I guess the Mayans* were wrong...the world didn't end on Dec. 21st.**
Now normally I gotta tell you ... I never buy into this end-of-world stuff. I tend to believe the end of me is going to come long, long before the end of the world. Unless a surprise meteor appears out of nowhere and obliterates Earth, I'm thinking this planet will continue to exist in spite of mankind's ceaseless efforts to crap it up. Earth...well, she's a pretty smart cookie, and I'm betting she will probably hang around long enough to see us all turn to dust. Heck, the other day I was at work re-arranging file cabinets, and at one point I was down on my hands and knees, moving one set of files from one drawer to another. One of my co-workers walked in and, sounding very worried, asked if I was okay. I was in the process of climbing to my feet ... which, if you've ever seen Animal Planet, kinda resembles the way a baby elephant gets up after it's awakened from a tranquilizer dart, but (trust me) is not nearly as cute.
So no, the world didn't end on the 21st, and probably isn't calling it quits for a good while. However, I would just like to point out that the emails I've been getting all week (from at least a million different retailers) suggested that the end was, in fact, near.
I think it had to do with messages like these:
"TIME IS RUNNING OUT!"
"RUSH!"
"LAST DAY!"
"LAST CHANCE!"
"IT'S NOT TOO LATE!"
"HURRY UP!"
"FINAL HOURS! GUARANTEED!"
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, YOU BIG LOSER?"***
"WE'RE NOT KIDDING!" ****
I know I'm especially vulnerable to these not-so-subliminal messages because the "It's Christmas Eve and My Shopping Isn't Done" nightmare is one of my worst stress dreams. Most of us seem to have recurring dreams our brains regurgitate when we're stressed. I have three: 1) I'm in an airport terminal trying to find my gate where my plane is leaving in five minutes and, uh oh, I have to go to the bathroom, 2) I have to take a final exam in Intermediate Spanish in half an hour and I haven't been to class all year and don't even have the faintest clue where the classroom is, and 3) it's Christmas Eve and I haven't done any shopping. At all.
It's strange that I would have all this Christmas Eve anxiety preying on my brain when I have always been one of those annoyingly early people. My loved ones are always giving me grief because my Christmas cards are usually among the first to go out. I typically start my Christmas shopping on Dec. 26th of the previous year, and am in full panic mode by the time the catalogs start flooding my mailbox every October. Nevertheless, I see, "YOU'RE LAZY, YOU'RE LATE AND YOU'RE DOOMED" screaming at me from my inbox and know my blood pressure's on the rise.
Because the reality ... even for poor slobs like me who try to get everything done early ... is that we're never really done. Some things can't be handled until the last minute, and knowing that drives me insane. So, during this not-so-joyous "Stressmas" season, here a few of my favorite things:
1) The stray Christmas card from the person I didn't send one to. This shouldn't be a big deal, I know, but it is, because of course I'm imagining this person counting up his or her cards and thinking, 'Hey! What about Brenda? Why didn't that uncaring, insensitive person send me a card? Does she not want to be my friend? Is she poor and can't afford stamps? What's wrong with her? What's wrong with me?" You see, in my brain, I've just contributed to someone else's Stressmas, which then contributes to mine because stress is the real gift that keeps on giving. There's only one of two things I can do. I can dig out an unused card, address it, stamp it and mail it on the 24th, or I can go buy a New Year's card and pretend like I planned to do that all along. Either way, I know I'm not fooling anybody.
2) The inevitable (and much hated, at least by me) Christmas electronic greeting card. I tell friends I never open them because they might have a virus, but that's not the real reason. I don't open them because they irritate me. When I see one of these in my mailbox from someone who didn't send me a real card, I think, "Why didn't this uncaring, insensitive person send me a REAL card? Does she not want to be my friend? Is she poor and can't afford stamps?" It's this way ... if Hallmark means someone cares enough to send the very best, an e-card means somebody didn't want to bother, so she sent the very worst.****** The next time somebody sends me an e-card with a lovely picture of a snowman and some trees, I'm going to send that person a picture of a Coach bag and write, "Here's your present, Merry Christmas, because you know a photo is just like having the real thing."
3) Cleaning the house I hate it, and I'm too cheap to hire a maid. So, during the holidays, I wait until the last minute because, let's face it, if I clean it too soon it will just get dirty again.... and I'll have to clean it again...dirty ... clean .... dirty .... clean ... it goes on and on and who has that kind of time? Keeping rooms in a perpetual state of spotlessness requires that one cleans as one goes along, and I just don't feel that's a very efficient way to live. Procrastinating until the last possible minute and then frantically scrubbing my floors at midnight tonight ensures that the job will be done correctly. Brenda a-scrubbing with sweat a-dripping and tears a-streaming adds a special sheen to a clean kitchen floor that you just can't buy in a box in a store.*******
4) Christmas lights. Okay ... here's the deal. I'm a huge Snoopy fan, and this year I decided I wanted to put a lit Charlie Brown display in front of my house. It's small, but cute ... and the last time there were Christmas lights in front of our house, my Dad was alive and it was 1978. So my nephew helped me put the display together, and proudly we stuck it in front of our picture window... only to realize that my Dad ... for some bizarre reason he took to his grave ... had capped off the electrical outlet that used to be by the front door. There was no electrical source.
Yes, I'm sure I looked like an idiot. Fortunately I don't think my nephew did, because he was pretending he wasn't with me and had no clue why he was even standing there.
So, the choices were this ... we could run extension cords around the side of the house, under the gate, and into the patio where there was another outlet (I think it's still there ... but I really should check, maybe Dad killed that one too)... or, I could call Mr. Electric******** and have them put one in for $300. So, three hundred bucks later, there stands Charlie Brown, Linus, Lucy and the whole Peanuts gang, singing around the Christmas tree. As long as there's no wind, it looks pretty good. But the day before yesterday, we had wind ... and the whole Peanuts gang nearly took flight over Ronald Drive. I was able to re-anchor it before Snoopy became airborne, but the display still flaps in a strong breeze. Christmas would be perfect if it weren't for that "winter" element that always mucks up the outdoor decorating.
And, finally, there's one more stressful thing ... a job I need to do in exactly one hour from now...
5) Going to Costco for the food. Yes, I could go to Giant Eagle, but it's an unwritten rule that if you're having a party, you go to Sam's Club or BJ's or Costco. Warehouse clubs should all have the same motto: "Obscene excess for a lot, lot less." I know that in Costco I can buy enough shrimp to feed 50 people, so that might be enough to feed the seven coming over on Monday. I also know that in Costco I can buy a pie or a cheesecake that's the size of a wagon wheel for, I don't know, fifty cents. So this is where I have to go today, and I know that if I don't get there when it opens at 10 a.m., I will probably die of old age standing in line while everybody is coughing on me. Unfortunately, I'm sure every other food shopper has the same brilliant idea, but I can enjoy my getting-in-getting-done-getting-out fantasy right up until the time I pull into the parking lot and the swearing starts.
So ... that's my Stressmas.
I know that everybody's Stressmas is unique. Some of you have the flu. Some of you are dealing with financial strain. Some of you have loved ones in the hospital or - worse - are saying goodbye to your loved ones. The irritants I've mentioned are nothing next to some of the challenges you're facing. But I hope mine made you laugh a little. You know ... as a Christian ... I think there's nothing more important at this time of year than finding a way to keep Christmas holy. And the way I see it, the only way to do that is to take the "stress" out and put "Christ" back in. I like to think a little laughter can really help.
So, I say no "Merry Stressmas."
And yes to "Merry Christmas."
God bless you and your loved ones this Christmas and throughout the coming year.
And, while I'm at it, I really want to thank you for your readership. It has been one of my greatest blessings in 2012. Stay tuned for 2013!
*Well, one good thing came out of all this silliness ... at least now a lot more people know who or what the "Mayans" were. Or maybe not.
**Actually, the Mayans didn't predict Dec. 21st would be the end of the world (their calendar just ran out). A bunch of ignorant people***** thought that the calendar running out meant the world would end. Which reminds me ... I'd better get to the Office Max for a calendar refill before my world grinds to a halt Dec. 31st.
***Okay, I made that one up. But if I owned a store, that's what mine would say.
****I didn't make this one up. It was actually in a Walmart ad.
*****A bunch of ignorant people were WRONG? Oh my, what a shocker.
******Of course I'm saying "she" because - with a few exceptions - guys suck at sending cards of any kind.
******* I should never work on my blog after watching that Grinch cartoon.
******** No, I didn't make it up, this is the name of a real company, and they're very good, by the way.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Sunday, December 2, 2012
(Cata) Log-Jammed
Okay, so I watch the news. And it's my understanding that the U.S. Post Office is teetering on the edge of some kind of cliff. I don't think it's a rocky cliff or a fiscal cliff* or a heath cliff or any other type of cliff ... including that weird kid named Cliff** who used to sit at my lunch table at Willowick Junior High -- he won a classroom Ho-Ho eating contest and ended up vomiting in the nurse's office. No, I'm talking about the standard metaphorical cliff, the kind used to signify when something or someone is ready to crash and burn in a huge fireball of failure.
