Prompt: This week, we’d like you to explore friendship. You can talk about a
current friendship or one from your past, a friend you met over
kindergarten snacks or happy hour at your first job. Examine your
emotional interest in the friendship and the role it plays, or played,
in your life.
The Army is a hard place for a kid. Your dad or mom gets tossed around, sometimes in an arbitrary manner, and the family has to go with them, even if it means ripping their roots right out of the ground. Just about the time I would get comfortable with a place, just about the second that I made a new friend, my dad would come home and announce that we were moving yet again.
The friends I had just made would tell me that they would miss me. They would cry and they would promise to write every day. My family would drive off, and I would be in the backseat with the addresses of all of those friends who promised to write me every day.
They never did.
I wrote them letters for awhile, homesick, hoping to hear anything except the silence of an empty mailbox. One day I just stopped looking. I gave up expecting that anyone meant it when they said they would remember me, or that our friendship had meant something, so that the next time my family had to move again, I wouldn't get hurt.
Then I met Cathy. She was much cooler than I was, which meant that she had nicer glasses and was allowed to wear real blue jeans. We were in a few classes together, and somehow she decided that we should be friends. I was skeptical, but she slowly won me over, and before I knew it, she was my best friend. Almost as soon as I realized that, my dad came home and announced that we were moving to Washington, D.C.
I was heartbroken. Again. My last day at Kirby Junior High, Cathy and I walked to the bus together, holding hands, even though it wasn't cool to do that. She started crying, and said that she would miss me and she promised to write. I started crying as well, and I hugged her as hard as I could, because I expected that would be the very last time I ever saw Cathy again. A halfhearted optimist at heart, I wrote her a letter once we were settled in our next home.
And she wrote me a letter back. She really was my friend.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
The A-List: Conversation Killers
In polite society, which I firmly believe is imaginary, one is expected to keep away from incendiary or icky topics in conversation. It's a good rule, and it exists for a reason. Discussions with people you've just met should be pleasant so that these people will want to converse with you a second, or even a third time. In addition to keeping the topics of conversation pleasant, there should be reciprocity. You speak a few sentences or ask a question, then the other person gets a turn. It is surprising to me that not everyone know this, or maybe they just choose to ignore what they've been taught. We've all been trapped by the person who talks nonstop as we try to back away from them.
People talk to me. I don't really know why; I guess that I have that sort of a look about me that says I will listen. Most of the time I will listen, because people can be very interesting(and I can use what they say on my blog!). Having conversations with random strangers and vague acquaintances, I often learn something new. For example, I've learned such tidbits as the Chinese have nuclear bombs underneath Times Square and that all the bar codes on the products we buy all start with 666 because of some scheme of the devil worshippers. I've also been told that Catholics are not really Christians, and that Hillary Clinton is the antichrist. I usually just nod a lot at these times, and try to beat as hasty a retreat as possible. But I think that I've suffered enough.
If you bring these following subjects up in every day conversations, expect silence and the silliest "WTF?" face you have ever seen. Please take the hint and change the subject. I understand this will not work on people with no awareness of nonverbal social cues, in which case I will probably just walk away. If I cannot walk away, I will put my hands over my ears and begin reciting every nursery rhyme I can remember in order to prevent my ears from bursting into flame.
Colons/Hemorrhoids I have a relative. When we ask this particular relative how she is doing, she interprets "How are you?" to mean "How is your colon?" She then tells me all about her colon, even when we are at the dinner table. I've even been subjected to pictures! Her colon is like an extension of herself, I suppose. All I can say about that is, Ew. Just don't talk about your butt around me. Please!
Any other conversation killers out there?
People talk to me. I don't really know why; I guess that I have that sort of a look about me that says I will listen. Most of the time I will listen, because people can be very interesting(and I can use what they say on my blog!). Having conversations with random strangers and vague acquaintances, I often learn something new. For example, I've learned such tidbits as the Chinese have nuclear bombs underneath Times Square and that all the bar codes on the products we buy all start with 666 because of some scheme of the devil worshippers. I've also been told that Catholics are not really Christians, and that Hillary Clinton is the antichrist. I usually just nod a lot at these times, and try to beat as hasty a retreat as possible. But I think that I've suffered enough.
If you bring these following subjects up in every day conversations, expect silence and the silliest "WTF?" face you have ever seen. Please take the hint and change the subject. I understand this will not work on people with no awareness of nonverbal social cues, in which case I will probably just walk away. If I cannot walk away, I will put my hands over my ears and begin reciting every nursery rhyme I can remember in order to prevent my ears from bursting into flame.
Politics and/or Religion I am totally cool with having intellectual, adult conversations about these two topics. By intellectual, adult conversations, I mean that both people speak their opinions unemotionally and don't automatically discount what the other person is saying just because they don't agree. I used to have tons of these conversations in college, but in the years following college it seemed that everyone lost their damn minds when it came to anything involving these particular topics. I have my own very strong opinions on these two topics, but I also have a strong aversion to forcing my opinions on everyone else, so I keep my mouth shut. Too bad not everyone shares my aversion.
Weight/Diet I am glad that you have lost 65.47 pounds by eating nothing but lard. Go you. I don't want to hear about it. I especially don't want to hear about it from people who weigh less than a hundred pounds. I am a round shaped human who has never met a doughnut that I couldn't consume in less than two seconds. I am doing good to lose a pound a week by depriving myself of chocolate and sweating to oldies. While this person is going on and on about the many ways that lard can be used as a weight-loss aid, I am contemplating a dozen ways to hurt them that would burn enough calories to allow me enough points for some chocolate.
Vaginas Unless your chosen profession is gynecology, there is no reason for anyone to bring up the topic of vaginas. I'm not talking about the topic of sex. I am talking about vaginas, the anatomical kind, not the metaphorical kind. I don't want to hear about them. I don't want the specifics regarding it's moisture level. I especially don't want to hear about the yeast. Weight/Diet I am glad that you have lost 65.47 pounds by eating nothing but lard. Go you. I don't want to hear about it. I especially don't want to hear about it from people who weigh less than a hundred pounds. I am a round shaped human who has never met a doughnut that I couldn't consume in less than two seconds. I am doing good to lose a pound a week by depriving myself of chocolate and sweating to oldies. While this person is going on and on about the many ways that lard can be used as a weight-loss aid, I am contemplating a dozen ways to hurt them that would burn enough calories to allow me enough points for some chocolate.
Colons/Hemorrhoids I have a relative. When we ask this particular relative how she is doing, she interprets "How are you?" to mean "How is your colon?" She then tells me all about her colon, even when we are at the dinner table. I've even been subjected to pictures! Her colon is like an extension of herself, I suppose. All I can say about that is, Ew. Just don't talk about your butt around me. Please!
Any other conversation killers out there?
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Dreams Can Be Actually Insightful
I don't often remember my dreams, anymore. I used to remember them very clearly, and I even wrote some of them down in a dream journal. I would then consult with textbooks on dreaming and books on dream interpretation. For a long time, I wrote down many of my dreams. There were tornadoes chasing my car, for instance. Me dancing around a fire naked. Me hunting sparkly vampires naked, being at Ford's Theater naked, etc. I may have made the dream about the sparkly vampires up. Looking back, I've noticed I have had lots of dreams about being naked in public. I am not sure why, except that I tend to borrow Angelina Jolie's body as a substitute for mine. Apparently, my subconscious brain thinks that she's dreamy and that we look alike.
Nowadays, the second I am fully awake, whatever I was dreaming about dissipates, vanishing into where ever it is that these things go. If I do remember a dream,there's usually a reason.
The other night, (probably because my bloggy soulmate Andrea wrote about her dream), I dreamt about my grandparent's pink house out in the no-man's land of Illinois. It was a weirdly disturbing dream. I woke up at 3:47AM and immediately decided that 10mg of melatonin was too much. I finally fell asleep again, but I remembered the dream as soon as I woke up. I had to tell Larry all about it.
"I had a weird dream," I began, as we were getting dressed for work.
"What was it?" Larry was all ears.
"I was at my grandparent's house in the breezeway at night and there was a man-shaped blob at the backdoor."
"That's IT?" I guess that he was expecting me to tell a long, drawn out tale. Larry has been gifted with what he calls "Scooby-Doo" dreams; convoluted affairs that take a while time to relate, given his penchant for play-by-play storytelling. My brevity both confused and annoyed him.
"It disturbed me enough to wake me up," I pointed out. "What the heck do you think it means?"
"It was your conscience," Larry asserted.
"You're actually telling me that my conscience is a man-shaped blob?" I stared at him.
"Yep." With that profound statement, my husband walked out of the room. In the silence that followed his exit, I thought about it.
That would probably explain a lot.
Nowadays, the second I am fully awake, whatever I was dreaming about dissipates, vanishing into where ever it is that these things go. If I do remember a dream,there's usually a reason.
The other night, (probably because my bloggy soulmate Andrea wrote about her dream), I dreamt about my grandparent's pink house out in the no-man's land of Illinois. It was a weirdly disturbing dream. I woke up at 3:47AM and immediately decided that 10mg of melatonin was too much. I finally fell asleep again, but I remembered the dream as soon as I woke up. I had to tell Larry all about it.
"I had a weird dream," I began, as we were getting dressed for work.
"What was it?" Larry was all ears.
"I was at my grandparent's house in the breezeway at night and there was a man-shaped blob at the backdoor."
"That's IT?" I guess that he was expecting me to tell a long, drawn out tale. Larry has been gifted with what he calls "Scooby-Doo" dreams; convoluted affairs that take a while time to relate, given his penchant for play-by-play storytelling. My brevity both confused and annoyed him.
"It disturbed me enough to wake me up," I pointed out. "What the heck do you think it means?"
"You're actually telling me that my conscience is a man-shaped blob?" I stared at him.
"Yep." With that profound statement, my husband walked out of the room. In the silence that followed his exit, I thought about it.
That would probably explain a lot.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Where Did The Time Go?
My blog is TWO. Really! I had to go look it up. I have been doing this for TWO years, not one. My spelling and grammar should be way better that this!
Now that I realize that I missed my blog's anniversary last year, I feel guilty. If I had just been a teensy-bit late, maybe I could have sent flowers and pretend that I messed up the date. To miss an anniversary by an entire year? I am not really sure how that works. If you're married and your spouse forgets an anniversary, you certainly don't sit there and stew over it for a year. Right?
I have always been a bit of a commitment-phobe. Weird, huh?
Maybe it was all the moving around. Or maybe it is just my personality. I used to get extremely restless after the first month or so of any relationship, personal or professional. Whenever I thought about staying with the same person, or living in the same place, my palms would get all sweaty and I'd hyperventilate. This would even happen if I had the same lab partner for longer than a class period.
You know all those girls in elementary school who play-pretended to be married? My play marriages tended to be very short affairs; then I would get bored, and whatever the rest of the boys were doing looked suddenly fascinating. I knew that I wanted to get married; I just didn't want to do it right that minute.
And then, before I knew it, I had been seeing the same OB-GYN for almost twenty years. And the same 'hair-therapist' for twelve years(Don't Judge!).
I woke up one day and realized that maybe commitment wasn't so bad. There's something to be said for having a long-term relationship with someone, I told myself.
I even went back to the dentist I had had as a teenager. And I actually got married! If I hyperventilate now, it's usually because I've been running after a little boy without my inhaler.
So when I started this blog, I did not expect to be still at it two years later. I didn't even expect to be writing every day! I also didn't expect to meet so many friendly, funny, and extremely helpful people out there in Blog-Land. You guys have kept me going, even when I was tired and brain-dead. I have had a great time writing just for the sake of writing!
So Happy Anniversary Blog! This is more proof I can commit. Or proof that I should be committed.
Now that I realize that I missed my blog's anniversary last year, I feel guilty. If I had just been a teensy-bit late, maybe I could have sent flowers and pretend that I messed up the date. To miss an anniversary by an entire year? I am not really sure how that works. If you're married and your spouse forgets an anniversary, you certainly don't sit there and stew over it for a year. Right?
I have always been a bit of a commitment-phobe. Weird, huh?
Maybe it was all the moving around. Or maybe it is just my personality. I used to get extremely restless after the first month or so of any relationship, personal or professional. Whenever I thought about staying with the same person, or living in the same place, my palms would get all sweaty and I'd hyperventilate. This would even happen if I had the same lab partner for longer than a class period.
You know all those girls in elementary school who play-pretended to be married? My play marriages tended to be very short affairs; then I would get bored, and whatever the rest of the boys were doing looked suddenly fascinating. I knew that I wanted to get married; I just didn't want to do it right that minute.
And then, before I knew it, I had been seeing the same OB-GYN for almost twenty years. And the same 'hair-therapist' for twelve years(Don't Judge!).
