and Morris perked right up. I put him in his carrier, which he did not like at all, and drove him home. He hissed the entire way--he associates the carrier with the vet.
As soon as he got home, he bee-lined for the food bowl. He randomly hissed at everything and everyone for a good hour, then made his way upstairs. He slept right next to me all night. He's been following me around ever since, just purring away. Zena greeted him and seemed happy to see him, but Pounce has totally flipped out. She has been under the bed ever since, but she could stand to lose a few pounds(so could I!), so I am not too worried.
He was very dirty, lots of grass wrapped up in his fur. You can feel the bones in his spine when you pet him, so he did not eat during his travels, but he did not appear dehydrated. I found that odd, since it's been about a thousand degrees outside, but that is ultimately why he survived, so it's all good. His back legs, never very strong to begin with, seem to have a more pronounced limp. He won't like it, but he has a vet appointment tomorrow, because I want to make sure he is okay.
My old friend is home.
"What?" I said. She repeated her question.
I said that he'd disappeared a week ago, and she told me that someone had found him!
There was much rejoicing.
Morris ended up about a quarter mile from our house if you take the drainage ditch behind it, and just around the corner if you take the sidewalk. Right around the freakin' corner. We still aren't sure how he got out of our yard, but we were even more surprised that he made it so far away.
The lady who found him was petting him under the chin when I got to her house. I said his name, and Morris perked right up. I put him in his carrier, which he did not like at all, and drove him home. He hissed the entire way--he associates the carrier with the vet.
As soon as he got home, he bee-lined for the food bowl. He randomly hissed at everything and everyone for a good hour, then made his way upstairs. He slept right next to me all night. He's been following me around ever since, just purring away. Zena greeted him and seemed happy to see him, but Pounce has totally flipped out. She has been under the bed ever since, but she could stand to lose a few pounds(so could I!), so I am not too worried.
He was very dirty, lots of grass wrapped up in his fur. You can feel the bones in his spine when you pet him, so he did not eat during his travels, but he did not appear dehydrated. I found that odd, since it's been about a thousand degrees outside, but that is ultimately why he survived, so it's all good. His back legs, never very strong to begin with, seem to have a more pronounced limp. He won't like it, but he has a vet appointment tomorrow, because I want to make sure he is okay.
My old friend is home.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
We Want To Know Wednesday
{1} If you could spend a day with a blogger, who you haven't met in real life, who would you choose?
Lizbeth over at Four Sea Stars and Amanda at This Side of Reason and Andrea over at Maybe It's Just Me. Of course, I can't forget the person who got me blogging in the first place, Jillsmo over at Yeah. Good Times. All of these women not only give me lots of comment love, they are also hilarious. They make me feel that I am not alone in this mom-verse. Plus, I think they'd be cool to knock back some sangria with!
{2} What website do you check first when you go online?.
I always check CNN.com, and in the summer, various weather pages, then cracked.com.
{3} What is something you are saving money for right now?
Saving? Ha! We will be lucky if we survive the next year without resorting to eating squirrels and cacti! If I were able to save for something, it would be for a family vacation to England or Ireland.
{4} What is your go to silly face when a silly face is needed?
I do not have a silly face. I am completely serious all the time. In fact, I don't even have a sense of humor. I am the perfect straight man. Woman. You know what I mean.
{5} How do you relieve stress?
While punching the offending stressor in the face feels really great, it does tend to get you arrested. So while I often think about punching some one, I don't actually do it; the thought alone provides some relief. I had a friend who jumped out of perfectly good airplanes to relieve her stress, but I think that is just crazy. My stress relievers are sex, chocolate, wine, and a great comedy. In that order.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Irrevocable
I like to enjoy reading the paper. I like to sit quietly at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee, and read as many stories as I can before my son demands my attention. This morning, I read a news brief that stated that a 21 year old man had been charged with briefly choking an 11 year old boy at a daycare.
My son's daycare.