Now, I'd hate to see this happen for several reasons...first, it's impractical to not have a Post Office. While UPS and FedEx are more than happy to ship my packages, where am I going to take my greeting cards?*** Second, I don't like the idea of more people being out of work. Third, life will become dull and meaningless for far too many neighborhood dogs. Fourth, all the postal employees I know are really nice, except for that weird guy behind the counter in Middleburg Heights who's mean to me and makes me feel like a moron. Fifth - and probably most important - I like putting stamps on things. When I was a little girl, I loved stickers only slightly less than I loved Colorforms, and I would see my Mom filling up her little book with green stamps and I'd think, oh goody, I'll get to play with stickers until I die. Green stamps didn't even make it until the dawn of the Internet (which, let's face it, is to blame for every other fun thing we've lost in the last 20 years).
Not to say I don't get really frustrated with the Post Office. The other day, at work, the postman handed me a pile of mail that included a plastic bag. Inside this baglet was one-third of an envelope I had mailed out a week earlier ... the part of the envelope that contained the send-to address was entirely missing, so all that remained was the return address (the envelope looked like it had been chewed in half and spat out by the Postmaster General's mastiff, Fluffdog****). Not wanting me to be confused about why my mail wasn't delivered, the Post Office kindly rubber- stamped "insufficient address" underneath my return address before putting the remains into a protective ziplock bag (you know, so nothing bad would happen to it on its way back to me).
Who knows where the actual letter ended up ... I like to think it stayed with the part of the envelope that had the send-to address, thereby increasing the chance they both made it to their final destination. I imagine the two of them telling reporters, "We don't know what happened to Return Address ... after the giant dog attacked us and destroyed our ship, he went down a different chute and we never saw him again, poor little guy."
So, no. The Post Office definitely has its problems. It occasionally shreds our mail and is, by all news reports, going broke ... even though they keep raising the price of stamps to some number none of us can remember. Really ... it intensely bothers me when they hold a press conference to announce the price of stamps is going up to some weird amount like 43 cents or 44 cents or 47 cents or some other number that isn't divisible by 5 or, preferably, 10. If a book of stamps has 20 stamps and stamps are 44 cents each (I'm just guessing that's what they are; I really don't know and I'm too lazy to look it up), how much money do I hand the mean guy behind the counter? Yeah, I can figure out the answer ... or wait for him to bark it at me ... but if the postal gods would simply make the stamps 50 cents each, I'd know I'd need 10 dollars for a book, life would be simple, and the Post Office wouldn't be crying so much about how broke they are all the time.
Which reminds me of what I wanted to talk about when I started this entry ... there's something I don't understand. If the Post Office is delivering fewer pieces of mail and is bringing in less revenue ... and we all have this thing called the Internet that is apparently replacing everything, including face-to-face relationships with other people ... why am I getting more catalogs?
Now, I'm not complaining about the catalogs. I love them. They're Golden Books for grown-ups. I don't have to read the actual words in them and, consequently, stress out my brain; I just look at all the pretty pictures. Yes, I know I get gorgeous, high-definition ads on my iPad from mostly the same vendors, but it's not the same as having the glossy remains of a dead tree gathering dust on my coffee table, loaded with stuff I might be able to buy if I hit Powerball. Because I have too much attention deficit disorder to sit and watch TV without doing something with my hands, the catalogs keep them constantly occupied.***** When "Big Bang Theory" has a commercial, I can pick up the latest installment from Hammacher Schlemmer or Cheryl's Cookies and fantasize about new toys and frosted buttercreams. So no, I do love catalogs. But this time of year they multiply at an alarming rate...I fear that, by Dec. 15th, the catalog tower I have piling up next to my sofa will topple over and kill my cat. I really don't want Miss Kitty's final, muffled meows to creep out from beneath the Fingerhut Big Book. (But I sure like that one; it has a very shiny, sparkly cover and makes me feel all Christmasy inside. Having a dying cat would kinda ruin that for me.)
The obvious answer, of course, is to suck up some personal responsibility and throw them out. But ... I don't wanna throw them out. I have a horrible time doing this, and it doesn't make sense. I spend the rest of my waking hours on a futile quest to continuously de-clutter my house. I give bags and bags of clothes to Purple Heart and Easter Seals and I am forever throwing out crap that has been lurking in closets that never seem to get emptier. There is even more stuff in the basement that needs to go away, but I'm afraid of the basement, so my master plan is to just leave it all there until I die and then I won't have to worry about it. (That was my Dad's plan, and it worked for him, so who am I to alter tradition?) I want a clean, orderly life ,.. but since I can't have that, I try to settle for a clean, orderly house. The house just laughs at me, but I still try.
I think, though, the catalogs are different because they have become as much a part of my Christmas experience as the greeting cards and gift-wrapping. When the inevitable flood begins right after Labor Day, I relish each new book, knowing some perfect gift is just waiting to jump out at me and announce itself. Gift-giving is a competitive sport for me, but not one where I compete against other people. I compete against myself; if I dazzled friends and family last year, THIS year has to be better. To that end, I'm always open to whatever new inventions my catalogs tell me to buy. The Internet really sucks at this; you mostly have to know what you're looking for, and then you can find anything. But the catalogs aren't so passive; they tell me what I want before I even know I wanted it, and I rather enjoy that. I have to control everything else in my life, so it's refreshing when somebody else takes over, even if it is my good friends Harriet Carter or Carol Wright. Thanks to them, I completed all my Christmas shopping without stepping foot into a mall this year. By the time Cyber Monday rolled around, I knew exactly what I wanted and who I wanted it for. I didn't have to burn out my retinas searching through online catalogs; I merely found what I wanted in the mailed books, marked the pages accordingly and ordered my selections off the websites. Thanks to free shipping, I've been able to take my laziness to an entirely new level of sloth.
But, for me, when I throw out the catalogs, it means that Christmas is somehow already winding down, and even though my shopping's finished, I'm not ready to face that. I want the first week of December to last forever; I love Christmas when it's still fresh and new and the stores haven't yet slashed their cards and decorations to 50 percent off. I love gift-wrap, and I love to see neat, pretty rows of wrapping paper lining the aisles before they've been picked over. I don't want Christmas to get tired, or old, or over; if I lived alone, I'd probably keep my tree up until February.
But ... I really love my cat.
So...I guess it's time I shovel out the catalogs.
But I'll take a deep breath, tell myself it's okay, and remind myself that they'll all come back next year ... that is, if the Post Office does.
*Hey, all you Fox-watching, CNN-slumming news addicts out there ... this is our new drinking game... raise your glasses whenever you read or hear these words and you'll stop caring that one even exists, which it really doesn't anyway but that's an entirely different post in somebody else's blog.
**If, by some bizarre occurrence, Cliff is out there reading this blog ... well, I'm sure you know who you are, Clifford, and I'm sure sorry you do.
***And yes, I'm talking about a physical card somebody cared enough to buy at a store, stick in an envelope, stamp and mail. E-cards are not cards, they're somebody's way of saying, "I'm too lazy to turn off the computer and get up from this chair," and that's something I'm always saying to myself so I certainly don't need to hear it from you.
****Really, that's his name ... what, you think I make this stuff up?
*****Usually I just play with my iPad, but I can't hold that thing forever - it gets heavy, so yeah, I still need the catalogs. I really think I need to buy that nifty floor stand that would hold the iPad for me ... which is, of course, in the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog.
Now, I'd hate to see this happen for several reasons...first, it's impractical to not have a Post Office. While UPS and FedEx are more than happy to ship my packages, where am I going to take my greeting cards?*** Second, I don't like the idea of more people being out of work. Third, life will become dull and meaningless for far too many neighborhood dogs. Fourth, all the postal employees I know are really nice, except for that weird guy behind the counter in Middleburg Heights who's mean to me and makes me feel like a moron. Fifth - and probably most important - I like putting stamps on things. When I was a little girl, I loved stickers only slightly less than I loved Colorforms, and I would see my Mom filling up her little book with green stamps and I'd think, oh goody, I'll get to play with stickers until I die. Green stamps didn't even make it until the dawn of the Internet (which, let's face it, is to blame for every other fun thing we've lost in the last 20 years).
Not to say I don't get really frustrated with the Post Office. The other day, at work, the postman handed me a pile of mail that included a plastic bag. Inside this baglet was one-third of an envelope I had mailed out a week earlier ... the part of the envelope that contained the send-to address was entirely missing, so all that remained was the return address (the envelope looked like it had been chewed in half and spat out by the Postmaster General's mastiff, Fluffdog****). Not wanting me to be confused about why my mail wasn't delivered, the Post Office kindly rubber- stamped "insufficient address" underneath my return address before putting the remains into a protective ziplock bag (you know, so nothing bad would happen to it on its way back to me).
Who knows where the actual letter ended up ... I like to think it stayed with the part of the envelope that had the send-to address, thereby increasing the chance they both made it to their final destination. I imagine the two of them telling reporters, "We don't know what happened to Return Address ... after the giant dog attacked us and destroyed our ship, he went down a different chute and we never saw him again, poor little guy."
So, no. The Post Office definitely has its problems. It occasionally shreds our mail and is, by all news reports, going broke ... even though they keep raising the price of stamps to some number none of us can remember. Really ... it intensely bothers me when they hold a press conference to announce the price of stamps is going up to some weird amount like 43 cents or 44 cents or 47 cents or some other number that isn't divisible by 5 or, preferably, 10. If a book of stamps has 20 stamps and stamps are 44 cents each (I'm just guessing that's what they are; I really don't know and I'm too lazy to look it up), how much money do I hand the mean guy behind the counter? Yeah, I can figure out the answer ... or wait for him to bark it at me ... but if the postal gods would simply make the stamps 50 cents each, I'd know I'd need 10 dollars for a book, life would be simple, and the Post Office wouldn't be crying so much about how broke they are all the time.