I woke up one day and realized that maybe commitment wasn't so bad. There's something to be said for having a long-term relationship with someone, I told myself.
I even went back to the dentist I had had as a teenager. And I actually got married! If I hyperventilate now, it's usually because I've been running after a little boy without my inhaler.
So when I started this blog, I did not expect to be still at it two years later. I didn't even expect to be writing every day! I also didn't expect to meet so many friendly, funny, and extremely helpful people out there in Blog-Land. You guys have kept me going, even when I was tired and brain-dead. I have had a great time writing just for the sake of writing!
So Happy Anniversary Blog! This is more proof I can commit. Or proof that I should be committed.
Friday, January 27, 2012
WOE: The Cave Of The Old Ones
Prompt: This week, we’d like you to take an honest look in
your toolbox and pull out one of the tools you believe needs a little
polishing. You could practice dialogue or character development,
narrative description or setting, plot advancement or denouement. I
think that I have a weakness in narrative description; I was trying to
be more sensory here. I tend to want to get right to the meat, and skip
the set up. I'm also going to step out of first person, just because
that is my comfort zone. Eeek!
As always, concrit is extremely appreciated!
Zenna woke up slowly, feeling the unfamiliar warmth surrounding her and snuggling into it until her back became painfully aware of the hardness of the floor beneath her. Her abdomen fluttered in protest, the baby inside of her demanding movement. Absently, her palm rubbed small circles on her already protruding belly in a calming gesture. She took a deep breath, and the rich aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, sandalwood, and something unfamiliar filled her lungs. Zenna blinked.
And as her eyes opened, they were pulled upward to what should have been the darkness of the ceiling. Yet light was reflected off of even the tiniest speck of gypsum or quartz above her. Zenna was stunned by the intense beauty. It was as if the entire roof of the cavern had been removed and all the stars in the sky were streaming their light at her.
It was also overwhelming; she closed her eyes again quickly and turned her head away. She may not know where she was, but she was very certain that she did not want to vomit.
Eyes still closed, Zenna sat up, gingerly, stretching to ease the dull pain in her back. She crossed her legs in front of her. A light breeze whispered over her skin and ruffled her hair. She smiled; it had almost sounded as though a large pair of wings had just stirred the air into movement.
"Welcome to my home, Zenna Boones-mate," a rich voice resonated in the cavern. "And welcome to your children, as well."
As always, concrit is extremely appreciated!
Zenna woke up slowly, feeling the unfamiliar warmth surrounding her and snuggling into it until her back became painfully aware of the hardness of the floor beneath her. Her abdomen fluttered in protest, the baby inside of her demanding movement. Absently, her palm rubbed small circles on her already protruding belly in a calming gesture. She took a deep breath, and the rich aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, sandalwood, and something unfamiliar filled her lungs. Zenna blinked.
And as her eyes opened, they were pulled upward to what should have been the darkness of the ceiling. Yet light was reflected off of even the tiniest speck of gypsum or quartz above her. Zenna was stunned by the intense beauty. It was as if the entire roof of the cavern had been removed and all the stars in the sky were streaming their light at her.
It was also overwhelming; she closed her eyes again quickly and turned her head away. She may not know where she was, but she was very certain that she did not want to vomit.
Eyes still closed, Zenna sat up, gingerly, stretching to ease the dull pain in her back. She crossed her legs in front of her. A light breeze whispered over her skin and ruffled her hair. She smiled; it had almost sounded as though a large pair of wings had just stirred the air into movement.
"Welcome to my home, Zenna Boones-mate," a rich voice resonated in the cavern. "And welcome to your children, as well."
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Mamakat: Cinquain
Mamakat's prompt: 2.) Write a poem about inspired by the word: Storm This type of poem is called a cinquain. It is a five line poem describing a person, place, or thing. It is amazing what you pick up while observing in a classroom!
Storm
Powerful, torrential,
Thundering, overwhelming, cleansing,
Washes all away,
Tempest.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Picasso Reincarnated...
...or visual processing disorder?
That up there is a picture my son drew at daycare one day. This is a picture of his mama, he said.
The sad part of this?
I think it's a pretty good likeness. My hair actually does look like that.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Remembered: Expecting
Prompt: This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.
It has been days. Days! It is too quiet here...and I will go mad if that cat sits on me one more time! Gah!
At least it is sunny in this room. I hate waiting, but at least I can see.
How can she keep me waiting like this? I am an important book! She is expecting, and I am all about that. It's my title, for gosh sakes! This woman needs to know what is written on my pages before the baby comes. She started to read me, and then she stopped, called someone on the phone and...and then left me here. It's been days!
Why didn't she take me with her?
I have been here, page marked, waiting.
I've been waiting for her to open me again. Days!
There is dust all over my cover now! And pthfft--cat hair.
Where has she been?
What is that noise? Are they home? Is someone coming up the stairs? Is it her?
No!
Who are those people? What happened? I don't understand. What are they doing with that box?
Wait! No!
No! I don't
want to go into the box!
I am a happy book about expecting babies! I
don't belong in a box! I belong next to a crib!
No! Please!
What did I do wrong?
I'm just a book! Don't put me into that box! Put me on a shelf! I'll do anything!
Please!
Nooooooooo!
Yeah, this is sort of a buzzkill, but it's the very first thing that popped into my head for this prompt, and I am on a mission not to over-think. For context, after I had my miscarriage, my parents came over to the house while I was in ICU and removed anything and everything that had anything to do with Zoe and put it all away, including all of the pregnancy books. I still can't even look at the title of this particular well-known book without feeling a little sick, and it's going on ten years.
Monday, January 23, 2012
The A-List: Words I Am Not Too Thrilled About
Words are just plain awesome. Words allow us a common language by which we can communicate with each other. While all living things communicate in some manner, only humans have both the capacity for creating words and the desire to communicate with others using those words. Without words, there would be no reading or writing, and the world would be the poorer for it.
I love words. All kinds. When I was a kid, I would open up the dictionary and just read through the words and their definitions. I was just that kind of weird. But just because I loved words didn't mean that everyone else did. One guy hated the word "pussyfoot", for example. I did not understand his dislike, so I made sure that I used that particular word as often as possible when having a conversation with him. I was just that kind of obnoxious, and besides, he kept stealing from my secret stash of candy bars.
Now, with my years of experience with the whole speaking, reading, and writing schtick, I have a different viewpoint. Here are a few words that I really don't care to hear or read anymore.
1. Struggles. I get this word a lot on referrals for special education. It annoys me and makes me want to go on long verbal tirades. "XXX struggles with math." Really? Here's a newsflash: If nobody is struggling to learn a new concept, then it is too easy! What I should see on a referral is "When XXX is given word problems, he is unable to pull the required information from the text in order to create an equation." See the difference? That tells me a whole lot more than "he struggles".
2. Pugilist. This word means someone who fight with their fists. Great. So why not call them a fist fighter or a boxer? Pugilist just sounds naughty to me; like some sort of weird bodily function. Just because it comes from Latin doesn't automatically make it a great word; the Romans drank prodigiously. They could have made it up while on a bender, just to mess around, and not intending for it to be sent into posterity.
3. Schadenfreude. This is a German word that people use when they want to feel superior to other people. Say it aloud right now. Are you suddenly contemplating the idea of some minions to gather round your throne? I told you so. This word means 'pleasure at someone else' misfortune'. It's the reason that people watch Jersey Shore, and those Kardashians. My theory is that if this particular word is banished from use, those crappy reality shows will go with it. A girl can dream.
4. Oxymoron. This actually isn't a bad word. It has a certain pleasant rhythm to it. I am just tired of it. Every time someone around me says a phrase like "bipartisan Congress", "military intelligence", or "education spending", some other person will snort and say "Isn't that an oxymoron?" We don't need for you to tell us what we already know, Captain Obvious. Knock it off.
5. the C-word. I have always hated this word, even before I knew what it meant. It's a horrible word. It's gutteral sounding, like the worst German accent ever. It doesn't flow off of the tongue lyrically, but explodes from the mouth like vomit. I am not alone in my dislike; has a man ever gotten a date with a woman by using this word? It's just plain icky. And really, aren't there about a million other words which refer to the same part of the female anatomy that are much less aurally offensive?
Are there any words that bother you? Do tell!
I love words. All kinds. When I was a kid, I would open up the dictionary and just read through the words and their definitions. I was just that kind of weird. But just because I loved words didn't mean that everyone else did. One guy hated the word "pussyfoot", for example. I did not understand his dislike, so I made sure that I used that particular word as often as possible when having a conversation with him. I was just that kind of obnoxious, and besides, he kept stealing from my secret stash of candy bars.
Now, with my years of experience with the whole speaking, reading, and writing schtick, I have a different viewpoint. Here are a few words that I really don't care to hear or read anymore.
1. Struggles. I get this word a lot on referrals for special education. It annoys me and makes me want to go on long verbal tirades. "XXX struggles with math." Really? Here's a newsflash: If nobody is struggling to learn a new concept, then it is too easy! What I should see on a referral is "When XXX is given word problems, he is unable to pull the required information from the text in order to create an equation." See the difference? That tells me a whole lot more than "he struggles".
2. Pugilist. This word means someone who fight with their fists. Great. So why not call them a fist fighter or a boxer? Pugilist just sounds naughty to me; like some sort of weird bodily function. Just because it comes from Latin doesn't automatically make it a great word; the Romans drank prodigiously. They could have made it up while on a bender, just to mess around, and not intending for it to be sent into posterity.
3. Schadenfreude. This is a German word that people use when they want to feel superior to other people. Say it aloud right now. Are you suddenly contemplating the idea of some minions to gather round your throne? I told you so. This word means 'pleasure at someone else' misfortune'. It's the reason that people watch Jersey Shore, and those Kardashians. My theory is that if this particular word is banished from use, those crappy reality shows will go with it. A girl can dream.
4. Oxymoron. This actually isn't a bad word. It has a certain pleasant rhythm to it. I am just tired of it. Every time someone around me says a phrase like "bipartisan Congress", "military intelligence", or "education spending", some other person will snort and say "Isn't that an oxymoron?" We don't need for you to tell us what we already know, Captain Obvious. Knock it off.
5. the C-word. I have always hated this word, even before I knew what it meant. It's a horrible word. It's gutteral sounding, like the worst German accent ever. It doesn't flow off of the tongue lyrically, but explodes from the mouth like vomit. I am not alone in my dislike; has a man ever gotten a date with a woman by using this word? It's just plain icky. And really, aren't there about a million other words which refer to the same part of the female anatomy that are much less aurally offensive?
Are there any words that bother you? Do tell!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Positively Ancient, But Well Read
As someone who works with kids/teenagers, I try to keep up with what they read. I want to see what the fuss is about. That's how I roll. Poking my nose into the popular lit has led me to some pretty cool reads. I even liked Twilight, although I grew to loathe Bella and her passivity. I really wanted Edward or Jacob to just eat her and put us out of her misery. THAT would have been an even bigger bestseller, in my opinion. But I digress.
I read The Hunger Games trilogy last summer, and I loved it. When I love a book, I want everyone to read it. It's not fair that I should have all the fun, right? I started off recommending the book to my family, friends, and then moved on to my coworkers, many of whom are younger than me. I tried very hard to described the book without giving away any of the major plot points; nothing starts a brawl faster than revealing plot points. A brawl would have been less painful.
This is the sum of all the conversations that I have had about The Hunger Games in an effort to get people to read them.
"It is derivative of Logan's Run," I offered helpfully, thinking that that would take care of the matter.
"What is that?" came the response.
"You know, Michael York? Science Fiction? Farrah Fawcett's first movie?" I was a little incredulous.
"Who is Farrah Fawcett?"
"Really? You don't know who Farrah Fawcett is? Charlie's Angels? Poster girl?" I was more incredulous.
I got polite blank looks. I tried again.
"Did you ever read the short story The Most Dangerous Game?"
"What is that?"
"How about The Running Man?" I finally tried, thinking that everyone has read Stephen King.
More blank stares.
"The Running Man? Stephen King novella? Movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"Nope."
I gave up after that, picked up my walker, and made my way to the nearest Old Folks Home. At least SOME of those people will know what the hell I am talking about!
I read The Hunger Games trilogy last summer, and I loved it. When I love a book, I want everyone to read it. It's not fair that I should have all the fun, right? I started off recommending the book to my family, friends, and then moved on to my coworkers, many of whom are younger than me. I tried very hard to described the book without giving away any of the major plot points; nothing starts a brawl faster than revealing plot points. A brawl would have been less painful.
This is the sum of all the conversations that I have had about The Hunger Games in an effort to get people to read them.
"What is that?" came the response.
"Really? You don't know who Farrah Fawcett is? Charlie's Angels? Poster girl?" I was more incredulous.
I got polite blank looks. I tried again.