We knew the guy. He was one of the guys who would supervise the kids while they were outside once the classes are combined. For the uninitiated, as kids are picked up and the numbers thin out, it is a common practice to combine classes to allow teachers the opportunity to clean up their classrooms or talk to parents. The daycare workers are not allowed to yell, reprimand, spank, or use punitive measures such as time out. In other words, they don't really have a lot of options when it comes to discipline. Mr. Ryan seemed nice, he was nice to Zane, and he was polite to us. Yet this same man committed a crime. I have to wonder what put him over the edge, but at the same time I really don't care. He broke the very law that allows us to entrust our children to others. He violated a boundary. Boundaries are extremely important to all of us, but they are especially important to a child.
I often think of boundaries as that yellow line on the floor of a bus. You aren't supposed to cross that yellow line while the bus is in motion. Children(and adults, too) thrive when they know where the yellow line is. If they can trust that if they cross that line there will be someone there to help them, they feel safe. Children trust adults to help them learn the boundaries they need to survive the world. There is a measure of safety and trust that comes from knowing that an adult respects the boundaries of a child.
And adults are never to take advantage of that trust. They also must never break that trust. There is no trust when boundaries are not respected. There is no feeling of safety when the boundaries are not respected. If a child does not trust the adults in their lives because their boundaries were not respected, then that child has no faith in the boundaries around them. They no longer trust the statements of authority figures. They no longer trust in laws. They can't trust the boundaries of others, therefore all boundaries are suspect, including their own. People who have no boundaries are both scared and scary; if you don't know where the line is drawn, how do you know when you've crossed it?
I feel bad for this man for his loss of control, but he will no longer be working with children. I worry about the child he choked more, because that boy was actually testing the boundaries with his behavior. How this is handled by his parents, however, will spell the difference between a healthy view of what happened and a downward spiral into perpetual victimhood. This boy's trust in the world has been irrevocably broken, and that breaks my heart a little.
My son's daycare.
We knew the guy. He was one of the guys who would supervise the kids while they were outside once the classes are combined. For the uninitiated, as kids are picked up and the numbers thin out, it is a common practice to combine classes to allow teachers the opportunity to clean up their classrooms or talk to parents. The daycare workers are not allowed to yell, reprimand, spank, or use punitive measures such as time out. In other words, they don't really have a lot of options when it comes to discipline. Mr. Ryan seemed nice, he was nice to Zane, and he was polite to us. Yet this same man committed a crime. I have to wonder what put him over the edge, but at the same time I really don't care. He broke the very law that allows us to entrust our children to others. He violated a boundary. Boundaries are extremely important to all of us, but they are especially important to a child.
I often think of boundaries as that yellow line on the floor of a bus. You aren't supposed to cross that yellow line while the bus is in motion. Children(and adults, too) thrive when they know where the yellow line is. If they can trust that if they cross that line there will be someone there to help them, they feel safe. Children trust adults to help them learn the boundaries they need to survive the world. There is a measure of safety and trust that comes from knowing that an adult respects the boundaries of a child.
And adults are never to take advantage of that trust. They also must never break that trust. There is no trust when boundaries are not respected. There is no feeling of safety when the boundaries are not respected. If a child does not trust the adults in their lives because their boundaries were not respected, then that child has no faith in the boundaries around them. They no longer trust the statements of authority figures. They no longer trust in laws. They can't trust the boundaries of others, therefore all boundaries are suspect, including their own. People who have no boundaries are both scared and scary; if you don't know where the line is drawn, how do you know when you've crossed it?
I feel bad for this man for his loss of control, but he will no longer be working with children. I worry about the child he choked more, because that boy was actually testing the boundaries with his behavior. How this is handled by his parents, however, will spell the difference between a healthy view of what happened and a downward spiral into perpetual victimhood. This boy's trust in the world has been irrevocably broken, and that breaks my heart a little.
Monday, August 1, 2011
What's in a Name?
"They" say that location is everything in business. 'Location, location, location' is the mantra. It is very true the the location of a business is vital to a business' success. It's not a good idea to place an ice cream parlor next door to a Weight Watchers, for instance. Or a lingerie store next to a store that sells bible.
There is more to a business' success than just the location. There is a lot of effort and hard work put into the success of every business. Owners put their hearts and souls into making lots of money by selling us cakes, books, coffee, cars, etc. But there is one more thing that needs to be considered with great care: The Name.