Which reminds me of what I wanted to talk about when I started this entry ... there's something I don't understand. If the Post Office is delivering fewer pieces of mail and is bringing in less revenue ... and we all have this thing called the Internet that is apparently replacing everything, including face-to-face relationships with other people ... why am I getting more catalogs?
Now, I'm not complaining about the catalogs. I love them. They're Golden Books for grown-ups. I don't have to read the actual words in them and, consequently, stress out my brain; I just look at all the pretty pictures. Yes, I know I get gorgeous, high-definition ads on my iPad from mostly the same vendors, but it's not the same as having the glossy remains of a dead tree gathering dust on my coffee table, loaded with stuff I might be able to buy if I hit Powerball. Because I have too much attention deficit disorder to sit and watch TV without doing something with my hands, the catalogs keep them constantly occupied.***** When "Big Bang Theory" has a commercial, I can pick up the latest installment from Hammacher Schlemmer or Cheryl's Cookies and fantasize about new toys and frosted buttercreams. So no, I do love catalogs. But this time of year they multiply at an alarming rate...I fear that, by Dec. 15th, the catalog tower I have piling up next to my sofa will topple over and kill my cat. I really don't want Miss Kitty's final, muffled meows to creep out from beneath the Fingerhut Big Book. (But I sure like that one; it has a very shiny, sparkly cover and makes me feel all Christmasy inside. Having a dying cat would kinda ruin that for me.)
The obvious answer, of course, is to suck up some personal responsibility and throw them out. But ... I don't wanna throw them out. I have a horrible time doing this, and it doesn't make sense. I spend the rest of my waking hours on a futile quest to continuously de-clutter my house. I give bags and bags of clothes to Purple Heart and Easter Seals and I am forever throwing out crap that has been lurking in closets that never seem to get emptier. There is even more stuff in the basement that needs to go away, but I'm afraid of the basement, so my master plan is to just leave it all there until I die and then I won't have to worry about it. (That was my Dad's plan, and it worked for him, so who am I to alter tradition?) I want a clean, orderly life ,.. but since I can't have that, I try to settle for a clean, orderly house. The house just laughs at me, but I still try.
I think, though, the catalogs are different because they have become as much a part of my Christmas experience as the greeting cards and gift-wrapping. When the inevitable flood begins right after Labor Day, I relish each new book, knowing some perfect gift is just waiting to jump out at me and announce itself. Gift-giving is a competitive sport for me, but not one where I compete against other people. I compete against myself; if I dazzled friends and family last year, THIS year has to be better. To that end, I'm always open to whatever new inventions my catalogs tell me to buy. The Internet really sucks at this; you mostly have to know what you're looking for, and then you can find anything. But the catalogs aren't so passive; they tell me what I want before I even know I wanted it, and I rather enjoy that. I have to control everything else in my life, so it's refreshing when somebody else takes over, even if it is my good friends Harriet Carter or Carol Wright. Thanks to them, I completed all my Christmas shopping without stepping foot into a mall this year. By the time Cyber Monday rolled around, I knew exactly what I wanted and who I wanted it for. I didn't have to burn out my retinas searching through online catalogs; I merely found what I wanted in the mailed books, marked the pages accordingly and ordered my selections off the websites. Thanks to free shipping, I've been able to take my laziness to an entirely new level of sloth.
But, for me, when I throw out the catalogs, it means that Christmas is somehow already winding down, and even though my shopping's finished, I'm not ready to face that. I want the first week of December to last forever; I love Christmas when it's still fresh and new and the stores haven't yet slashed their cards and decorations to 50 percent off. I love gift-wrap, and I love to see neat, pretty rows of wrapping paper lining the aisles before they've been picked over. I don't want Christmas to get tired, or old, or over; if I lived alone, I'd probably keep my tree up until February.
But ... I really love my cat.
So...I guess it's time I shovel out the catalogs.
But I'll take a deep breath, tell myself it's okay, and remind myself that they'll all come back next year ... that is, if the Post Office does.
*Hey, all you Fox-watching, CNN-slumming news addicts out there ... this is our new drinking game... raise your glasses whenever you read or hear these words and you'll stop caring that one even exists, which it really doesn't anyway but that's an entirely different post in somebody else's blog.
**If, by some bizarre occurrence, Cliff is out there reading this blog ... well, I'm sure you know who you are, Clifford, and I'm sure sorry you do.
***And yes, I'm talking about a physical card somebody cared enough to buy at a store, stick in an envelope, stamp and mail. E-cards are not cards, they're somebody's way of saying, "I'm too lazy to turn off the computer and get up from this chair," and that's something I'm always saying to myself so I certainly don't need to hear it from you.
****Really, that's his name ... what, you think I make this stuff up?
*****Usually I just play with my iPad, but I can't hold that thing forever - it gets heavy, so yeah, I still need the catalogs. I really think I need to buy that nifty floor stand that would hold the iPad for me ... which is, of course, in the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Something To Chew On
I find it ironic that the most valuable asset I have is my mouth.
Before I drove Mom to the dentist's office yesterday, I paused to consider how much money I had, over the years, invested in my own dental work. On one side alone I had dropped more than ten grand on fillings, root canals, crowns, a bridge, and -- when that bridge finally broke -- a longer bridge (too bad I couldn't use stimulus money for all this roadwork). Over on the other side, I was looking at three fillings (one of them gold) and an overlay that probably amounted to another couple of thousand ... and this was all in my lower jaw. I'm not even counting the medical bills spawned by the extraction of two wisdom teeth and a painful "dry socket" episode following one of the surgeries.
This wouldn't be so terrible if there were a finish line I could cross, knowing I was finally done with all this maintenance. But, as I'm sure you know, a set of teeth in an adult over 35 becomes a ticking time bomb. Just like old car parts, teeth have a tendency to decay, rust, crack, fall off and suck the money right out of your past, present and future.
Furthermore, my upper jaw -- mostly untouched -- taunts my dentist with delightful possibilities every time I have my X-rays retaken.
"See these?," he says, trying not to smile, as he points to two railroad spikes lying sideways in my jaw, embedded up above my two baby canines. "The only way these will ever come in is if I pull the baby teeth and put braces on the rest ... even then, there's only a fifty-fifty shot at success because YOU'RE SO OLD to be having this done. The only other thing you can do is have me pull the baby teeth, extract the impacted teeth and put in implants, but then you'll still need braces to help the other teeth reposition themselves properly."
These are the words he is saying, but what I'm hearing in my head is a series of loud "cha-chings" followed by unearthly screams coming from my credit cards. I hear the word "braces" and wonder if so little added beauty in my middle age is worth mortgaging the house. I glare at these X-rays, resenting the two baby teeth that have caused all this chaos. How can it be that I have adult teeth blowing gaskets all over the place... yet these two white nubbins, hold-overs from babyhood, stubbornly sit there, ruining countless photographs my friends and family have taken of me over the years? Yet... strangely ...I can't help admiring their sheer willingness to survive. They're like two ugly little pimple-faced, nose-picking friends who refuse to stop hanging out with me. I'm embarrassed to be seen with them, yet can't cast them off. With all their faults, at least they're loyal and they apparently enjoy my company.
So, I politely smile my crooked smile at Dr. Wantsanewbmw and try to soothe his disappointment by offering to replace yet another sad little filling in the back of my mouth. He sighs, takes the crumbs I'm throwing him and revs up the drill.
Of course, much of my dental angst could have been avoided if my parents had believed that teeth were important enough to bother with. Too busy paying for my brother's countless medical bills (Bill routinely sprained, broke or shattered some body part at least once every six months), my folks considered trips to the dentist a luxury. I can remember exactly ONE visit to the dentist up until the time I was 18, and that likely involved Dad finally dragging me there because he couldn't stand my wimpy sobbing any longer (plus, I'm sure my swollen jaw wasn't a pleasure to look at either). I brushed my teeth, but had no clue what dental floss was until I was in my twenties. But, let me assure you, this didn't mean I had bad parents. Both of them grew up during the Depression, which meant they had learned to be frugal with money. Why, my Dad reasoned, would anyone invest hundreds of dollars into their teeth when they would all be pulled and replaced with dentures by the age of 40?
My sister Barbara vividly recalls a time when my mother - still in her thirties - was bent over a bowl of soup when one of her teeth fell out. Barb sat there in fixated horror while Mom casually explained, "Well, that's just what happens when you get old."
So, when Mom and Dad made it into their fourth decades of life, they both went to the dentist and had ALL their teeth pulled and replaced with dentures they then decided not to wear. But, given that Dad expected to die by the time he was 55 (he lived to 86), he figured toothlessness was only a temporary inconvenience.
Well, okay...maybe they weren't entirely toothless. They both wore their uppers ... but whoever built their lower dentures must have accidentally mixed up their orders with Mr. Ed's. Their bottom dentures were HUGE and, frankly, frightened people. Dad, of course, thought this was great ... he'd put in his full set on national holidays and, using his tongue, would thrust them out past his lips while we were at the dinner table.
"Oh, yuck, Dad, STOP THAT."
He'd just laugh at me. What can I say ... there was a 13-year-old punk inside my Dad that thrived until the day he died. He was definitely cut from that mold of old men who was forever trying to get me to pull his finger. His belches were almost musical and he thought public farts were hilarious.