More blank stares.
"The Running Man? Stephen King novella? Movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"Nope."
I gave up after that, picked up my walker, and made my way to the nearest Old Folks Home. At least SOME of those people will know what the hell I am talking about!
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Shaddup, Politicians: A Small Rant
Did you hear about how Newt laid into the media at the debate on Thursday? No? Beuller?
Go here and read about it.
I'll wait...
Gingrich's lambasting of the media at the debate ticked me off. Cheesed my crackers. Newt's ex-wife made some interesting observations about him with regard to his behavior during their breakup and divorce(he was cheating on that wife with the woman who is the current wife, for those keeping score). Such behavior speaks to the kind of man he is, to the kind of POTUS he would be if elected, I think. Such behavior is not irrelevant, although perhaps not appropriate fodder for the purpose of the debate. Still, the subject was brought up, the least that Newt can do is answer the question, right. Wrong. At a televised presidential debate sponsored by the media, prospective presidential candidate Newt goes on an attack...of the media.
How convenient. How original. Everyone clapped and whooped and hollered, just like the bystanders do when a bully gets in a good shot. It was textbook.
Everyone loves to pick on the media, politicians in particular. Blame the media and people want to climb right on that bandwagon. It's very easy to place blame on some shadowy, generic, entity like "the" media. I'm surprised that the entire worldwide economic crisis hasn't been placed at the feet of ABC. To hear some talk, you would think that the media was also responsible for the sinking of the Titanic. Did you ever notice that the only time anyone whines about the media is when the media is asking questions they don't want to answer? Newt certainly wasn't whining when he was being touted as a new frontrunner, was he? No, he was lovin' that center stage! (who wouldn't, at least for a little while?)
I would love it if the next candidate who whines about the media picking on him was immediately cut off. No interviews requested. No newspaper stories. No pictures appearing on the internet. No invitations to appear at debates. A presidential candidate who couldn't get the media to show up for a sound byte wouldn't be much of a candidate.
And don't give me any more crap about a "liberal media". It's tiresome. We as a country have exactly the media we want, warts and all. Think about it. There would be no Fox News if the media were "liberal"; if nobody was watching Fox News, it wouldn't exist. Whining about the "liberal" media is how Rupert Murdoch and others get people to change the channel; ennui is what keeps them from changing the channel.
Okay. That's out of my system.
*For the record, I am not affiliated with any particular political party. They all get on my nerves.
Go here and read about it.
I'll wait...
Gingrich's lambasting of the media at the debate ticked me off. Cheesed my crackers. Newt's ex-wife made some interesting observations about him with regard to his behavior during their breakup and divorce(he was cheating on that wife with the woman who is the current wife, for those keeping score). Such behavior speaks to the kind of man he is, to the kind of POTUS he would be if elected, I think. Such behavior is not irrelevant, although perhaps not appropriate fodder for the purpose of the debate. Still, the subject was brought up, the least that Newt can do is answer the question, right. Wrong. At a televised presidential debate sponsored by the media, prospective presidential candidate Newt goes on an attack...of the media.
How convenient. How original. Everyone clapped and whooped and hollered, just like the bystanders do when a bully gets in a good shot. It was textbook.
Everyone loves to pick on the media, politicians in particular. Blame the media and people want to climb right on that bandwagon. It's very easy to place blame on some shadowy, generic, entity like "the" media. I'm surprised that the entire worldwide economic crisis hasn't been placed at the feet of ABC. To hear some talk, you would think that the media was also responsible for the sinking of the Titanic. Did you ever notice that the only time anyone whines about the media is when the media is asking questions they don't want to answer? Newt certainly wasn't whining when he was being touted as a new frontrunner, was he? No, he was lovin' that center stage! (who wouldn't, at least for a little while?)
I would love it if the next candidate who whines about the media picking on him was immediately cut off. No interviews requested. No newspaper stories. No pictures appearing on the internet. No invitations to appear at debates. A presidential candidate who couldn't get the media to show up for a sound byte wouldn't be much of a candidate.
And don't give me any more crap about a "liberal media". It's tiresome. We as a country have exactly the media we want, warts and all. Think about it. There would be no Fox News if the media were "liberal"; if nobody was watching Fox News, it wouldn't exist. Whining about the "liberal" media is how Rupert Murdoch and others get people to change the channel; ennui is what keeps them from changing the channel.
Okay. That's out of my system.
*For the record, I am not affiliated with any particular political party. They all get on my nerves.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Red Writing Hood: Salt Water
“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”Prompt: Have your character resolve a problem using one of the three (or all three!!!). There are so many ways you can use this prompt so be creative with it, don’t take us where we think you’ll go.
~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke
This is a continuation of this story.
The scales of a dragon are impervious to all things; the skin of a human is not. While in human form, I was vulnerable should those who hunted my kind find me. While our children grew within me, my lover Arik would protect us with his life, but what then?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the vast depths of dragon memory, the answer lay hidden. I was vexed with this problem of vulnerability constantly, even as my belly grew large and I was unable to move very far. As my body became wracked with the pains of birth, the answer came, pushed to the fore by the same contractions which left me four squalling sons to care for.
Salt water.
Panting from my exertions and too weak by far in human form, I asked Arik for what was needed. It was he who gathered the wood and placed his largest cauldron onto the fire, filled it with water, and added as much salt as could be found in the larder. When the water was boiling, it was Arik who took each newborn from my arms and held it over the cauldron.
I spoke the words, but it was their father who dropped each child into the cauldron of salt water and pulled them out with tongs while they spluttered and screamed. As Arik returned each child to my embrace, my sons heard the sound of my heartbeat and quickly fell asleep, now protected by dragon magic.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Mamakat: Dogs I Have Known
Mamakat's prompt: List the names of five dogs from your lifetime. Write about why
one sparks a stronger memory to you than the others. (inspired by Writing Fix)
As I sat down to write this, I realized that I have not actually had five dogs in my lifetime. I've had five plus cats, all of them close personal friends, but dogs...not so much. Which is weird. I love animals, and I have been perfectly okay with having a dog around.
There were always idiots dumping dogs out near my grandparent's farm all the time, and it seemed like every time we visited, my grandparents had another dog, but these were all anonymous outside dogs. This always bothered me. A dog is a pack animal; it kills them to be kept away from their "pack". If you are going to have a dog, the dog becomes pack. That means being inside the house with the family, and most importantly, sleeping at the foot of a bed, keeping toes warm. My grandmother wouldn't let any of the dogs come inside the house. She would feed them, pet them, remove their ticks and fleas...she just wouldn't let them in the house. Inevitably, those random dogs would disappear. I always hoped that they found forever homes, but my grandmother swore that people would drive around stealing dogs to sell to research labs. I've worried for a long time about that being true, but since my grandmother has Alzheimer's, I'll never know for sure.
One of my first memories of a dog was a basset hound that we had when we were in El Paso. My parents had to get rid of that dog, because, according to them, I kept putting it in odd places. Like the dryer. Or the fridge. As a kid, I just took their word for it, but now that I am an adult, I have a really hard time believing that a child under the age of four could have lifted a basset hound by herself. A basset hound would have weighed more than me at that time. My parents probably told me that to justify not getting another dog for a very long time. Just as well, since we wouldn't have been able to take the dog to Germany with us.
When I was in middle school and we moved to San Antonio, my brother and I were allowed to get a dog. She was a dachshund named TJ. Why did we name her that, do you ask? To eliminate any need for fisticuffs! My brother and I were scrappers--any excuse for us to get into a brawl and we were rolling on the carpet throwing punches. When my mother had had enough, she decreed that all animals henceforth would be named TJ, my first initial, and my brother's first initial. My brother argued that his initials should be first, alphabetically, but my mother had issued her decree and that was that.
TJ knew her place in the pack. My parents would lock her into my dad's office at night, and when he opened the door first thing she would do is run upstairs and jump on my bed, then burrow under the covers until she got to the foot of the bed. There she would nap. TJ was also notorious for taking her food bowl, while she was eating, and throw the entire thing down the stairs if she did not like her dinner. That's sort of a cattish behavior, I think.
The last dog in my life was Sandy the Wonder Dog. Sandy was a sassy yellow Lab who belonged to my husband before we were married. Sandy was great with my cats, but she wasn't really too keen about me. Sandy would jump on the bed, insert herself between my husband and I, and slowly, but purposefully nudge me toward the edge of the bed. Once Sandy and I had a heart-to-heart about me being the one who actually fed her every day, we came to an understanding, Sandy almost always seemed to be having a great time. She would play with the cats like they were puppies, and they would chase after her and grapple with her tail. When we brought Zane home, we were unnecessarily worried; Sandy took to Zane like he was one of her own. Zane would lay on her and throw his arms around her neck, and life would be good for the two of them.
Sandy lived a good long time, for a Lab. 13 years. At that point, her legs wouldn't hold her up anymore, and it took great effort for her to get up. We had to carry her outside so she could pee. Sandy died on Easter Sunday. After my husband carried her inside and laid her on the carpet, I noticed that she was panting very heavily, and she didn't seem to have any energy to get up. I leaned over and patted her on the head, scratched her ears.
"Good dog, Sandy!" I told her. "Now you just rest for a bit." Then I took laundry upstairs. When I came back, Sandy had passed. What struck me was the sudden quiet, the silence that seemed to permeate the kitchen. That's how I knew that she was gone. I was so glad that I had spoken to her and that I had pet her before she died. She was such a great dog. I still get a little choked up, even though it's been a couple of years.
Dogs get into your heart almost before you even know it.
.
As I sat down to write this, I realized that I have not actually had five dogs in my lifetime. I've had five plus cats, all of them close personal friends, but dogs...not so much. Which is weird. I love animals, and I have been perfectly okay with having a dog around.
There were always idiots dumping dogs out near my grandparent's farm all the time, and it seemed like every time we visited, my grandparents had another dog, but these were all anonymous outside dogs. This always bothered me. A dog is a pack animal; it kills them to be kept away from their "pack". If you are going to have a dog, the dog becomes pack. That means being inside the house with the family, and most importantly, sleeping at the foot of a bed, keeping toes warm. My grandmother wouldn't let any of the dogs come inside the house. She would feed them, pet them, remove their ticks and fleas...she just wouldn't let them in the house. Inevitably, those random dogs would disappear. I always hoped that they found forever homes, but my grandmother swore that people would drive around stealing dogs to sell to research labs. I've worried for a long time about that being true, but since my grandmother has Alzheimer's, I'll never know for sure.
One of my first memories of a dog was a basset hound that we had when we were in El Paso. My parents had to get rid of that dog, because, according to them, I kept putting it in odd places. Like the dryer. Or the fridge. As a kid, I just took their word for it, but now that I am an adult, I have a really hard time believing that a child under the age of four could have lifted a basset hound by herself. A basset hound would have weighed more than me at that time. My parents probably told me that to justify not getting another dog for a very long time. Just as well, since we wouldn't have been able to take the dog to Germany with us.
When I was in middle school and we moved to San Antonio, my brother and I were allowed to get a dog. She was a dachshund named TJ. Why did we name her that, do you ask? To eliminate any need for fisticuffs! My brother and I were scrappers--any excuse for us to get into a brawl and we were rolling on the carpet throwing punches. When my mother had had enough, she decreed that all animals henceforth would be named TJ, my first initial, and my brother's first initial. My brother argued that his initials should be first, alphabetically, but my mother had issued her decree and that was that.
TJ knew her place in the pack. My parents would lock her into my dad's office at night, and when he opened the door first thing she would do is run upstairs and jump on my bed, then burrow under the covers until she got to the foot of the bed. There she would nap. TJ was also notorious for taking her food bowl, while she was eating, and throw the entire thing down the stairs if she did not like her dinner. That's sort of a cattish behavior, I think.
The last dog in my life was Sandy the Wonder Dog. Sandy was a sassy yellow Lab who belonged to my husband before we were married. Sandy was great with my cats, but she wasn't really too keen about me. Sandy would jump on the bed, insert herself between my husband and I, and slowly, but purposefully nudge me toward the edge of the bed. Once Sandy and I had a heart-to-heart about me being the one who actually fed her every day, we came to an understanding, Sandy almost always seemed to be having a great time. She would play with the cats like they were puppies, and they would chase after her and grapple with her tail. When we brought Zane home, we were unnecessarily worried; Sandy took to Zane like he was one of her own. Zane would lay on her and throw his arms around her neck, and life would be good for the two of them.
Sandy lived a good long time, for a Lab. 13 years. At that point, her legs wouldn't hold her up anymore, and it took great effort for her to get up. We had to carry her outside so she could pee. Sandy died on Easter Sunday. After my husband carried her inside and laid her on the carpet, I noticed that she was panting very heavily, and she didn't seem to have any energy to get up. I leaned over and patted her on the head, scratched her ears.