If the name of a business is conservative, like Walmart, then the owner may not need to advertise very much to bring in customers. However, there are a number of businesses who seem to feel that the name of their business should reflect the owner's philosophies. Sometimes this backfires.
There is a hair salon called 'Shear Faith'; apparently it is advised to pray before you get your hair 'fixed'. A barber shop with the name 'Chop it Up' brings to mind Sweeney Todd. I expect to see that particular shop on the news, but I'd be more concerned if this barber shop was located next to a restaurant. Rounding out our tour of hairy joints, we come to 'Hare We Are'. They spelled hair incorrectly, and they made a bad pun in the process.
On the other end of the spectrum, there is 'Health Camp'. That is the name of a burger joint in Waco, an establishment that has been serving burgers and fries since 1948. I would love to eat at Health Camp, just because of the name. I would actually overlook the location(Waco) to eat there. 'Holy Grounds' is a coffee shop that also sells Christian paraphernalia. Then, in Corpus Christi, there is 'Chubby's Mattress Store'. This name gives a bit of sexual innuendo AND provides a place to pursue that innuendo to a logical conclusion.
Finally, we have stores with just plain regular names, like Rudy's BBQ, The Wash Tub, etc. In an effort to boost sales, these places will often place pithy sayings on their marquee instead of the special. Rudy's certainly got my attention with it's "Beat the heat with a half pound of meat!" A meat market in town has the slogan "Nobody beats our meat!". The Wash Tub was advertising '10$ Handjobs' the other day. Those signs certainly got MY attention!
My very favorite sign of all time can be found on the I-37 road to Corpus Christi. It's a sign the government put up, and I imagine that they giggled while they worked. If brawny construction workers can legally giggle. Choke Canyon State Park is at exit 69. There's some sexual innuendo in there, easy to miss. It makes me wonder if the people laying out the road deliberately made it so that that particular exit would be 69.
What signs do you find in your area that are funny, odd, risque'? I wanna know!
There is more to a business' success than just the location. There is a lot of effort and hard work put into the success of every business. Owners put their hearts and souls into making lots of money by selling us cakes, books, coffee, cars, etc. But there is one more thing that needs to be considered with great care: The Name.
If the name of a business is conservative, like Walmart, then the owner may not need to advertise very much to bring in customers. However, there are a number of businesses who seem to feel that the name of their business should reflect the owner's philosophies. Sometimes this backfires.
There is a hair salon called 'Shear Faith'; apparently it is advised to pray before you get your hair 'fixed'. A barber shop with the name 'Chop it Up' brings to mind Sweeney Todd. I expect to see that particular shop on the news, but I'd be more concerned if this barber shop was located next to a restaurant. Rounding out our tour of hairy joints, we come to 'Hare We Are'. They spelled hair incorrectly, and they made a bad pun in the process.
On the other end of the spectrum, there is 'Health Camp'. That is the name of a burger joint in Waco, an establishment that has been serving burgers and fries since 1948. I would love to eat at Health Camp, just because of the name. I would actually overlook the location(Waco) to eat there. 'Holy Grounds' is a coffee shop that also sells Christian paraphernalia. Then, in Corpus Christi, there is 'Chubby's Mattress Store'. This name gives a bit of sexual innuendo AND provides a place to pursue that innuendo to a logical conclusion.
Finally, we have stores with just plain regular names, like Rudy's BBQ, The Wash Tub, etc. In an effort to boost sales, these places will often place pithy sayings on their marquee instead of the special. Rudy's certainly got my attention with it's "Beat the heat with a half pound of meat!" A meat market in town has the slogan "Nobody beats our meat!". The Wash Tub was advertising '10$ Handjobs' the other day. Those signs certainly got MY attention!
My very favorite sign of all time can be found on the I-37 road to Corpus Christi. It's a sign the government put up, and I imagine that they giggled while they worked. If brawny construction workers can legally giggle. Choke Canyon State Park is at exit 69. There's some sexual innuendo in there, easy to miss. It makes me wonder if the people laying out the road deliberately made it so that that particular exit would be 69.
What signs do you find in your area that are funny, odd, risque'? I wanna know!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)