Mom, on the other hand, was unaware that a defective product could be taken back and exchanged for one not so defective. Her bottom dentures never fit her properly, so she simply stopped wearing them and, over time, forgot about them. Most people were unaware that she didn't wear them because she quickly learned to mask their absence with her lower lip. However, the omission of half her teeth became painfully evident in old age. The list of foods Mom could and couldn't successfully gum began to look something like this:
Okay to eat:
Applesauce
Oatmeal
Eggs
Vegetables, But Only If Really Mushy
Citrus Fruit, But Only If Packed In Syrup
Greasy Chicken*
Grapes
Bananas
Cake
Soft Candy
Middling Candy
Hard Candy**
Not Okay To Eat:
Most Protein Sources (Steak, Pork, Fish)
Vegetables That Still Had Vitamins Not Boiled Out Of Them
Fruits With Peels
Nuts
Grains
And Anything Else Even Remotely Healthy
When she was younger, Mom would instinctively avoid foods she couldn't be bothered chewing with only half her mouth, but as she got older she sort of forgot what worked and what didn't and would re-visit this list through trial-and-error. I would sit across from her at lunch and try to eat my hamburger without looking at her, knowing she was wadding up napkins with half-chewed broccoli or a carrot that required more chew action than it could possibly be worth.
When I moved in with Mom, I started a crusade to get her bottom dentures replaced, knowing the quality of life for both of us would improve substantially. It took me a long time to convince her that a woman in her eighties was worth the investment; after all, my Dad had taught her to believe she wasn't worth it at 40. But yesterday, after a series of visits, Mom came home with a full set of teeth. She's still not used to talking or eating with them, but it's a joy to see her smile.
Now ... if I could just persuade my idiot brother to have his few remaining (and thoroughly rotten) molars pulled and replaced with dentures, my happiness would be complete. Bill used to brag he could open beer bottles with his teeth. Now in his fifties, he sits in windows and frightens children on Halloween. Sadly, Bill could have had all of his needed dental work paid for with public aid, but he obstinately refuses to go to the dentist because it cuts into valuable drinking time.
So, this Thanksgiving, I still won't be looking at him much while I eat, but at least I can look at my mother. And... this Thanksgiving, when most of you are giving thanks for your health, family, friends, and that huge $5.99 pumpkin pie from Costco... I hope you'll stop and say an extra thank-you for your choppers. Sink your teeth into the knowledge of how much richer your life has been because you can eat well, speak well, and light up a stranger's day just by beaming a great big glorious (and even imperfect) smile his way.
*There is a direct correlation between the fat content in a morsel of food and the effort needed to successfully inhale it.
**Maybe Mom couldn't chew a string bean, but she could somehow gum down a piece of granite if it was covered in chocolate.
Before I drove Mom to the dentist's office yesterday, I paused to consider how much money I had, over the years, invested in my own dental work. On one side alone I had dropped more than ten grand on fillings, root canals, crowns, a bridge, and -- when that bridge finally broke -- a longer bridge (too bad I couldn't use stimulus money for all this roadwork). Over on the other side, I was looking at three fillings (one of them gold) and an overlay that probably amounted to another couple of thousand ... and this was all in my lower jaw. I'm not even counting the medical bills spawned by the extraction of two wisdom teeth and a painful "dry socket" episode following one of the surgeries.
This wouldn't be so terrible if there were a finish line I could cross, knowing I was finally done with all this maintenance. But, as I'm sure you know, a set of teeth in an adult over 35 becomes a ticking time bomb. Just like old car parts, teeth have a tendency to decay, rust, crack, fall off and suck the money right out of your past, present and future.
Furthermore, my upper jaw -- mostly untouched -- taunts my dentist with delightful possibilities every time I have my X-rays retaken.
"See these?," he says, trying not to smile, as he points to two railroad spikes lying sideways in my jaw, embedded up above my two baby canines. "The only way these will ever come in is if I pull the baby teeth and put braces on the rest ... even then, there's only a fifty-fifty shot at success because YOU'RE SO OLD to be having this done. The only other thing you can do is have me pull the baby teeth, extract the impacted teeth and put in implants, but then you'll still need braces to help the other teeth reposition themselves properly."
These are the words he is saying, but what I'm hearing in my head is a series of loud "cha-chings" followed by unearthly screams coming from my credit cards. I hear the word "braces" and wonder if so little added beauty in my middle age is worth mortgaging the house. I glare at these X-rays, resenting the two baby teeth that have caused all this chaos. How can it be that I have adult teeth blowing gaskets all over the place... yet these two white nubbins, hold-overs from babyhood, stubbornly sit there, ruining countless photographs my friends and family have taken of me over the years? Yet... strangely ...I can't help admiring their sheer willingness to survive. They're like two ugly little pimple-faced, nose-picking friends who refuse to stop hanging out with me. I'm embarrassed to be seen with them, yet can't cast them off. With all their faults, at least they're loyal and they apparently enjoy my company.
So, I politely smile my crooked smile at Dr. Wantsanewbmw and try to soothe his disappointment by offering to replace yet another sad little filling in the back of my mouth. He sighs, takes the crumbs I'm throwing him and revs up the drill.
Of course, much of my dental angst could have been avoided if my parents had believed that teeth were important enough to bother with. Too busy paying for my brother's countless medical bills (Bill routinely sprained, broke or shattered some body part at least once every six months), my folks considered trips to the dentist a luxury. I can remember exactly ONE visit to the dentist up until the time I was 18, and that likely involved Dad finally dragging me there because he couldn't stand my wimpy sobbing any longer (plus, I'm sure my swollen jaw wasn't a pleasure to look at either). I brushed my teeth, but had no clue what dental floss was until I was in my twenties. But, let me assure you, this didn't mean I had bad parents. Both of them grew up during the Depression, which meant they had learned to be frugal with money. Why, my Dad reasoned, would anyone invest hundreds of dollars into their teeth when they would all be pulled and replaced with dentures by the age of 40?
My sister Barbara vividly recalls a time when my mother - still in her thirties - was bent over a bowl of soup when one of her teeth fell out. Barb sat there in fixated horror while Mom casually explained, "Well, that's just what happens when you get old."
So, when Mom and Dad made it into their fourth decades of life, they both went to the dentist and had ALL their teeth pulled and replaced with dentures they then decided not to wear. But, given that Dad expected to die by the time he was 55 (he lived to 86), he figured toothlessness was only a temporary inconvenience.
Well, okay...maybe they weren't entirely toothless. They both wore their uppers ... but whoever built their lower dentures must have accidentally mixed up their orders with Mr. Ed's. Their bottom dentures were HUGE and, frankly, frightened people. Dad, of course, thought this was great ... he'd put in his full set on national holidays and, using his tongue, would thrust them out past his lips while we were at the dinner table.
"Oh, yuck, Dad, STOP THAT."
He'd just laugh at me. What can I say ... there was a 13-year-old punk inside my Dad that thrived until the day he died. He was definitely cut from that mold of old men who was forever trying to get me to pull his finger. His belches were almost musical and he thought public farts were hilarious.
Mom, on the other hand, was unaware that a defective product could be taken back and exchanged for one not so defective. Her bottom dentures never fit her properly, so she simply stopped wearing them and, over time, forgot about them. Most people were unaware that she didn't wear them because she quickly learned to mask their absence with her lower lip. However, the omission of half her teeth became painfully evident in old age. The list of foods Mom could and couldn't successfully gum began to look something like this:
Okay to eat:
Applesauce
Oatmeal
Eggs
Vegetables, But Only If Really Mushy
Citrus Fruit, But Only If Packed In Syrup
Greasy Chicken*
Grapes
Bananas
Cake
Soft Candy
Middling Candy
Hard Candy**
Not Okay To Eat:
Most Protein Sources (Steak, Pork, Fish)
Vegetables That Still Had Vitamins Not Boiled Out Of Them
Fruits With Peels
Nuts
Grains
And Anything Else Even Remotely Healthy
When she was younger, Mom would instinctively avoid foods she couldn't be bothered chewing with only half her mouth, but as she got older she sort of forgot what worked and what didn't and would re-visit this list through trial-and-error. I would sit across from her at lunch and try to eat my hamburger without looking at her, knowing she was wadding up napkins with half-chewed broccoli or a carrot that required more chew action than it could possibly be worth.
When I moved in with Mom, I started a crusade to get her bottom dentures replaced, knowing the quality of life for both of us would improve substantially. It took me a long time to convince her that a woman in her eighties was worth the investment; after all, my Dad had taught her to believe she wasn't worth it at 40. But yesterday, after a series of visits, Mom came home with a full set of teeth. She's still not used to talking or eating with them, but it's a joy to see her smile.
Now ... if I could just persuade my idiot brother to have his few remaining (and thoroughly rotten) molars pulled and replaced with dentures, my happiness would be complete. Bill used to brag he could open beer bottles with his teeth. Now in his fifties, he sits in windows and frightens children on Halloween. Sadly, Bill could have had all of his needed dental work paid for with public aid, but he obstinately refuses to go to the dentist because it cuts into valuable drinking time.
So, this Thanksgiving, I still won't be looking at him much while I eat, but at least I can look at my mother. And... this Thanksgiving, when most of you are giving thanks for your health, family, friends, and that huge $5.99 pumpkin pie from Costco... I hope you'll stop and say an extra thank-you for your choppers. Sink your teeth into the knowledge of how much richer your life has been because you can eat well, speak well, and light up a stranger's day just by beaming a great big glorious (and even imperfect) smile his way.
*There is a direct correlation between the fat content in a morsel of food and the effort needed to successfully inhale it.