"Good dog, Sandy!" I told her. "Now you just rest for a bit." Then I took laundry upstairs. When I came back, Sandy had passed. What struck me was the sudden quiet, the silence that seemed to permeate the kitchen. That's how I knew that she was gone. I was so glad that I had spoken to her and that I had pet her before she died. She was such a great dog. I still get a little choked up, even though it's been a couple of years.
Dogs get into your heart almost before you even know it.
.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Is Your Child's School Prepared?
Whenever I enter a new building, I automatically do two things. The first is obvious: find the location of the nearest bathroom. The second is to visually locate any and all exits. It makes me feel safer to know where the exits are, whether there's a reason to use them or not. It's a "just in case" thing.
Emergency planning is, unfortunately, not a high priority for most schools. Parents need to know this. Many schools go through the required fire drills, tornado drills, etc. Some schools have fancy flip charts that are immediately put into a teacher's desk and forgotten.
There's just not really a budget for emergency planning, and if there is some sort of organized effort in a district, the ball gets dropped when the people pushing for the planning retire or move on. Nobody wants to consider that emergencies might happen. There's a sense that to do so will invite disaster, and schools are supposed to be happy places where stuff like that never, ever happens. Until it does.
I am not trying to bash public schools in any way. Let's get that out of the way. Public schools do the best that they can in spite of all the crap they endure in the form of standardized testing and lawmakers who are more interested in being re-elected than in doing what is right. After Columbine, schools all over the place briefly got serious about school safety, but it's been awhile. Interest fades, and we all fall into the "It will never happen to me" mentality. Emergency planning means that you consider that it CAN happen, and you have a plan that keeps everyone safe. Sticking one's head in the sand about safety is not healthy for anyone, least of all the students who are in the hands of a school for eight hours a day.
Parents can do something about this.
Go to your child's school and ask about the emergency plan. You may be surprised by the answers you get, but at least this can be a starting point. Are any school personnel trained in NIMS(National Incident Management System)? How many people in the building know CPR/First Aid? Does the school only use the primary evacuation route for fire drills or have they practiced the secondary route in case the first exit path is blocked? Ask about where the evacuation site will be and if there is a secondary evacuation site. Ask what the procedures are for a shelter-in-place versus a lock down. Ask what the pickup procedure will be if there is an emergency. (For example, will you need two forms of ID before your child can leave with you?)
If you have children with special needs, ask what procedures are in place for them as well. How the heck are those students getting out of the building? What are the plans for evacuating the students who are non-ambulatory, for instance, wherever they may be? In addition, there are quite a few children who simply cannot tolerate the sound of a fire alarm or the flashing lights that some alarms have. If the child has a seizure due to the lights, what are the plans for that? If the loud sounds cause a meltdown, what are the plans for that?
Have I freaked everyone out? Good. I'll stop now.
Now you will all be thinking about this, and you'll ask your kids about it. Then you will ask the teacher, the principal, then up the food chain, until maybe, just maybe, everyone starts thinking about this stuff in a more systematic, organized fashion. This is some thing that ALL schools can embrace, that involves students and parents too.
Emergency planning is, unfortunately, not a high priority for most schools. Parents need to know this. Many schools go through the required fire drills, tornado drills, etc. Some schools have fancy flip charts that are immediately put into a teacher's desk and forgotten.
There's just not really a budget for emergency planning, and if there is some sort of organized effort in a district, the ball gets dropped when the people pushing for the planning retire or move on. Nobody wants to consider that emergencies might happen. There's a sense that to do so will invite disaster, and schools are supposed to be happy places where stuff like that never, ever happens. Until it does.
I am not trying to bash public schools in any way. Let's get that out of the way. Public schools do the best that they can in spite of all the crap they endure in the form of standardized testing and lawmakers who are more interested in being re-elected than in doing what is right. After Columbine, schools all over the place briefly got serious about school safety, but it's been awhile. Interest fades, and we all fall into the "It will never happen to me" mentality. Emergency planning means that you consider that it CAN happen, and you have a plan that keeps everyone safe. Sticking one's head in the sand about safety is not healthy for anyone, least of all the students who are in the hands of a school for eight hours a day.
Parents can do something about this.
Go to your child's school and ask about the emergency plan. You may be surprised by the answers you get, but at least this can be a starting point. Are any school personnel trained in NIMS(National Incident Management System)? How many people in the building know CPR/First Aid? Does the school only use the primary evacuation route for fire drills or have they practiced the secondary route in case the first exit path is blocked? Ask about where the evacuation site will be and if there is a secondary evacuation site. Ask what the procedures are for a shelter-in-place versus a lock down. Ask what the pickup procedure will be if there is an emergency. (For example, will you need two forms of ID before your child can leave with you?)
If you have children with special needs, ask what procedures are in place for them as well. How the heck are those students getting out of the building? What are the plans for evacuating the students who are non-ambulatory, for instance, wherever they may be? In addition, there are quite a few children who simply cannot tolerate the sound of a fire alarm or the flashing lights that some alarms have. If the child has a seizure due to the lights, what are the plans for that? If the loud sounds cause a meltdown, what are the plans for that?
Have I freaked everyone out? Good. I'll stop now.
Now you will all be thinking about this, and you'll ask your kids about it. Then you will ask the teacher, the principal, then up the food chain, until maybe, just maybe, everyone starts thinking about this stuff in a more systematic, organized fashion. This is some thing that ALL schools can embrace, that involves students and parents too.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Remembered: Title/Tagline
Prompt: Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline. That’s it. Give us the title, and give us the tagline.
Tales of the Green M&M
Hard on the outside but soft on the inside, she never melted when the heat was on.
Tales of the Green M&M
Hard on the outside but soft on the inside, she never melted when the heat was on.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The A-List: Muscians/Bands Who Have Mostly Never Sucked
Who doesn't like to listen to music? While there are those who would argue that some kinds of music aren't really music, there appears to be some form of music to suit everyone's tastes. I do not like the Disney-fied pop music of today, and think that
Auto-tune is evil. Yes, I went there. If you can't sing without auto-tune, you're not a
singer. My tastes are relatively eclectic; I generally can listen to something at least once, which is more than I can say for my husband. I like to rock, but I also enjoy some country, gospel, metal, and the blues, among others. Today's A-List is therefore a list of musicians who have been consistently good with the music over time. It is not a complete list; I waffled on a few names, like BB King or The Who. Sue me.
Some would argue that all of these people have sold out and gone over to the dark side of pop music in their old age. To those people I say, STFU. There is no law that says that a musician can't grow or change, and there isn't a person out there who would turn down a bucketful of cash if it was offered. Except maybe the Dalai Llama, but he doesn't need it, anyway.
Eric Clapton in all of his incarnations. There is a reason that people started saying that Clapton is god. The guy is that good at what he does, which is playing a serious guitar. He's sort of a virtuoso, if there is such a thing for guitar players. Not all of his songs have been great, true. However, when the man nails the guitar, he blows the whole house down. Layla was a classic before Goodfellas, folks. I don't know if Clapton wrote all of the songs that he's made famous over the years, but with his guitar, he owned those babies. One of my favorite Clapton songs is Sunshine of Your Love; it's a downright sexy song.
Trent Reznor This guy is a little more than a month older than me, which makes us practically the same age. Except he is older. Probably wiser, too, since he's rich beyond the wildest dreams of avarice and I am not. But I'm not bitter. His music is definitely not traditional; it is certainly creative, and the bottom line is that it is just plain interesting. His most popular song, Closer, was sort of 'meh', but We're in This Together Now? Genius. His music is popping up all over the place these days, including in the movie The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.
The Rolling Stones The Rolling Stones have been in the music business longer than I've been alive. That takes a lot of talent as well as skilled marketing. Keith and Mick, a brilliant song writing team, sometimes remind me of a married couple, as far as their relationship goes. They're just plain better together than apart, musically speaking. They've been consistently throwing out hits for years, although there's certainly been a few misses during that time. My favorites haven't always been the popular stuff; Continental Drift, for example.
ZZ Top Most of their songs are great "car" songs; they play well on long road trips. Okay, so they write mostly about sex and partying, but their music is fun and very definitely Texas. La Grange is probably one of their best, and most easily identifiable songs, but I'm partial to Beer Drinkers and Hellraisers, Party on the Patio, and I Got The Six. These guys never tried to get by on their looks, and although the beards certainly grab your attention, once they start playing, I tend to forget about everything else. I just ease back and let the music roll me on down the road.
Elton John I first discovered Elton John at the PX at a base in Munich, Germany, when I was 9 or 10. I was fascinated by the album art for Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and begged my parents to buy it for me. And for some strange reason, they did. That album certainly looked odd sitting there with Donny Osmond, but my brother and I listened to that Elton John album over and over again, until the title song was no longer playable. Yes, Elton is flamboyant. Yes, he's over the top. But the man can write the music, so much so that I can forgive him I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues
Who are your favorites?
Some would argue that all of these people have sold out and gone over to the dark side of pop music in their old age. To those people I say, STFU. There is no law that says that a musician can't grow or change, and there isn't a person out there who would turn down a bucketful of cash if it was offered. Except maybe the Dalai Llama, but he doesn't need it, anyway.
Eric Clapton in all of his incarnations. There is a reason that people started saying that Clapton is god. The guy is that good at what he does, which is playing a serious guitar. He's sort of a virtuoso, if there is such a thing for guitar players. Not all of his songs have been great, true. However, when the man nails the guitar, he blows the whole house down. Layla was a classic before Goodfellas, folks. I don't know if Clapton wrote all of the songs that he's made famous over the years, but with his guitar, he owned those babies. One of my favorite Clapton songs is Sunshine of Your Love; it's a downright sexy song.
Trent Reznor This guy is a little more than a month older than me, which makes us practically the same age. Except he is older. Probably wiser, too, since he's rich beyond the wildest dreams of avarice and I am not. But I'm not bitter. His music is definitely not traditional; it is certainly creative, and the bottom line is that it is just plain interesting. His most popular song, Closer, was sort of 'meh', but We're in This Together Now? Genius. His music is popping up all over the place these days, including in the movie The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.
The Rolling Stones The Rolling Stones have been in the music business longer than I've been alive. That takes a lot of talent as well as skilled marketing. Keith and Mick, a brilliant song writing team, sometimes remind me of a married couple, as far as their relationship goes. They're just plain better together than apart, musically speaking. They've been consistently throwing out hits for years, although there's certainly been a few misses during that time. My favorites haven't always been the popular stuff; Continental Drift, for example.
ZZ Top Most of their songs are great "car" songs; they play well on long road trips. Okay, so they write mostly about sex and partying, but their music is fun and very definitely Texas. La Grange is probably one of their best, and most easily identifiable songs, but I'm partial to Beer Drinkers and Hellraisers, Party on the Patio, and I Got The Six. These guys never tried to get by on their looks, and although the beards certainly grab your attention, once they start playing, I tend to forget about everything else. I just ease back and let the music roll me on down the road.
Elton John I first discovered Elton John at the PX at a base in Munich, Germany, when I was 9 or 10. I was fascinated by the album art for Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and begged my parents to buy it for me. And for some strange reason, they did. That album certainly looked odd sitting there with Donny Osmond, but my brother and I listened to that Elton John album over and over again, until the title song was no longer playable. Yes, Elton is flamboyant. Yes, he's over the top. But the man can write the music, so much so that I can forgive him I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues
Who are your favorites?
Sunday, January 15, 2012
What I Love About Being A Mom
This was a prompt from Mamakat's workshop for last week. I just hate having a bunch of drafts open, mostly because they speak to my inner procrastinator, and I am trying to ignore that part of my personality in hopes that it will go away.
I often commiserate with other mothers about the trials and tribulations of being a mom. All mothers, no matter where they are from, have things in common that join them together as a group. I certainly have been surprised at the commonalities among our complaints, from temper tantrums to potty training. It takes courage to be a mom. It takes dedication. It takes sacrifice. Most of all, it takes a strong stomach.
There are things that I love about being a mom, however. Ever since I was an itty-bitty, I knew that I wanted to be a mom, and now that I am one, I wouldn't trade it for anything, not even for the things that require a hazmat suit. Some of the things that I love about being a mom:
Holding my boy while he sleeps. I would have held my son all day when he was a baby. Especially after a bath, when his hair had that baby smell. Even now, when I put him to bed, I have to hold him for a little bit. And I love it when he crawls up into my lap and falls asleep.
Watching him explore. I love taking Zane out to the park and hunting for spider webs and other insects. I love showing him caterpillars, even if they are demolishing my dill plants. If a snake ever enters our yard, and the cats allow it to live, and it's not poisonous, I hope that I get to show that to him too. I love watching the fascination in his eyes, his curiosity.
His 'joie de vivre'. When Zane runs up to me to show me something that he made at daycare, I love that look on his face. That spark of joy. My son seems to greet each day with wonder. I love that. I would like to be able to do that, too. And I would, if I were independently wealthy, didn't have to work, and had housekeepers to keep my house clean. Being an adult can be exceptional drudgery, but when Zane is running at full tilt and he's laughing his head off, that makes me think about what is really important.
His 'I love yous'. No matter how bad a mood I am in, no matter what the boy has done, when he says "I love you, Mama", inside I melt a little. Do you know how hard it is to keep a firm, discipline-type facial expression when you really want to just hug the bejeebers out of the child? It's pretty darn difficult, and I am not always successful. I love that, too.
I often commiserate with other mothers about the trials and tribulations of being a mom. All mothers, no matter where they are from, have things in common that join them together as a group. I certainly have been surprised at the commonalities among our complaints, from temper tantrums to potty training. It takes courage to be a mom. It takes dedication. It takes sacrifice. Most of all, it takes a strong stomach.
There are things that I love about being a mom, however. Ever since I was an itty-bitty, I knew that I wanted to be a mom, and now that I am one, I wouldn't trade it for anything, not even for the things that require a hazmat suit. Some of the things that I love about being a mom:
Holding my boy while he sleeps. I would have held my son all day when he was a baby. Especially after a bath, when his hair had that baby smell. Even now, when I put him to bed, I have to hold him for a little bit. And I love it when he crawls up into my lap and falls asleep.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
A Whole Lot Of Random
I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that the tactics used so successfully by the Dog Whisperer to corral wayward dogs, does NOT work on cats. They don't even wake up. It's kind of embarrassing that I just told you that. I'm supposed to be in charge of at least one sentient being in my own house, right? I don't think that it's fair that I'm putting food and water out daily, just so I can be ignored when I ask them to do something. Cats are like teenagers: they sleep 23 out of 24 hours a day, eat all your food, and pretend that you aren't there.
Zane is obsessed with bugs flying up his nose. Almost weekly, he will come running inside to tell me that a kamikaze bug has flown up his nose. We cannot convince him otherwise. I feel that we should take advantage of the opportunities presented by these mysterious nose-invading insects. Yesterday I told my son that the medicine in the nebulizer at the doctor's office was supposed to kill the bug and get it out of his nose. Hey, it got him to sit still for ten minutes with the mask on. Don't judge.
I was unreasonably angry when I heard that hippos kill people in Africa all the time. Hippos are vegetarians. Hippos will attack you kill you but they won't eat you. Lions will eat you. Tigers will eat you. Bears will eat you. Even domestic cats and dogs will eat you if they have no other options; meat is meat. Not hippos. They're vegetarians, as well as members of PETA. Hippos will just kill you. That whole Lion King circle of life thing? That goes out the window with hippos. You don't even get a freakin' montage! Someone killed by a hippo ought to at least get a montage.
The Animal Planet show Infested was on last night and I was too lazy to get up. They went on and on about brown recluse spiders. And ticks. And bedbugs. Now I am all itchy, dammit.
Kids like to repeat phrases and words that they love over and over and over. They also like their parents to join in. Zane has two current sentences/phrases that he wants us to repeat so he can giggle like a little madman. One is the phrase from that Geico commercial with the pig on the zipline. (I love that pig. I want to call him Wilbur.) I have to say "Pure. Adrenaline." in my best imitation of Jack Nicholson, and then I have to snort just like the pig, and then Zane laughs maniacally. The other sentence is from those advertisements for that show Finding Bigfoot. My husband has to say "I do think there's a SQUATCH in these woods!" and Zane falls over laughing. Throughout all of our antics, I can't shake the feeling that there's a camera stashed somewhere, recording us for Zane to use as blackmail material at a to-be-determined time in the future.
Zane is obsessed with bugs flying up his nose. Almost weekly, he will come running inside to tell me that a kamikaze bug has flown up his nose. We cannot convince him otherwise. I feel that we should take advantage of the opportunities presented by these mysterious nose-invading insects. Yesterday I told my son that the medicine in the nebulizer at the doctor's office was supposed to kill the bug and get it out of his nose. Hey, it got him to sit still for ten minutes with the mask on. Don't judge.
I was unreasonably angry when I heard that hippos kill people in Africa all the time. Hippos are vegetarians. Hippos will attack you kill you but they won't eat you. Lions will eat you. Tigers will eat you. Bears will eat you. Even domestic cats and dogs will eat you if they have no other options; meat is meat. Not hippos. They're vegetarians, as well as members of PETA. Hippos will just kill you. That whole Lion King circle of life thing? That goes out the window with hippos. You don't even get a freakin' montage! Someone killed by a hippo ought to at least get a montage.
The Animal Planet show Infested was on last night and I was too lazy to get up. They went on and on about brown recluse spiders. And ticks. And bedbugs. Now I am all itchy, dammit.
Kids like to repeat phrases and words that they love over and over and over. They also like their parents to join in. Zane has two current sentences/phrases that he wants us to repeat so he can giggle like a little madman. One is the phrase from that Geico commercial with the pig on the zipline. (I love that pig. I want to call him Wilbur.) I have to say "Pure. Adrenaline." in my best imitation of Jack Nicholson, and then I have to snort just like the pig, and then Zane laughs maniacally. The other sentence is from those advertisements for that show Finding Bigfoot. My husband has to say "I do think there's a SQUATCH in these woods!" and Zane falls over laughing. Throughout all of our antics, I can't shake the feeling that there's a camera stashed somewhere, recording us for Zane to use as blackmail material at a to-be-determined time in the future.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Red Writing Hood: Breakfast In Bed
WOE Prompt: Four hundred words or less, fiction or creative non-fiction, linked
up on Friday morning’s post, based on the following definition of flavor: A substance used to alter or enhance the taste of food or drink. This is a continuation of previous writing.
There is absolutely nothing like breakfast in bed, Zenna thought, smiling to herself. She paused in the doorway.
Boone was splayed out on his stomach, his head burrowed underneath his pillow, snoring softly. The sheets had fallen on the floor at some point, giving Zenna the opportunity to openly stare at his sleekly muscled body. She smiled as she sat the tray down gently on the bed. Boone's breathing did not change. Good.
Climbing on the bed, she made her way slowly up until she was settled between Boone's legs with her upper body resting on his backside. She reached over and grabbed a still hot waffle from the tray, and gently placed it on the small of his back. A sharp intake of breath let her know that he was awake, but he did not move a muscle. Zenna smiled. She added butter, then drizzled maple syrup over the waffle. She watched as it slowly dripped onto Boone's smooth skin and started to slip toward a hip. A muffled moan drifted toward her as she moved to lick the syrup off of that smooth skin.
Zenna paused to inhale the aroma of the waffle and the syrup. Underneath, she could smell the familiar but indefinable scent of her husband, the barest hint of cinnamon and nutmeg emanating from his skin.
It was without a doubt best waffle she had ever eaten.
NOTE: Yes, this is a bit racy, but you've gotta go where the muse takes you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take a cold shower.
There is absolutely nothing like breakfast in bed, Zenna thought, smiling to herself. She paused in the doorway.
Boone was splayed out on his stomach, his head burrowed underneath his pillow, snoring softly. The sheets had fallen on the floor at some point, giving Zenna the opportunity to openly stare at his sleekly muscled body. She smiled as she sat the tray down gently on the bed. Boone's breathing did not change. Good.
Climbing on the bed, she made her way slowly up until she was settled between Boone's legs with her upper body resting on his backside. She reached over and grabbed a still hot waffle from the tray, and gently placed it on the small of his back. A sharp intake of breath let her know that he was awake, but he did not move a muscle. Zenna smiled. She added butter, then drizzled maple syrup over the waffle. She watched as it slowly dripped onto Boone's smooth skin and started to slip toward a hip. A muffled moan drifted toward her as she moved to lick the syrup off of that smooth skin.
Zenna paused to inhale the aroma of the waffle and the syrup. Underneath, she could smell the familiar but indefinable scent of her husband, the barest hint of cinnamon and nutmeg emanating from his skin.
It was without a doubt best waffle she had ever eaten.
NOTE: Yes, this is a bit racy, but you've gotta go where the muse takes you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take a cold shower.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
A Friendship In the Quiet Places
Mamakat's Prompt: Share a lessons (or lessons) you learned about friendship from an introvert.
I am an introvert. Sometimes I pretend to be an extrovert, just like an animal might hide from a predator by donning a natural camouflage. Having had years to perfect my disguise, I am actually quite good at looking exactly like someone who loves to be the center of attention, the life of the party, etc.
My true self, however, is an introvert.
I do not seek out crowds; large gatherings tend to exhaust me. I am not a person who volunteers to be center stage. I would rather be behind the stage, allowing others to be in the spotlight. I would rather be Silvio from the Sopranos than Tony. I prefer reading and other quiet activities. I can often be found "in my head", daydreaming something random, or lost in thought. When I am out socially, I would rather be with either one person or a small group. Too many people talking completely disables my brain. If I happen to meet someone new, I tend to feel awkward and tongue-tied. It makes me act grumpier than I would like. Yet in order to meet my friend Laura, another introvert, I did something completely amazing.
I knocked on her door.
We were moving into the same dorm for college. I had moved back to Texas to attend college; I was rooming with my best friend from the eighth grade. We hadn't seen each other since then, and she had become a--gasp!--cheerleader, which was completely foreign to me. I was homesick for my friends; Montgomery Blair High School seemed to be on the other side of the planet. That was my mopey state of mind as I walked down the hallway toward the stairs leading up to my room. As I passed one door, I could hear the music of Duran Duran's Rio.
I stopped, rooted to the spot. Duran Duran!!!! One of my favorite albums, from my currently favorite band! Home! I had not heard those notes for a month. It was as if I had been wandering in a cultural desert and an oasis had appeared.
I then did a completely un-introverted, whacky thing, and knocked on that door. After I knocked, I hoped that the person on the other side of the door wasn't a whack job.
The door opened before my anxiety got to be too much,
There was a woman with dark blonde hair and white skin trying very hard to tan She glared at me at bit, but was polite. I told her that I had to knock on the door because of Duran Duran. She had brought Duran Duran back to me, I told her. I explained that I was in the midst of a musical drought and had been draw to the songs I had heard. I finally got around to introducing myself; her name was Laura. We stood there, me in the doorway and her in the middle of her room, for about a half hour. Laura didn't talk much; I was a babbling fool. She finally said that she had to go, but she gave me one of her Duran Duran tapes to borrow, so I didn't feel so homesick.
We've been friends ever since. Laura is not an extrovert. She is an introvert, like me. But unlike me, Laura has always seemed comfortable being an introvert. She has accepted herself the way she is, and the world just needs to get over it and accept her. While I was trying to be an extravert in order to fit in. Amazing. When the pupil is ready to learn, they say, the teacher appears.
I am an introvert. Sometimes I pretend to be an extrovert, just like an animal might hide from a predator by donning a natural camouflage. Having had years to perfect my disguise, I am actually quite good at looking exactly like someone who loves to be the center of attention, the life of the party, etc.
My true self, however, is an introvert.
I do not seek out crowds; large gatherings tend to exhaust me. I am not a person who volunteers to be center stage. I would rather be behind the stage, allowing others to be in the spotlight. I would rather be Silvio from the Sopranos than Tony. I prefer reading and other quiet activities. I can often be found "in my head", daydreaming something random, or lost in thought. When I am out socially, I would rather be with either one person or a small group. Too many people talking completely disables my brain. If I happen to meet someone new, I tend to feel awkward and tongue-tied. It makes me act grumpier than I would like. Yet in order to meet my friend Laura, another introvert, I did something completely amazing.
I knocked on her door.
We were moving into the same dorm for college. I had moved back to Texas to attend college; I was rooming with my best friend from the eighth grade. We hadn't seen each other since then, and she had become a--gasp!--cheerleader, which was completely foreign to me. I was homesick for my friends; Montgomery Blair High School seemed to be on the other side of the planet. That was my mopey state of mind as I walked down the hallway toward the stairs leading up to my room. As I passed one door, I could hear the music of Duran Duran's Rio.
I stopped, rooted to the spot. Duran Duran!!!! One of my favorite albums, from my currently favorite band! Home! I had not heard those notes for a month. It was as if I had been wandering in a cultural desert and an oasis had appeared.
I then did a completely un-introverted, whacky thing, and knocked on that door. After I knocked, I hoped that the person on the other side of the door wasn't a whack job.