**Maybe Mom couldn't chew a string bean, but she could somehow gum down a piece of granite if it was covered in chocolate.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Election Rejection
With so many pundits voicing so many opinions about why Obama beat Romney in the election last week, I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut. For one thing, I can't analyze demographics and numbers and lots of dry, meaningful data without getting bored halfway through and going out for ice cream. For another, I was pretty certain that nothing I could say would have much value. I'm really not much good at arguing politics; I mostly try to avoid it because once I'm in the middle of a discussion (usually with my sister), I tend to lose. I think it's because our discussions usually go something like this:
Barbara: Okay, here's why you need to hang onto your money: The world is going into the shitter because, according to Dr. Blahson from the University of Blah, that poser in the White House is advocating for blah blah blah while blahtity-blah percent of the current population is on food stamps, which our economy can't sustain. Furthermore, factity fact arguments suggest that fact number of people are blah blah fact fact and, of course, totally wrong. So ... even though I don't like Romney, I'm still voting for him.
Me: I don't like Romney because I think he's a big poo-poo head. (This point in the discussion is when I usually start thinking about strawberry or mint chocolate chip, and whether I seriously need the nuts and whipped cream.)
Frankly, I think the analysts need to talk to more people like me if they want to know why Romney lost. Sure, what I just said sounds simplistic, shallow and just plain stupid. But when it comes to politics, I think most of those "s" words do apply to most of our ignorant, uninformed population. It's not because all of us are idiots ... it's because the topic of politics makes us all idiots. Why? It's just plain boring. If I write the words, "coalition," "lobbyists," "sequestration" and "fiscal cliff," I'm betting at least half of you out there will start glazing over. It's really not your fault; political science can be dull, dry and depressing. So, desperate to not appear to be as stupid as we are, we turn to mass media and cling to whatever talking points people like Rush Limbaugh and Rachel Maddow hammer into our heads. What other course of action is there? Must we do actual research on the Internet? I'm sorry, but I only have so much Internet time at my disposal, and "Words With Friends" eats up a large chunk of it.
But politically speaking, most of us don't have a clue what we're really talking about. And we're the ones who were out there voting last Tuesday. So, when some brilliant person like George Will wants to analyze election results, he needs to stop thinking that we all make predictable, semi-rational decisions based on hard facts. Human beings are, as a group, pretty irrational and messed up much of the time. My friends and I tend to make our decisions based on hormone levels, the Magic 8 Ball and whether the Planet Mercury's in retrograde. I have no clue why members of my family make the decisions they do...the other day I watched my mother put strawberry jelly on a burrito. So, when someone like Karl Rove or Peggy Noonan suggests that Obama won because he appealed to more Hispanics, or won more young adults, or ran a better ground game, they're dead wrong. Why? Because those conclusions sorta make sense, and we, as a species, never do.
So, here's my not-so-brilliant analysis, based on all the shallowness, simplicity and stupidity I can muster: Romney lost because he didn't have the "X factor", and most of us couldn't stand the thought of watching him on TV for the next four years. That's it. And, let's face it, that Great Glowing Screen in the living room pretty much dictates everything we think and do. It tells us we're too fat, what to wear, where to stare and whether or not we have good hair.* With Obama, we either liked him and welcomed his almost-constant presence in our faces or, if we couldn't stand the guy, we quickly learned to tune him out. But Romney wasn't really all that lovable, even to his own party. I would have considered voting for a charismatic, good-looking Republican who would interrupt my prime-time television viewing without my wanting to blow an artery, but it definitely was not Mitt. I was too aware of his money; too annoyed by his gleaming family (all of whom looked like they were birthed from a loaf of Wonder Bread); and, seriously, I didn't like his smug little mouth and his beady little eyes. I wouldn't have wanted to buy a car from him, much less entrust the future of the free world to a guy whose own cars get to ride in elevators.
And, before all you Romney-lovers get on my case, let me just say that Obama often annoys the stuffing out of me too, especially when he's campaigning. His voice gets all churchy and he delivers every line with the grandeur of MLK's "I have a dream" speech. And, frankly, I was disappointed with his first four years. I was one of those people who expected him to magically fix everything wrong with the country; I was willfully oblivious to the reality that no president has that kind of magic. And this whole Benghazi/Petraeus mess has me more than a little wondering if some folks in his administration may not have been entirely honest with us. Worst of all, though, I sure wish modern science could do something about his Alfred E. Neuman ears. When he's on TV, I can't stop staring at them. The entire time he talks, I'm sitting on my couch thinking, "My, what big ears you have, Obama." They're very distracting. Maybe he could tape 'em against his head or something, I don't know.
So...now that everybody's mad at me, I'll continue with my original point.
People make friends with people they like; they hire people they like; they buy crap from people they like, and date and marry people they like. That's just how we're wired. We bond with other human beings because of gut feelings and brain chemistry and then later invent reasons for feeling the way we do. Furthermore, the Great Glowing Screen That Rules Us All lets us participate in popularity contests such as "X Factor" and "American Idol," where we get to vote every week! Do we always choose the most talented contestants? Nope. We vote for the ones we love. We vote for singers like Scotty McCreery because yeah, he's a good singer, but awww, isn't he just the sweetest boy, playing baseball and workin' in the grocery store after school? You can bet he loves his mother and goes to church. Even with those big ears, isn't he just so cute you wanna squeeze his widdle face? Much of America fell in love with him and that's why he won. With American Idol winner Phillip Phillips, it was a little different. The guy was talented, but he made people like him because he was able to project irresistible self-confidence even while his clothes looked like they just tumbled out of the dryer. Gruffy, scruffy people-you-can-share-a-beer-with are often perceived as charming and quite easy to love.
So, if the Republicans want to take back the White House in 2016, it's really easy: Pick out several guys or gals who exhibit more personality than an ear of corn, parade 'em in front of Simon Cowell and let him pick out the star. The winner will be someone who can turn on the ol' razzle dazzle, put on a good show and leave the audience begging for more. Look at the last two popular Republican presidents ... one was an adorable old geezer who used to be an actor ... the other a make-believe rootin' tootin' cowboy who liked to invent words like "stratergize."** Yeah, maybe some of us made fun of George because he sounded kind of stupid when he said that, but secretly we loved it. And in the voting booth, the love is all that matters.
*Speaking of not having good hair ... can somebody out there please beg Hillary to cut hers if she wants to run in 2016? Flippy hair only looks good on 20-something, Marlo Thomas "that girls" from 1970.
**At first I loved going around saying "stratergize" just to mock George Bush, but the last laugh's on me because now the word pops out of my mouth when I least expect it and makes me look like an idiot... as if I needed any help. Thank you, Mr. President.
Barbara: Okay, here's why you need to hang onto your money: The world is going into the shitter because, according to Dr. Blahson from the University of Blah, that poser in the White House is advocating for blah blah blah while blahtity-blah percent of the current population is on food stamps, which our economy can't sustain. Furthermore, factity fact arguments suggest that fact number of people are blah blah fact fact and, of course, totally wrong. So ... even though I don't like Romney, I'm still voting for him.
Me: I don't like Romney because I think he's a big poo-poo head. (This point in the discussion is when I usually start thinking about strawberry or mint chocolate chip, and whether I seriously need the nuts and whipped cream.)
Frankly, I think the analysts need to talk to more people like me if they want to know why Romney lost. Sure, what I just said sounds simplistic, shallow and just plain stupid. But when it comes to politics, I think most of those "s" words do apply to most of our ignorant, uninformed population. It's not because all of us are idiots ... it's because the topic of politics makes us all idiots. Why? It's just plain boring. If I write the words, "coalition," "lobbyists," "sequestration" and "fiscal cliff," I'm betting at least half of you out there will start glazing over. It's really not your fault; political science can be dull, dry and depressing. So, desperate to not appear to be as stupid as we are, we turn to mass media and cling to whatever talking points people like Rush Limbaugh and Rachel Maddow hammer into our heads. What other course of action is there? Must we do actual research on the Internet? I'm sorry, but I only have so much Internet time at my disposal, and "Words With Friends" eats up a large chunk of it.
But politically speaking, most of us don't have a clue what we're really talking about. And we're the ones who were out there voting last Tuesday. So, when some brilliant person like George Will wants to analyze election results, he needs to stop thinking that we all make predictable, semi-rational decisions based on hard facts. Human beings are, as a group, pretty irrational and messed up much of the time. My friends and I tend to make our decisions based on hormone levels, the Magic 8 Ball and whether the Planet Mercury's in retrograde. I have no clue why members of my family make the decisions they do...the other day I watched my mother put strawberry jelly on a burrito. So, when someone like Karl Rove or Peggy Noonan suggests that Obama won because he appealed to more Hispanics, or won more young adults, or ran a better ground game, they're dead wrong. Why? Because those conclusions sorta make sense, and we, as a species, never do.
So, here's my not-so-brilliant analysis, based on all the shallowness, simplicity and stupidity I can muster: Romney lost because he didn't have the "X factor", and most of us couldn't stand the thought of watching him on TV for the next four years. That's it. And, let's face it, that Great Glowing Screen in the living room pretty much dictates everything we think and do. It tells us we're too fat, what to wear, where to stare and whether or not we have good hair.* With Obama, we either liked him and welcomed his almost-constant presence in our faces or, if we couldn't stand the guy, we quickly learned to tune him out. But Romney wasn't really all that lovable, even to his own party. I would have considered voting for a charismatic, good-looking Republican who would interrupt my prime-time television viewing without my wanting to blow an artery, but it definitely was not Mitt. I was too aware of his money; too annoyed by his gleaming family (all of whom looked like they were birthed from a loaf of Wonder Bread); and, seriously, I didn't like his smug little mouth and his beady little eyes. I wouldn't have wanted to buy a car from him, much less entrust the future of the free world to a guy whose own cars get to ride in elevators.