The door opened before my anxiety got to be too much,
There was a woman with dark blonde hair and white skin trying very hard to tan She glared at me at bit, but was polite. I told her that I had to knock on the door because of Duran Duran. She had brought Duran Duran back to me, I told her. I explained that I was in the midst of a musical drought and had been draw to the songs I had heard. I finally got around to introducing myself; her name was Laura. We stood there, me in the doorway and her in the middle of her room, for about a half hour. Laura didn't talk much; I was a babbling fool. She finally said that she had to go, but she gave me one of her Duran Duran tapes to borrow, so I didn't feel so homesick.
We've been friends ever since. Laura is not an extrovert. She is an introvert, like me. But unlike me, Laura has always seemed comfortable being an introvert. She has accepted herself the way she is, and the world just needs to get over it and accept her. While I was trying to be an extravert in order to fit in. Amazing. When the pupil is ready to learn, they say, the teacher appears.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
From One Mother to Another
Dear Lady,
You don't know me, and that is probably for the best. I sometimes wait outside when I want to speak to particular parents while they are held captive by the pickup line. Yesterday, I was standing behind you and your friend while the two of you were waiting for the elementary school to let out so that you could walk your kids home.
Your son ran up to you. He couldn't have been more than seven, and he was adorable with his blonde hair and dimples. You ignored him and continued talking. You didn't even say hello to your child.
You ignored him and continued talking. The boy began to jump up and down, from foot to foot.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!" I heard him say this a little frantically.
You ignored him and continued talking. The person you were speaking to looked at your child and then pointedly at you. Your son then began holding himself, trying to hold back the tide.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!" Every parent should know this tone; it is the tone that communicates that waterworks of one sort or another is about to commence.
You weren't even talking about anything important, and there was your beautiful child, having a small emergency...and you ignored him. There were a few other parents waiting for their children alongside you who could not help but bear witness; all of them were glaring at you. You kept right on talking.
Your kid was about to pee all over himself in front of his ENTIRE school and you ignored him. All I can say is, WTF???
You probably would have yelled at him if he had had an accident, like it was his fault.
We as a society spend a lot of time on potty training our children. It is a big deal, a big step toward independence. We take pride in our children being able to control their bladders. We especially encourage them to let us know when they have to go so we can help them get to a bathroom in time.
It is a BIG deal to a kid if they have an accident at school. As in traumatizing, in some cases. Even if nobody else notices but the teacher, a child will still beat themselves up about it.
I understand the whole "tune your kid out" thing on occasion. We've all been there, trying to have an adult conversation, while a little voice seems to be chanting "Ma" repeatedly all around us. However, all mothers should be able to distinguish between an "I am doing this to get your attention" voice and a "HOLY CRAP! IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD!!!" voice of extreme duress. I am not exaggerating when I say that every single mother within a 150-foot radius was cringing at the sound of the desperation in your child's voice. I even thought that I saw a rosary or two; at that point, we all felt that the intervention of the Almighty was appropriate. I too prayed that the Hand of the Lord would reach down out of the heavens and impart wisdom to you...by smacking you upside the head. Of course, I was projecting. I truly wanted to reach over and smack you right in the back of the head. This had nothing to do with my migraine and everything to do with your general douchebaggery of the moment. I don't think there is a jury on Earth that would have convicted me.
This woman(a teacher!) just suddenly appeared, opened the door to the office, established eye contact with your son, and said the words the crowd wanted to hear:
"The nurse's office has a bathroom. Go."
If you hadn't been so busy talking, you might have heard the collective sigh of relief and felt the stares. You might have been ashamed.
I thought that you should know all this, so that it doesn't happen again. Please, please, PLEASE look at your child and help them by sending them in the direction of a bathroom!!!
Sincerely,
Tina
P.S Some of the people in the crowd don't like to wait for Karma, and they may take matters into their own hands. If you find any buckets of urine sitting near your car, that wasn't me.
You don't know me, and that is probably for the best. I sometimes wait outside when I want to speak to particular parents while they are held captive by the pickup line. Yesterday, I was standing behind you and your friend while the two of you were waiting for the elementary school to let out so that you could walk your kids home.
Your son ran up to you. He couldn't have been more than seven, and he was adorable with his blonde hair and dimples. You ignored him and continued talking. You didn't even say hello to your child.
You ignored him and continued talking. The boy began to jump up and down, from foot to foot.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!" I heard him say this a little frantically.
You ignored him and continued talking. The person you were speaking to looked at your child and then pointedly at you. Your son then began holding himself, trying to hold back the tide.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom!" Every parent should know this tone; it is the tone that communicates that waterworks of one sort or another is about to commence.
You weren't even talking about anything important, and there was your beautiful child, having a small emergency...and you ignored him. There were a few other parents waiting for their children alongside you who could not help but bear witness; all of them were glaring at you. You kept right on talking.
Your kid was about to pee all over himself in front of his ENTIRE school and you ignored him. All I can say is, WTF???
You probably would have yelled at him if he had had an accident, like it was his fault.
We as a society spend a lot of time on potty training our children. It is a big deal, a big step toward independence. We take pride in our children being able to control their bladders. We especially encourage them to let us know when they have to go so we can help them get to a bathroom in time.
It is a BIG deal to a kid if they have an accident at school. As in traumatizing, in some cases. Even if nobody else notices but the teacher, a child will still beat themselves up about it.
I understand the whole "tune your kid out" thing on occasion. We've all been there, trying to have an adult conversation, while a little voice seems to be chanting "Ma" repeatedly all around us. However, all mothers should be able to distinguish between an "I am doing this to get your attention" voice and a "HOLY CRAP! IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD!!!" voice of extreme duress. I am not exaggerating when I say that every single mother within a 150-foot radius was cringing at the sound of the desperation in your child's voice. I even thought that I saw a rosary or two; at that point, we all felt that the intervention of the Almighty was appropriate. I too prayed that the Hand of the Lord would reach down out of the heavens and impart wisdom to you...by smacking you upside the head. Of course, I was projecting. I truly wanted to reach over and smack you right in the back of the head. This had nothing to do with my migraine and everything to do with your general douchebaggery of the moment. I don't think there is a jury on Earth that would have convicted me.
This woman(a teacher!) just suddenly appeared, opened the door to the office, established eye contact with your son, and said the words the crowd wanted to hear:
"The nurse's office has a bathroom. Go."
If you hadn't been so busy talking, you might have heard the collective sigh of relief and felt the stares. You might have been ashamed.
I thought that you should know all this, so that it doesn't happen again. Please, please, PLEASE look at your child and help them by sending them in the direction of a bathroom!!!
Sincerely,
Tina
P.S Some of the people in the crowd don't like to wait for Karma, and they may take matters into their own hands. If you find any buckets of urine sitting near your car, that wasn't me.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Remembered: Unfulfilled
Prompt: This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted”. If this sucks, I apologize. I am extremely tired and fighting off a migraine.
I knew what I wanted. I wanted to lose thirty pounds. I was going on this diet, I was going to exercise, and dammit, that lard around my stomach was just going to melt off in the face of my determination. I would be bikini ready by May. I didn't really see a problem; the weight would just fall off once I started exercising. This would be so EASY!
I had willpower.
The diet I was on was very restricted, the portions tiny. I felt as though I were in the desert, eating a mirage of food, while my tummy did the rumbly thing, usually in the middle of class. I didn't want to disturb my peers and upset my professors. It was for the benefit of others that I brought a candy bar to snack on; not everyone is able to focus on their studies with the rumble of empty stomachs rolling about.
The exercise involved running. Lots and Lots of running. My breath burned a hole in my chest in order to allow a secondary access point to fill up my lungs with air. My kneecaps grinding together with every step. It was a gruelingly strenuous three flights of stairs. I had to drink a gallon of Gatorade to get my electrolytes recharged. Who knew that Gatorade and KitKat bars tasted so well together?
After all that work, I needed to come home and relax with the television, closing my eyes. A large bowl of popcorn was in my hands when I woke up! Dang, it's slathered with salt butter, too. But I can't let it go to waste, because I would feel bad. Starving kids in China and all that.
I gained 10 pounds in a month. Depression set in. I felt horrible, and drowned my sorrows in pizza and beer. Obviously, I was meant to be sort-of-round-shaped.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The A-List: My Regular Timewasters
I am a web surfer-type, mostly because surfing is a brainless activity that requires minimal attention, so I can multi-task. I skim the headlines of a site, and if it looks interesting, I'll stay for a bit and read. If nothing catches my eye, I'll move along. I even do this at work, because studies have shown that brief moments of surfing the internet make workers more productive. I probably just made that up.
Besides the usual sites(news, weather. and blogs), here are five websites that I visit with regularity, even if my boss yells at me. Since the tech department is on a never ending quest to make my life miserable by blocking websites for no apparent reason(hello, PTA website?), there may come a point where all of these sites are blocked and my work life will no longer have meaning. Until then, I intend to enjoy.
Mental Floss
This is a website devoted to intellectual pursuits. Meaning that this website is devoted to bits and pieces of trivia, pictures, videos, etc., that are probably only the least bit interesting to geeks and nerds like me. I sometimes will take the quizzes that are posted, but I must always check out the Morning Links and the Weird Week In Review. Some of the sites that you are directed to have bad language, but the Mental Floss site is generally okay.*
Badass of the Week
The guy who runs this site is hilarious. He writes about heroes, both past and present, and I love how conversationally he tells the stories of these guys. And women, too! War heroes, kings, warriors from various countries--all sorts of interesting characters who have done some pretty awesome stuff. I own both of Ben Thompson's books. There's bad language on this site, but it fits in with the storytelling.
Toptenz
Various top ten lists on a variety of topics like comic books, music, videos, etc. Some of the lists are funny, some are a little scary, some are very interesting. I first found this site around Halloween, when they featured the Top Ten ghost photos, and I've been hooked ever since! Minimal bad language, if any.
Cracked
This is definitely a not safe for work site, but damn, is it funny! These guys come up with some of the oddest things to write about. I remember that at one time there was a magazine called Cracked that tried to compete with Mad magazine. It may be that this is the incestuous stepbrother's cousin's sister of that magazine, given the internet's gene pool. Some of the stories contain bad language.
The Oatmeal
This person draws poorly. I draw poorly. This person is sarcastic. I'm sarcastic. What's not to like? I love reading about the Bobcats, but my personal favorites have been his cartoons discussing grammar. You can purchase posters of these cartoons, and I would so love to do that, but schools tend to frown on the use of bad language. This guy uses some bad language, so be prepared for that.
*I have no problem with cursing, profanity, etc., but I understand that some people don't like it, so I'm being nice and warning those people.
Besides the usual sites(news, weather. and blogs), here are five websites that I visit with regularity, even if my boss yells at me. Since the tech department is on a never ending quest to make my life miserable by blocking websites for no apparent reason(hello, PTA website?), there may come a point where all of these sites are blocked and my work life will no longer have meaning. Until then, I intend to enjoy.
Mental Floss
This is a website devoted to intellectual pursuits. Meaning that this website is devoted to bits and pieces of trivia, pictures, videos, etc., that are probably only the least bit interesting to geeks and nerds like me. I sometimes will take the quizzes that are posted, but I must always check out the Morning Links and the Weird Week In Review. Some of the sites that you are directed to have bad language, but the Mental Floss site is generally okay.*
Badass of the Week
The guy who runs this site is hilarious. He writes about heroes, both past and present, and I love how conversationally he tells the stories of these guys. And women, too! War heroes, kings, warriors from various countries--all sorts of interesting characters who have done some pretty awesome stuff. I own both of Ben Thompson's books. There's bad language on this site, but it fits in with the storytelling.
Toptenz
Various top ten lists on a variety of topics like comic books, music, videos, etc. Some of the lists are funny, some are a little scary, some are very interesting. I first found this site around Halloween, when they featured the Top Ten ghost photos, and I've been hooked ever since! Minimal bad language, if any.
Cracked
This is definitely a not safe for work site, but damn, is it funny! These guys come up with some of the oddest things to write about. I remember that at one time there was a magazine called Cracked that tried to compete with Mad magazine. It may be that this is the incestuous stepbrother's cousin's sister of that magazine, given the internet's gene pool. Some of the stories contain bad language.
The Oatmeal
This person draws poorly. I draw poorly. This person is sarcastic. I'm sarcastic. What's not to like? I love reading about the Bobcats, but my personal favorites have been his cartoons discussing grammar. You can purchase posters of these cartoons, and I would so love to do that, but schools tend to frown on the use of bad language. This guy uses some bad language, so be prepared for that.
*I have no problem with cursing, profanity, etc., but I understand that some people don't like it, so I'm being nice and warning those people.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
I Miss The Intellectual Discussions
My hubs and I often discuss Tolkien. As in J.R.R. I think that Larry mentions Tolkien and his books almost every day. I've read Tolkien's books once; Larry has read them 14,000 times. Now that The Hobbit is going to be a reality, Tolkien might as well be sitting on our couch. Except that I think that he smoked a pipe, and we don't allow smoking in the house.