And, before all you Romney-lovers get on my case, let me just say that Obama often annoys the stuffing out of me too, especially when he's campaigning. His voice gets all churchy and he delivers every line with the grandeur of MLK's "I have a dream" speech. And, frankly, I was disappointed with his first four years. I was one of those people who expected him to magically fix everything wrong with the country; I was willfully oblivious to the reality that no president has that kind of magic. And this whole Benghazi/Petraeus mess has me more than a little wondering if some folks in his administration may not have been entirely honest with us. Worst of all, though, I sure wish modern science could do something about his Alfred E. Neuman ears. When he's on TV, I can't stop staring at them. The entire time he talks, I'm sitting on my couch thinking, "My, what big ears you have, Obama." They're very distracting. Maybe he could tape 'em against his head or something, I don't know.
So...now that everybody's mad at me, I'll continue with my original point.
People make friends with people they like; they hire people they like; they buy crap from people they like, and date and marry people they like. That's just how we're wired. We bond with other human beings because of gut feelings and brain chemistry and then later invent reasons for feeling the way we do. Furthermore, the Great Glowing Screen That Rules Us All lets us participate in popularity contests such as "X Factor" and "American Idol," where we get to vote every week! Do we always choose the most talented contestants? Nope. We vote for the ones we love. We vote for singers like Scotty McCreery because yeah, he's a good singer, but awww, isn't he just the sweetest boy, playing baseball and workin' in the grocery store after school? You can bet he loves his mother and goes to church. Even with those big ears, isn't he just so cute you wanna squeeze his widdle face? Much of America fell in love with him and that's why he won. With American Idol winner Phillip Phillips, it was a little different. The guy was talented, but he made people like him because he was able to project irresistible self-confidence even while his clothes looked like they just tumbled out of the dryer. Gruffy, scruffy people-you-can-share-a-beer-with are often perceived as charming and quite easy to love.
So, if the Republicans want to take back the White House in 2016, it's really easy: Pick out several guys or gals who exhibit more personality than an ear of corn, parade 'em in front of Simon Cowell and let him pick out the star. The winner will be someone who can turn on the ol' razzle dazzle, put on a good show and leave the audience begging for more. Look at the last two popular Republican presidents ... one was an adorable old geezer who used to be an actor ... the other a make-believe rootin' tootin' cowboy who liked to invent words like "stratergize."** Yeah, maybe some of us made fun of George because he sounded kind of stupid when he said that, but secretly we loved it. And in the voting booth, the love is all that matters.
*Speaking of not having good hair ... can somebody out there please beg Hillary to cut hers if she wants to run in 2016? Flippy hair only looks good on 20-something, Marlo Thomas "that girls" from 1970.
**At first I loved going around saying "stratergize" just to mock George Bush, but the last laugh's on me because now the word pops out of my mouth when I least expect it and makes me look like an idiot... as if I needed any help. Thank you, Mr. President.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Housebroken
I went to Lowe's to buy new window blinds the other day, and I picked out some Levolors for my Mom's bedroom and my new guest room (so ... sorry, old friends, no "old" guests are allowed - ha ha). It occurred to me that most people choose something as boring as window blinds because of their color ... their quality ... their design ... their price ... stuff like that. And while I did consider all those factors, I had one huge factor that out-factored all the rest.
I needed to find some blinds my Mom couldn't break.
Now, I love my mother. She's 81 (turning 82 this month) and she's been living with me ever since Dad passed. I really do love her. A lot. Really... bunches and bunches. Yesiree, I sure do love my Mom.
And yes, there's a reason I keep stressing the "L" word, here ... because, after you read this entry, I sincerely don't want you to think of me as that Evil Blogger Who Bad-Mouthed The Woman Who Gave Her Life. Consider this, if you will (or won't ... doesn't matter, I won't shut up either way) as that Poor, Demented Blogger Who Desperately Needed Cheap Therapy. This blog is my therapy, and you, dear reader, are my therapist. I recommend that you simply accept your new, thankless role in my life.
Where was I? Oh ...
My issues with Mom.
Now, let me just say we all have issues with our aging parents and, inevitably, we ourselves will become somebody else's Big Issues. All things considered, my Mom isn't doing too badly. But if I someday reach my 80s (and I like to spend my delusional moments believing I will), I know I'm going to be a real pain in the ass to society. I'm certain I'm going to be that crazy old lunatic nobody wants to sit next to on the bus...you know, the one who can't remember to bathe, but who can remember (and loudly) all the words to "Copacabana." Some folks really do well in their 80s and 90s ... they jog, they swim, they perform surgery, they have wild sex... heck, some even run for Congress. I'm 50, and I don't do any of those things, so I quite naturally and forgiveably hate those people.
Well, Mom has a little dementia goin' on. I could tell you that she constantly obsesses about our money and finances ... which wouldn't be too bad, except that she doesn't understand money and finances. My Dad took care of the checkbook. I wish I had a dollar for every time I patiently tried to explain to Mom why a "money market" isn't something she can lose in the "stock market" ... or why a debit card isn't the same as a credit card ... or why nobody will arrest her and throw her in jail because I still use Dad's Giant Eagle Advantage Card at the grocery store.*
Or, I could also tell you that she has a problem with her memory, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to repeat everything I just said 12 more times. Or, I could tell you she has a problem with her hearing, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to scream everything I just said 12 more times. However, let it be noted that I do feel guilty talking about her memory issues because, honestly, I can't remember squat anymore, and I don't have the "too bad I'm 81" excuse. (And when I instead try using the "Too bad, I'm menopausal" excuse, people don't pat me on the shoulder and say, "Awww, Brenda, that's okay, I understand." They just step back three feet and try not to look scared.)
Or, I could tell you that Mom has a food problem ... namely, that Mom doesn't choose to eat food. She chooses to eat garbage. True, most of us would rather eat garbage as well, but we try not to do that because it's bad for us. And yes ... I'm using the word "garbage" metaphorically to actually mean, "sweets, fried foods and anything else that's tasty and waiting to kill me." (Of course, if I ever tell you my brother eats garbage, please feel free to take that literally.**) I don't doubt that somebody out there is reading this and thinking, "Well, gosh, Brenda, why do you keep garbage in your house if you don't want her to eat it?" If that somebody IS you, I would like to respectfully suggest that you pause for a few minutes to yank a pacifier out of a screaming baby's mouth, or rip a soup bone out of the jaws of a starving rottweiler. Please do either of those and then get back to me when you've regained consciousness.
ANYWAY ...
I can live with all of this, truly I can. But the one thing she does that drives me bonkers is this: She manages to somehow ruin anything mechanical she dares to touch. She'll break it if she can. If she can't, she will - at the very least - hurt it and make it cry.***
Sometimes, sadly, this crying leads to suicide. There's a back burner on a gas stove I bought two years ago that finally gave up the ghost because Mom kept trying to blow up the house with it. If you've ever used a gas stove, you know the routine: you push in the dial, slightly turn it, hear a couple of clicks and then, like magic, a flame pops up. But when Mom would heat up her coffee water, I'd be sitting in the living room doing something terribly important (like watching TV) and eventually I'd hear "Click click click click click click click click click click click." After glancing at my sleeping cat to make sure she was still breathing, I'd run into the kitchen to find out why Mom was trying to gas us all. What's worse...Mom was convinced that neither I nor my 61-year-old sister knew how to work the stove properly. In her mind, of course, we were still kids. I can still remember one time my sister was visiting us from California; Barb had turned on the stove to heat up her tea water. (We all like to heat things up, but try to avoid cooking whenever possible.) Anyway, Mom - who's usually deafer than dirt - heard that first "click" and sprang into action. As soon as my sister had wandered back into the living room, Mom speed-shuffled into the kitchen to turn off the stove my sister had recklessly turned on without her supervision. This was then followed by the ever-too-familiar "Click click click click click click click click click click click" and Barb screaming, "WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" In Mom's defense, she was only trying to help my out-of-town sister follow the proper protocol one uses to blow up one's house in Willowick (and, on a good day, the entire neighborhood).
After that, I begged Mom's doctor to tell Mom she was never to touch the stove again. Happily, Mom listened. Unless her doctor utters a sentence that includes the words, "Don't eat sweets, Betty," Mom is pretty attentive about listening to physicians...which is good, because she needs to listen to somebody. She never listens to me or my sister; we're just a couple of drooling lunatics who can barely tie our own shoes. But, interestingly, she WILL listen to our brother. Bill's a nutcase, but he's always a respected source of knowledge because he owns a penis.
Mom has, throughout the years, broken many things around the house. She's bullied our washer, disabled our dryer, and has committed unspeakable atrocities upon various microwaves and toasters we've owned throughout the years. Too often I've come home from work to find Mom sitting in her rocker staring at nothing on TV because she pressed the same wrong button on the remote again. "I broke the remote," she'd say forlornly, and then I'd fix it and she'd be all happy again, finally able to watch yet another movie about some woman murdering her husband on Lifetime Movie Network. I don't think Mom's not bright; I think she just got into the habit of believing she couldn't do much of anything on her own. But I really can't think of anything mechanical inside our house that Mom didn't somehow screw up. At night I can still hear the mournful whispers from the ghost of our dead dishwasher; I don't know exactly how she killed it, but I am certain it was a slow and painful death.
But the blinds are the worst. We have full-length vertical blinds in the front room window and on the back patio door. I'm not sure why Dad had them installed; it is entirely possible he did it just to torture Mom. The notion that one cord operates the slats while the other cord draws the blinds is one she could never fully grasp, so she pretty much just pulls on stuff until something happens. Once in awhile, she gets it right. But most of the time our blinds end up hopelessly mangled, with the cord up near the ceiling so that she can no longer reach it. This is always fun, because then I have the joy of coming home from work in the dark, pulling into my driveway, and then seeing Mom in her nightgown, prancing around our well-lit living room in full view of the neighbors. She can't close the blinds... and then she seems to forget that they're even open.
As for the patio door blinds ... I despise them; I curse them every time I have to fight my way through that plastic jungle just to go outside (Mom constantly keeps them drawn so the deer and squirrels won't spy on her when she's in the kitchen). I don't know why they're necessary and have, repeatedly, threatened to rip them down entirely. I'm thinking of buying a dog and secretly training it to pee on them.
So ... as I'm standing in the aisle at Lowe's, these are the thoughts that haunt me and taunt me. Maybe I'm blind to think there are blinds in this world she cannot destroy. I think we may need to go back to curtains ... or take out the windows entirely, I don't know. Maybe we could take out the windows and put in skylights? The birds won't care if Mom puts on a show, and I doubt the astronauts will either.
*Uh oh ... I think I hear the Giant Eagle Fuel Perks Patrol pounding on my door.
**Believe me when I tell you there's a depressed, weeping dumpster out behind the Wendy's off Route 60 in Vero Beach, Florida, that still wonders why Bill doesn't come around anymore.
***In my universe, everything cries.
I needed to find some blinds my Mom couldn't break.
Now, I love my mother. She's 81 (turning 82 this month) and she's been living with me ever since Dad passed. I really do love her. A lot. Really... bunches and bunches. Yesiree, I sure do love my Mom.
And yes, there's a reason I keep stressing the "L" word, here ... because, after you read this entry, I sincerely don't want you to think of me as that Evil Blogger Who Bad-Mouthed The Woman Who Gave Her Life. Consider this, if you will (or won't ... doesn't matter, I won't shut up either way) as that Poor, Demented Blogger Who Desperately Needed Cheap Therapy. This blog is my therapy, and you, dear reader, are my therapist. I recommend that you simply accept your new, thankless role in my life.
Where was I? Oh ...
My issues with Mom.
Now, let me just say we all have issues with our aging parents and, inevitably, we ourselves will become somebody else's Big Issues. All things considered, my Mom isn't doing too badly. But if I someday reach my 80s (and I like to spend my delusional moments believing I will), I know I'm going to be a real pain in the ass to society. I'm certain I'm going to be that crazy old lunatic nobody wants to sit next to on the bus...you know, the one who can't remember to bathe, but who can remember (and loudly) all the words to "Copacabana." Some folks really do well in their 80s and 90s ... they jog, they swim, they perform surgery, they have wild sex... heck, some even run for Congress. I'm 50, and I don't do any of those things, so I quite naturally and forgiveably hate those people.
Well, Mom has a little dementia goin' on. I could tell you that she constantly obsesses about our money and finances ... which wouldn't be too bad, except that she doesn't understand money and finances. My Dad took care of the checkbook. I wish I had a dollar for every time I patiently tried to explain to Mom why a "money market" isn't something she can lose in the "stock market" ... or why a debit card isn't the same as a credit card ... or why nobody will arrest her and throw her in jail because I still use Dad's Giant Eagle Advantage Card at the grocery store.*
Or, I could also tell you that she has a problem with her memory, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to repeat everything I just said 12 more times. Or, I could tell you she has a problem with her hearing, and sometimes I wish I didn't have to scream everything I just said 12 more times. However, let it be noted that I do feel guilty talking about her memory issues because, honestly, I can't remember squat anymore, and I don't have the "too bad I'm 81" excuse. (And when I instead try using the "Too bad, I'm menopausal" excuse, people don't pat me on the shoulder and say, "Awww, Brenda, that's okay, I understand." They just step back three feet and try not to look scared.)
Or, I could tell you that Mom has a food problem ... namely, that Mom doesn't choose to eat food. She chooses to eat garbage. True, most of us would rather eat garbage as well, but we try not to do that because it's bad for us. And yes ... I'm using the word "garbage" metaphorically to actually mean, "sweets, fried foods and anything else that's tasty and waiting to kill me." (Of course, if I ever tell you my brother eats garbage, please feel free to take that literally.**) I don't doubt that somebody out there is reading this and thinking, "Well, gosh, Brenda, why do you keep garbage in your house if you don't want her to eat it?" If that somebody IS you, I would like to respectfully suggest that you pause for a few minutes to yank a pacifier out of a screaming baby's mouth, or rip a soup bone out of the jaws of a starving rottweiler. Please do either of those and then get back to me when you've regained consciousness.
ANYWAY ...
I can live with all of this, truly I can. But the one thing she does that drives me bonkers is this: She manages to somehow ruin anything mechanical she dares to touch. She'll break it if she can. If she can't, she will - at the very least - hurt it and make it cry.***
Sometimes, sadly, this crying leads to suicide. There's a back burner on a gas stove I bought two years ago that finally gave up the ghost because Mom kept trying to blow up the house with it. If you've ever used a gas stove, you know the routine: you push in the dial, slightly turn it, hear a couple of clicks and then, like magic, a flame pops up. But when Mom would heat up her coffee water, I'd be sitting in the living room doing something terribly important (like watching TV) and eventually I'd hear "Click click click click click click click click click click click." After glancing at my sleeping cat to make sure she was still breathing, I'd run into the kitchen to find out why Mom was trying to gas us all. What's worse...Mom was convinced that neither I nor my 61-year-old sister knew how to work the stove properly. In her mind, of course, we were still kids. I can still remember one time my sister was visiting us from California; Barb had turned on the stove to heat up her tea water. (We all like to heat things up, but try to avoid cooking whenever possible.) Anyway, Mom - who's usually deafer than dirt - heard that first "click" and sprang into action. As soon as my sister had wandered back into the living room, Mom speed-shuffled into the kitchen to turn off the stove my sister had recklessly turned on without her supervision. This was then followed by the ever-too-familiar "Click click click click click click click click click click click" and Barb screaming, "WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?" In Mom's defense, she was only trying to help my out-of-town sister follow the proper protocol one uses to blow up one's house in Willowick (and, on a good day, the entire neighborhood).
After that, I begged Mom's doctor to tell Mom she was never to touch the stove again. Happily, Mom listened. Unless her doctor utters a sentence that includes the words, "Don't eat sweets, Betty," Mom is pretty attentive about listening to physicians...which is good, because she needs to listen to somebody. She never listens to me or my sister; we're just a couple of drooling lunatics who can barely tie our own shoes. But, interestingly, she WILL listen to our brother. Bill's a nutcase, but he's always a respected source of knowledge because he owns a penis.
Mom has, throughout the years, broken many things around the house. She's bullied our washer, disabled our dryer, and has committed unspeakable atrocities upon various microwaves and toasters we've owned throughout the years. Too often I've come home from work to find Mom sitting in her rocker staring at nothing on TV because she pressed the same wrong button on the remote again. "I broke the remote," she'd say forlornly, and then I'd fix it and she'd be all happy again, finally able to watch yet another movie about some woman murdering her husband on Lifetime Movie Network. I don't think Mom's not bright; I think she just got into the habit of believing she couldn't do much of anything on her own. But I really can't think of anything mechanical inside our house that Mom didn't somehow screw up. At night I can still hear the mournful whispers from the ghost of our dead dishwasher; I don't know exactly how she killed it, but I am certain it was a slow and painful death.
But the blinds are the worst. We have full-length vertical blinds in the front room window and on the back patio door. I'm not sure why Dad had them installed; it is entirely possible he did it just to torture Mom. The notion that one cord operates the slats while the other cord draws the blinds is one she could never fully grasp, so she pretty much just pulls on stuff until something happens. Once in awhile, she gets it right. But most of the time our blinds end up hopelessly mangled, with the cord up near the ceiling so that she can no longer reach it. This is always fun, because then I have the joy of coming home from work in the dark, pulling into my driveway, and then seeing Mom in her nightgown, prancing around our well-lit living room in full view of the neighbors. She can't close the blinds... and then she seems to forget that they're even open.
As for the patio door blinds ... I despise them; I curse them every time I have to fight my way through that plastic jungle just to go outside (Mom constantly keeps them drawn so the deer and squirrels won't spy on her when she's in the kitchen). I don't know why they're necessary and have, repeatedly, threatened to rip them down entirely. I'm thinking of buying a dog and secretly training it to pee on them.
So ... as I'm standing in the aisle at Lowe's, these are the thoughts that haunt me and taunt me. Maybe I'm blind to think there are blinds in this world she cannot destroy. I think we may need to go back to curtains ... or take out the windows entirely, I don't know. Maybe we could take out the windows and put in skylights? The birds won't care if Mom puts on a show, and I doubt the astronauts will either.
*Uh oh ... I think I hear the Giant Eagle Fuel Perks Patrol pounding on my door.