It is almost impossible for Larry and I to have intellectual conversations these days, I have sadly noted. Children will do that to you. I often go several days without ever completing a sentence. Constant interruptions tend to derail any train of thought that might be leaving the station, and when it is all over, Larry and I often both find ourselves at a loss with regard to what we were even talking about. But BC(before child), we often had very intense discussions that did not involve which children's movie we could stomach over repeated viewings.
I often joke that I had to give up half of my IQ to my kid, but I am beginning to think that is true. If it weren't for this blog, which makes me stop and think coherently, I might degenerate into a monosyllabic creature, only seen at rare intervals.
But a couple of weeks ago, I commented that perhaps, based on information gleaned from his biography, Tolkien might have had Aspergers. Larry was affronted; I had maligned a great man. I pointed out that it was impossible to know conclusively that Tolkien had Aspergers; I was merely wondering out loud if the disorder might have been part of what made Tolkien who he was.
Tolkien created an entire language, Quenya. That alone was probably a pretty massive undertaking. He started when he was twelve, I think. But then Tolkien decided that his language needed some back story. This is how Middle Earth came to be. That sort of hyperfocus could have come from someone with Aspergers, in my opinion.
Larry disagreed, but we never actually got to finish our discussion because Zane entered the room. A couple of days later, I remembered our conversation, and I asked Larry about it. I wanted him to tell me why he disagreed with me; it was an effort to continue our discussion. I was actually proud of myself for remembering that we had the conversation in the first place.
My husband looked at me like I was insane. He had no idea what the heck I was talking about. It figures.
P.S. Happy Elvis' birthday! I plan on having a peanut butter and banana sandwich to celebrate.
It is almost impossible for Larry and I to have intellectual conversations these days, I have sadly noted. Children will do that to you. I often go several days without ever completing a sentence. Constant interruptions tend to derail any train of thought that might be leaving the station, and when it is all over, Larry and I often both find ourselves at a loss with regard to what we were even talking about. But BC(before child), we often had very intense discussions that did not involve which children's movie we could stomach over repeated viewings.
I often joke that I had to give up half of my IQ to my kid, but I am beginning to think that is true. If it weren't for this blog, which makes me stop and think coherently, I might degenerate into a monosyllabic creature, only seen at rare intervals.
But a couple of weeks ago, I commented that perhaps, based on information gleaned from his biography, Tolkien might have had Aspergers. Larry was affronted; I had maligned a great man. I pointed out that it was impossible to know conclusively that Tolkien had Aspergers; I was merely wondering out loud if the disorder might have been part of what made Tolkien who he was.
Tolkien created an entire language, Quenya. That alone was probably a pretty massive undertaking. He started when he was twelve, I think. But then Tolkien decided that his language needed some back story. This is how Middle Earth came to be. That sort of hyperfocus could have come from someone with Aspergers, in my opinion.
Larry disagreed, but we never actually got to finish our discussion because Zane entered the room. A couple of days later, I remembered our conversation, and I asked Larry about it. I wanted him to tell me why he disagreed with me; it was an effort to continue our discussion. I was actually proud of myself for remembering that we had the conversation in the first place.
My husband looked at me like I was insane. He had no idea what the heck I was talking about. It figures.
P.S. Happy Elvis' birthday! I plan on having a peanut butter and banana sandwich to celebrate.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Untraditional
My father wanted a boy when I came along. That is probably not true, but that's how I've always felt. While I was growing up, he would regularly take me out in the backyard and try to teach me some sort of father-son thing, like baseball(at least until he beaned me) or how to hunt for snakes(check), or fishing(except for the killing and cleaning). Then my brother came along, and he was actually good at the boy stuff, being a boy and all.
I don't remember my mother trying to do any bonding; she spent most of my childhood with her nose stuck in a book. I definitely get my introversion from my mom! I wasn't ever allowed in the kitchen, and after I broke three needles, my sewing machine privileges were revoked. Whenever I had questions about the various "mysteries" of life, she would tell me to "look it up"*. This was before the internet, for those younger readers, when we had encyclopedias and dictionaries and read by candlelight. We also had to walk to school through 6 feet of snow. Uphill.
My point is that I wasn't really raised as a "traditional" girl at the time. I didn't have a pink room or fluffy curtains. Most of what I did have were hand-me-downs, so I had to take what I got. I had Barbies for awhile, until I decided to curl their hair and learned that plastic melts when it comes into contact with a curling iron. I had a Mrs. Beasley doll, until I decided to extract the tape recorder from her belly. I had a Baby Alive, until...you get the point. I did have a crush on Donny Osmond, but back then, who the hell didn't? I thought that "Puppy Love" song was about dogs. Don't judge!
Girls were supposed to want certain things at the time. They were supposed to want to learn to sew and cook, get married, and raise a perfect family. Girls were supposed to be interested in playing with dolls, looking pretty, and most important, keeping their mouths shut in the presence of boys. Boys didn't like women who spoke their minds, girls were told. Just sit there and look at the boy in front of you with rapt adoration while trying to stick your chest out to make your boobs look bigger!
Nobody told me that I was supposed to act dumb around boys, of course. It was one of those things that a girl is just supposed to know. When a girl doesn't have a date for the dance, of course she starts to wonder why. She starts to look around. I saw that all of my girlfriends, when they were around boys, would start to get giggly and vapid. By watching my friends, I figured out that I needed to shut my mouth and just try to look pretty if I ever wanted to date.
I did want to get married and have a family. I didn't actually care about this until I was in college and I wanted to spend my Saturdays somewhere other than my dorm room. Then I went through the same routine as every other woman, thinking that I had to pretend to be something I wasn't so that guys would like me. Finally, I just said "Screw this! I'm just going to live alone and have lots of cats!" I decided that I was just fine as I was, no matter how many cats I owned. And that's when I met my husband, who didn't mind cats at all.
So here I am. I have an aversion to the color pink and fluffy curtains. I can actually throw a football correctly. I can bait a hook. I can throw a punch, even though I know that it will hurt a lot. I don't know how to sew, and my cooking skills are negligible(in contrast to my fire starting skills). But I do have a husband and a son who love me, and that's really the only tradition that counts in my book.
*Can somebody please tell me how you are supposed to look up a word that you can't spell in the first place?
I don't remember my mother trying to do any bonding; she spent most of my childhood with her nose stuck in a book. I definitely get my introversion from my mom! I wasn't ever allowed in the kitchen, and after I broke three needles, my sewing machine privileges were revoked. Whenever I had questions about the various "mysteries" of life, she would tell me to "look it up"*. This was before the internet, for those younger readers, when we had encyclopedias and dictionaries and read by candlelight. We also had to walk to school through 6 feet of snow. Uphill.
My point is that I wasn't really raised as a "traditional" girl at the time. I didn't have a pink room or fluffy curtains. Most of what I did have were hand-me-downs, so I had to take what I got. I had Barbies for awhile, until I decided to curl their hair and learned that plastic melts when it comes into contact with a curling iron. I had a Mrs. Beasley doll, until I decided to extract the tape recorder from her belly. I had a Baby Alive, until...you get the point. I did have a crush on Donny Osmond, but back then, who the hell didn't? I thought that "Puppy Love" song was about dogs. Don't judge!
Girls were supposed to want certain things at the time. They were supposed to want to learn to sew and cook, get married, and raise a perfect family. Girls were supposed to be interested in playing with dolls, looking pretty, and most important, keeping their mouths shut in the presence of boys. Boys didn't like women who spoke their minds, girls were told. Just sit there and look at the boy in front of you with rapt adoration while trying to stick your chest out to make your boobs look bigger!
Nobody told me that I was supposed to act dumb around boys, of course. It was one of those things that a girl is just supposed to know. When a girl doesn't have a date for the dance, of course she starts to wonder why. She starts to look around. I saw that all of my girlfriends, when they were around boys, would start to get giggly and vapid. By watching my friends, I figured out that I needed to shut my mouth and just try to look pretty if I ever wanted to date.
I did want to get married and have a family. I didn't actually care about this until I was in college and I wanted to spend my Saturdays somewhere other than my dorm room. Then I went through the same routine as every other woman, thinking that I had to pretend to be something I wasn't so that guys would like me. Finally, I just said "Screw this! I'm just going to live alone and have lots of cats!" I decided that I was just fine as I was, no matter how many cats I owned. And that's when I met my husband, who didn't mind cats at all.
So here I am. I have an aversion to the color pink and fluffy curtains. I can actually throw a football correctly. I can bait a hook. I can throw a punch, even though I know that it will hurt a lot. I don't know how to sew, and my cooking skills are negligible(in contrast to my fire starting skills). But I do have a husband and a son who love me, and that's really the only tradition that counts in my book.
*Can somebody please tell me how you are supposed to look up a word that you can't spell in the first place?
Friday, January 6, 2012
The Teen Years Are Going To Be Hell
I work with middle school kids. My husband works with middle school kids. We are both very cognizant of the general tendency of this age group to be smart-alecky. We don't even have to look to know that eyes are being rolled, and we both know exactly when two teens are sharing the "Look". Parents of teens know the "Look"; it's that facial expression that says "This adult is completely clueless."
"There isn't anything new under the sun, boys and girls," I sometimes tell students, when I am feeling generous. "Anything and everything that you can possibly think of doing, I've already done."
Which may or may not be true, but they don't know that for sure. With teenagers, you can never show any sort of fear; bravado works best. I can do the full-on bravado; I've watched a lot of Clint Eastwood movies. But I digress.
One of the things that really, really bugs me about teenagers is when they answer you in monosyllables. It drives me nuts. Did I mention that it really bothers me? Because it does.
Me: "What did you do in class today?"
Teenager: "Nuthin'."
Me: "What would you like to do after you graduate?"
Teenager: "mumble."
Me: "Why did you throw your underpants at the gym teacher?"
Teenager: -grunts-
Things tends to devolve from there, because I get bored.
Me: "Was the chair on fire when you sat down?"
Teenager: "mumb--?"
My child is four. My husband and I carpool, so we pick Zane up from daycare together. As we ride home, we ask Zane what he did at school. We are trying to teach him the lost art of conversation. This is a vital life skill that will get him far in life if he can master it. We know this, and even though we aren't proficient at it ourselves, we introvert parents have high hopes for our extroverted son.
Most of the time, however, this is what we get:
"Zane, what did you do at school today?"
"I didn't do nothing."
"Did you color?"
"Yes."
"What did you color?"
"Nothing."
"Did you learn anything?"
"No."
Finally my husband had had enough. Instead of snapping at Zane, like I would do, my husband spoke to Zane about his expectations for these sorts of situations. (In case you haven't figured it out, Larry is the "good" cop.)
"Zane, when I ask you about your day, I want you to say something such as, 'Daddy, today at school I colored a picture and learned about my ABCs.'" I was impressed; what he said was almost textbook behavior management.
Silence from the backseat. And then, a deep breath:
"Daddy, today at school I colored a picture and learned about my ABCs."
Perfect imitation of what my husband said, same rhythm, same speed, etc. Except for the sarcasm. The sarcasm was all Zane.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Horrible Things Of 2011 That Need To Go Away Now
Mamakat's prompt was to write about trends from 2011 that need to go bye.
Out with the old and in with the new, they say. Whoever "they" are, they were right about some things needing to be thrown out. I have a short list of things from last year, that need to just disappear. Like stinky old shoes and that stale, moldy, danish that I accidentally left behind the coffee pot and forgot about, the items on my list need to be gone. They serve no useful purpose, and in some cases are downright harmful.
The use of the words "baby bump". The words "baby bump" are just horrid. The usage of that term does nothing but minimize and objectify something that should be very special and meaningful. It's a pregnancy, not a zit or a mosquito bite. There's a baby in that belly, in most cases. A miniature person! How cool is that? But when a baby is called a "bump", people see it as an object, like a Lego kit. And if there's not a baby in there, it is downright evil to draw attention to that area. It is rude to point out that a person is fat in a way that makes them look pregnant. When I lost my daughter Zoe to pre eclampsia, I still looked pregnant. It killed me every time people would touch my belly and ask me when I was due. I decree that the person being referred to as having a 'bump' should be allowed to punch the offender in the face without consequence.
Promoting victim mentality. It seems that everywhere I turn, people are saying "It's not my fault, because..." And there are scores of people clapping behind this person, patting him on the head and telling him he is a good boy. I've also heard "He's not responsible(for robbing a bank) because he was being bullied", "My child had that marijuana on him because he's a follower", "She's not responsible because the girls all hate her", among others. My favorite last year was "My child is not responsible for punching that kid in the face because he is autistic. AND the other kid was bullying him." Really? Do we really want to go with this "Because I was bullied everyone OWES me"mentality? Nobody wants to take responsibility for their actions anymore. Why should they? If they are seen as a victim, they get all sorts of extra attention, and they don't have to do whatever. There are kids that I know who are called "Mijo Santos". They run to Mama whenever they don't get what they want or when they are expected to follow through. Mama fight the battles for her child, and the child learns that he is not responsible for anything because he's a victim. Things happen to victims, and in some cases they seem to invite it. They bear no responsibility for their actions, and make no choices as to what will happen to them. Victims are helpless, floating like a leaf being washed down the drain. This has to change. We all make choices or decisions, it is time we started taking responsibility for them. Stand up and say "Yeah, I did it!"
Texting or on the phone while driving. Look, they've done studies. Those studies have been replicated. People who study this sort of phenomenon have stated that cell phone use should be banned while driving. It's simple: if you are texting or yakking on your phone, you are not paying attention where you need to be. You are driving something that weighs a lot and thus Your driving skills at this point are similar to what someone would exhibit if they were drunk. There are other people on the road with you, driving while texting also. Then there is me, with my child in the back seat, having at least four near-misses just trying to drive from daycare to home. There is no reason at all that anyone would need to text while you are driving; pull over the car if it is that important! If someone is texting while driving and they hit my car and I am not badly injured, part of any settlement will include my slapping you silly on youtube for eternity.
Horrible reality shows I don't care about Jersey Shore with the crappy hair and bad dressing. I don't care about the Housewives of Where ever who don't actually ever do any housework. If you're a housewife, certain responsibilities are expected, like doing the dishes and cooking dinner. None of these shows should be called "reality" anything. Real people don't do these things. What all these crappy reality shows are all about is cheap product. That's right--the networks don't have to spend a lot, and they get a lot of cash back from them. The message here is that people are too stupid to want quality television; we'll just sit there and watch whatever is on and be perfectly happy about it. DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID!!! Put that kool-aid down and find something better to do
The use of the words "baby bump". The words "baby bump" are just horrid. The usage of that term does nothing but minimize and objectify something that should be very special and meaningful. It's a pregnancy, not a zit or a mosquito bite. There's a baby in that belly, in most cases. A miniature person! How cool is that? But when a baby is called a "bump", people see it as an object, like a Lego kit. And if there's not a baby in there, it is downright evil to draw attention to that area. It is rude to point out that a person is fat in a way that makes them look pregnant. When I lost my daughter Zoe to pre eclampsia, I still looked pregnant. It killed me every time people would touch my belly and ask me when I was due. I decree that the person being referred to as having a 'bump' should be allowed to punch the offender in the face without consequence.
Promoting victim mentality. It seems that everywhere I turn, people are saying "It's not my fault, because..." And there are scores of people clapping behind this person, patting him on the head and telling him he is a good boy. I've also heard "He's not responsible(for robbing a bank) because he was being bullied", "My child had that marijuana on him because he's a follower", "She's not responsible because the girls all hate her", among others. My favorite last year was "My child is not responsible for punching that kid in the face because he is autistic. AND the other kid was bullying him." Really? Do we really want to go with this "Because I was bullied everyone OWES me"mentality? Nobody wants to take responsibility for their actions anymore. Why should they? If they are seen as a victim, they get all sorts of extra attention, and they don't have to do whatever. There are kids that I know who are called "Mijo Santos". They run to Mama whenever they don't get what they want or when they are expected to follow through. Mama fight the battles for her child, and the child learns that he is not responsible for anything because he's a victim. Things happen to victims, and in some cases they seem to invite it. They bear no responsibility for their actions, and make no choices as to what will happen to them. Victims are helpless, floating like a leaf being washed down the drain. This has to change. We all make choices or decisions, it is time we started taking responsibility for them. Stand up and say "Yeah, I did it!"
Texting or on the phone while driving. Look, they've done studies. Those studies have been replicated. People who study this sort of phenomenon have stated that cell phone use should be banned while driving. It's simple: if you are texting or yakking on your phone, you are not paying attention where you need to be. You are driving something that weighs a lot and thus Your driving skills at this point are similar to what someone would exhibit if they were drunk. There are other people on the road with you, driving while texting also. Then there is me, with my child in the back seat, having at least four near-misses just trying to drive from daycare to home. There is no reason at all that anyone would need to text while you are driving; pull over the car if it is that important! If someone is texting while driving and they hit my car and I am not badly injured, part of any settlement will include my slapping you silly on youtube for eternity.
Horrible reality shows I don't care about Jersey Shore with the crappy hair and bad dressing. I don't care about the Housewives of Where ever who don't actually ever do any housework. If you're a housewife, certain responsibilities are expected, like doing the dishes and cooking dinner. None of these shows should be called "reality" anything. Real people don't do these things. What all these crappy reality shows are all about is cheap product. That's right--the networks don't have to spend a lot, and they get a lot of cash back from them. The message here is that people are too stupid to want quality television; we'll just sit there and watch whatever is on and be perfectly happy about it. DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID!!! Put that kool-aid down and find something better to do
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Wordless Wednesday: My Desk
I am back at work. Physically, anyway. Mentally, not so much. Two weeks of vacation is just enough time for me to get used to not being at work. Until I win the lottery, however, or Warren Buffett sends me a check just because he likes my blog, working is a necessary evil. Only nine more years until retirement!
When I left for vacation, there were only two folders on my desk, and apparently they bred like rabbits. I came back on Monday to find 14, 000 folders piled on it. *sigh*
Still, I try to have fun.
When I left for vacation, there were only two folders on my desk, and apparently they bred like rabbits. I came back on Monday to find 14, 000 folders piled on it. *sigh*
Still, I try to have fun.
 | |||||||||
| A Beefeater, two cows, a rubber chicken, and Einstein all walk into a bar... |
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
I Finished It!
I started this particular project four years ago, right after Zane was born. It was something to do while hooked up to the breast pump that distracted me from feeling like a cow.
Moo.
The crochet bug only hits me during the winter months; crocheting a blanket is a great way to keep your legs warm. I worked on this project several times over the last four years, with good intentions, but my son conspired to steal any and all attention away from my crochet hook. He even managed to unravel some of this when he picked it up and brought it up the stairs to me! I was finally able to get within one skein of finishing...and then I stopped.
I just need to accept that I am a procrastinator when it comes to these sorts of crafty things, I told myself last week. But then this voice in my head started giving me guilt and sounding an awful lot like my mother, and so I sat myself down and went to work.
I then completely shocked myself, and I actually finished a crochet project. Yay me.
I think that my next project will be a hat.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The A-List: Restaurant Tips
There is a local Tex-Mex restaurant that we visit as often as possible. The food is great, but that is not why we go. We go because the people there recognize us as soon as we walk in the door. They say "Hello, it is good to see you." They remark on how much my son has grown as they bring us drinks, chips, and salsa. The food is always hot, the ice tea is always cold. That is why we go to that particular restaurant.
I realize that there are many, many restaurants out there. I try to visit as many as I can. Even if I can see no good reason for sushi, I like most food. The key to a successful business, however, is repeat customers. Just about everyone out there will try a local eatery once, but if they don't ever want to come back, that business is going belly up soon. When I visit a restaurant, I have certain expectations. I call these my deal breakers; the more deal breakers, the less likely I will be back.
1. Greet me immediately. Even if the place is slammed, as soon as I come through that door, I expect an acknowledgement that I am there. It can be a "Welcome to ______!" It can be a smile, a nod, and eyebrow flash. It looks poorly on your business if I stand there and you ignore me. Let me know that you see me standing there, waiting for a table, and I'm cool.
2. Bring me a drink within the first five minutes or less after I sit down. As soon as I am seated, take my drink order. I think that whoever seats me should take the drink order, but I realize that the hostess of a place may not be the best person for the job. I can be a little flexible, and wait for the person who is waiting on my table to get to me, as long as it is within my five minute window. No matter what a waiter/waitress is doing, they can do this. I have been known to get up and go into the kitchen and ask if someone will wait on me. I have also been known to leave a place if left sitting longer than five minutes.
3. Bring me exactly what I ask for. I call this the "Laura Lime Rule". I have a very dear friend who happens to like lime with her tea instead of lemon. She specifically asks for lime with her tea for that very reason. Yet much of the time, a glass of tea with lemon is placed in front of her, and she has to repeat her request for limes. This is because everyone else on the planet asks for lemons with their tea, and waitresses/waiters are often on autopilot and don't actually hear what was said. The only conceivable reason that my friend should not get a lime is if there are no limes in the restaurant. I personally do not care if I have a lime or a lemon in my tea, but if I ask for a medium rare steak, then make sure that I get that.
4. Make sure that my food is the right temperature and actually cooked. If my food is supposed to be hot, please verify in some way that it is actually hot. Such an incident does not speak well for the chef/cook. There is absolutely no reason that my baked potato should be cold, for instance. Stick a fork into a baked potato and if it doesn't just slide out, odds are good that the potato is not fully cooked. Butter won't melt if the potato isn't hot enough. Put it back and find one that is. There is nothing more irritating than expecting to bite into a warm baked potato with melted butter and experiencing the crunching sound of a raw potato.
5. If there is a problem, just fix it. If there's a bug in my glass, bring me a new drink. If the steak is not cooked properly, take care of it. Do not argue with me. Do not insist that lemons are much better for iced tea than limes. Do not get angry and huffy with me. I can forgive a mishap; things happen. What I can't forgive is getting drama for speaking up. I deserve to have the meal that I am paying for, without an argument or an attitude.
Did I miss anything?
I realize that there are many, many restaurants out there. I try to visit as many as I can. Even if I can see no good reason for sushi, I like most food. The key to a successful business, however, is repeat customers. Just about everyone out there will try a local eatery once, but if they don't ever want to come back, that business is going belly up soon. When I visit a restaurant, I have certain expectations. I call these my deal breakers; the more deal breakers, the less likely I will be back.
1. Greet me immediately. Even if the place is slammed, as soon as I come through that door, I expect an acknowledgement that I am there. It can be a "Welcome to ______!" It can be a smile, a nod, and eyebrow flash. It looks poorly on your business if I stand there and you ignore me. Let me know that you see me standing there, waiting for a table, and I'm cool.
2. Bring me a drink within the first five minutes or less after I sit down. As soon as I am seated, take my drink order. I think that whoever seats me should take the drink order, but I realize that the hostess of a place may not be the best person for the job. I can be a little flexible, and wait for the person who is waiting on my table to get to me, as long as it is within my five minute window. No matter what a waiter/waitress is doing, they can do this. I have been known to get up and go into the kitchen and ask if someone will wait on me. I have also been known to leave a place if left sitting longer than five minutes.
3. Bring me exactly what I ask for. I call this the "Laura Lime Rule". I have a very dear friend who happens to like lime with her tea instead of lemon. She specifically asks for lime with her tea for that very reason. Yet much of the time, a glass of tea with lemon is placed in front of her, and she has to repeat her request for limes. This is because everyone else on the planet asks for lemons with their tea, and waitresses/waiters are often on autopilot and don't actually hear what was said. The only conceivable reason that my friend should not get a lime is if there are no limes in the restaurant. I personally do not care if I have a lime or a lemon in my tea, but if I ask for a medium rare steak, then make sure that I get that.
4. Make sure that my food is the right temperature and actually cooked. If my food is supposed to be hot, please verify in some way that it is actually hot. Such an incident does not speak well for the chef/cook. There is absolutely no reason that my baked potato should be cold, for instance. Stick a fork into a baked potato and if it doesn't just slide out, odds are good that the potato is not fully cooked. Butter won't melt if the potato isn't hot enough. Put it back and find one that is. There is nothing more irritating than expecting to bite into a warm baked potato with melted butter and experiencing the crunching sound of a raw potato.
5. If there is a problem, just fix it. If there's a bug in my glass, bring me a new drink. If the steak is not cooked properly, take care of it. Do not argue with me. Do not insist that lemons are much better for iced tea than limes. Do not get angry and huffy with me. I can forgive a mishap; things happen. What I can't forgive is getting drama for speaking up. I deserve to have the meal that I am paying for, without an argument or an attitude.
Did I miss anything?
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Last Day of My Vacation
I have to go back to work tomorrow.
I should be cleaning up the house, particularly those apple juice stains on my ottoman.
I should be tackling the laundry and wrestling it into submission.
I should be preparing lunch for tomorrow, so I don't feel tempted to hit the local BBQ joint for turkey tacos.
I should be organizing what we will all need to have tomorrow morning as we leave the house bleary-eyed and sullen.
To all those 'shoulds', I say "Bah."
I am planted in my favorite chair, in my jammies, for as long as I can stand it, or whenever the cat sleeping on my lap decides to move.
I hope that all of you will join me in being lazy for a couple of hours on this first day of 2012. We all need to rest up for the big, and small, events that will come our way this new year.
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