**Believe me when I tell you there's a depressed, weeping dumpster out behind the Wendy's off Route 60 in Vero Beach, Florida, that still wonders why Bill doesn't come around anymore.
***In my universe, everything cries.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Trick or Treat!
Well, what a bummer ... Halloween neighborhood festivities have been pushed back to Sunday here in Willowick, so I guess I'll have to wait a few more days before I get to give all the kids diabetes. Don't get me wrong - I'm glad the little monsters don't have to go freeloading in the rain, but it's a little weird that I'm going to be handing out Hershey bars* two days before Election Day (which is essentially trick-or-treating for grown-ups, only we don't get to find out which candidate is which until it's way too late).
But I love Halloween. I especially love how I'm part of an entire generation that decided to turn Halloween into a much bigger production so we could avoid growing up. Halloween, when I was a kid, was an oh-by-the-way-it's-Halloween-again holiday, barely registering above Groundhog Day on the anticipation scale. Yeah, we all loved running around the block in our quest for free candy, but a whole lot of thought didn't go into the execution of this quest. Every year, about a week before the not-so-big day, Dad would drive us to a lot with pumpkins for sale. I'd pick one out, and Dad would carve it. (Kids couldn't carve pumpkins back then, because there were no cute plastic kiddie carving tools at that time ... all we Neanderthals had to work with were very sharp knives.) Some of the neighborhood Moms would turn the pumpkin guts into a tasty pie or two, garnished with a side of healthy, toasty pumpkin seed treats, but my mother wasn't quite that Martha Stewartish....so, we'd just toss the great ball of seedy orange innards into the garbage and put our pumpkin's sad, dead shell in our front room window, pretty much leaving it there until it started to stink.
Then, of course, the next big step in my Halloween routine was the annual trip to Woolworth's to pick out whatever cheap-ass princess costume I was going to wear under my winter coat that year. Mom (who was not terribly talented at home economics, in case you forgot I told you) didn't sew costumes like some of the other kids' Moms (lucky bastards), so the rest of us were forced to wear shiny, polyester nightmares that came out of flat, flimsy boxes costing $4.95. They did come with masks, though. All the dime store costumes had masks made out of the same thin plastic that I believe holds today's Lean Cuisines. This ghastly piece of petroleum was attached to the child's head by a rubber band guaranteed to break by the fifth house. This was actually a good thing, because I'm convinced any kid wearing that hot, sweaty torture device for more than two hours would end up with either terminal cooties or the crawling gleep (that is, if the hot, sweaty child didn't first blindly tumble down somebody's concrete steps and break something important).
Truly, Halloween was dangerous and, sure, it still is... a bit. Every time some kid older than 13 rings my bell, I hand him a Three Musketeers and pray he goes away without robbing me. But when we were kids, it really was hazardous. For one thing, there were absolutely no safety concerns for kids (this was before criminals started putting needles into popcorn balls). We didn't have pre-established trick-or-treating times ... basically, we left the house when it got dark and got back just as our dads would start calling the police. Sometimes parents** went with us, but sometimes not ... I think it depended on what was on TV (if "Gunsmoke" or "Bonanza" was on, we were usually on our own). We tripped over lawns, scraped our knees on sidewalks and sent our Smarties soaring when the handles on our plastic pumpkin pails broke. Still, propelled by our stupidity and untiring greed, we pressed on, knowing that we were in a mad race against time to annoy as many homeowners as possible. The darkness was full of barking dogs, thugs toting pillowcases and those old neighborhood cranks who would turn off their lights and pretend to not be home (until they screamed death threats out their windows when we short-cutted across their lawns).
When I managed to make it home alive, I'd dump my bucket full of crap onto my bedspread and try to find something I could eat. There wasn't much. Unfortunately, I was a child of the 70s, when half of all candy doubled as hardware store adhesive...and the other half doubled as rocks. I'd search through a pile of depressing Jawbreakers, Jolly Ranchers, Bit o' Honeys, Licorice, Tootsie Rolls, Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, Boston Baked Beans, Jujubes, Good 'n Plenties, Mike 'n Ikes and Now 'n Laters*** just to find one or two blessed Snickers bars. Oh ... I almost forgot about the Sugar Daddy ... a gooey, chocolate glob that was not only adhesive, but came on a stick. So, if you didn't injure yourself by involuntarily extracting a couple of your back molars, you could give yourself brain damage by harpooning the roof of your mouth. (Fortunately, after sucking down enough Red Hots, Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs, your mouth wouldn't feel it.) And I haven't even mentioned Pop Rocks, which came along right after I stopped trick-or-treating. The candy of my day was clearly designed to be used as a tool to further all that population control the hippies told us we needed.
So ... I'd carefully pick out the good stuff (aka: "chocolate"), some Sweetarts and, of course, what money got thrown in there and let the rest fossilize on my dresser until Christmas. Fortunately, my brother (who trick-or-treated until he was, oh, twenty-five), would always wander in the door around midnight dragging a pillowcase holding his loot and heaven knows who else's. My brother might have been... well ... a thug ... but he wasn't exactly picky about what he ate. If I stole some Milky Ways out of his stash, he'd never even notice. We're talking about a boy whose favorite dinner was "bread and milk tore up" ... which is a dish that came about when my folks were really broke. Unfortunately, he continued to eat this stuff even when Mom and Dad had some money. He'd take a half a loaf of bread, rip it up in a mixing bowl, dump half a quart of milk on it, cover the whole mess with sugar and then he'd sit at the kitchen table and shovel it in with the biggest spoon he could find. He'd glaze over with this spooky (yet serene) expression on his face while he ate, milk dripping from his slack-jawed bliss, which creeped me out even more than the slop he was eating. I am truly hopeful the nightmares will someday stop.
So ... you like that? Now you get to be creeped out too. No amount of Laffy Taffy will ever pull that image out of your brain.
It is true that Halloween is a bigger deal these days. People put up lights, shop in Halloween-themed stores, decorate their lawns with inflatable gargoyles and put way too much thought into sophisticated, high-tech costumes. But it was a lot scarier when I was a kid... and, I think, a lot more fun. Heck, a few of us even survived it.
So, when I see the way some parents coddle their kids the way they do today, I do pity those kids. How are they ever going to find out how tough they really are?
But Halloween is no time to be deep and philosophical or hell, even halfway intelligent. It's a time to celebrate the innocent joy of childhood and the unbridled stupidity of adulthood. So, truly, I want to wish a Happy Halloween to all, and to all a fun night, even if you do have to wait 'til November this year. I hope you all have a blast scaring and getting scared.
And, if you're not scared enough, just think about my brother and his bowl of bread.****
*And yes, of course I give out full-sized candy bars. Someday - when I rise to power - I plan to execute the idiot who invented the so-called "fun" size.
**Actually, Dad preferred to stay back at the house and hand out candy so he could sing "Trick or treat-smell my feet-give me something good to eat" to every single child who climbed up our steps.
***I'll bet your teeth hurt right now, don't they?
****Okay, maybe it's not exactly "scary" ... but sickening is a KIND of scary, isn't it?
But I love Halloween. I especially love how I'm part of an entire generation that decided to turn Halloween into a much bigger production so we could avoid growing up. Halloween, when I was a kid, was an oh-by-the-way-it's-Halloween-again holiday, barely registering above Groundhog Day on the anticipation scale. Yeah, we all loved running around the block in our quest for free candy, but a whole lot of thought didn't go into the execution of this quest. Every year, about a week before the not-so-big day, Dad would drive us to a lot with pumpkins for sale. I'd pick one out, and Dad would carve it. (Kids couldn't carve pumpkins back then, because there were no cute plastic kiddie carving tools at that time ... all we Neanderthals had to work with were very sharp knives.) Some of the neighborhood Moms would turn the pumpkin guts into a tasty pie or two, garnished with a side of healthy, toasty pumpkin seed treats, but my mother wasn't quite that Martha Stewartish....so, we'd just toss the great ball of seedy orange innards into the garbage and put our pumpkin's sad, dead shell in our front room window, pretty much leaving it there until it started to stink.
Then, of course, the next big step in my Halloween routine was the annual trip to Woolworth's to pick out whatever cheap-ass princess costume I was going to wear under my winter coat that year. Mom (who was not terribly talented at home economics, in case you forgot I told you) didn't sew costumes like some of the other kids' Moms (lucky bastards), so the rest of us were forced to wear shiny, polyester nightmares that came out of flat, flimsy boxes costing $4.95. They did come with masks, though. All the dime store costumes had masks made out of the same thin plastic that I believe holds today's Lean Cuisines. This ghastly piece of petroleum was attached to the child's head by a rubber band guaranteed to break by the fifth house. This was actually a good thing, because I'm convinced any kid wearing that hot, sweaty torture device for more than two hours would end up with either terminal cooties or the crawling gleep (that is, if the hot, sweaty child didn't first blindly tumble down somebody's concrete steps and break something important).
Truly, Halloween was dangerous and, sure, it still is... a bit. Every time some kid older than 13 rings my bell, I hand him a Three Musketeers and pray he goes away without robbing me. But when we were kids, it really was hazardous. For one thing, there were absolutely no safety concerns for kids (this was before criminals started putting needles into popcorn balls). We didn't have pre-established trick-or-treating times ... basically, we left the house when it got dark and got back just as our dads would start calling the police. Sometimes parents** went with us, but sometimes not ... I think it depended on what was on TV (if "Gunsmoke" or "Bonanza" was on, we were usually on our own). We tripped over lawns, scraped our knees on sidewalks and sent our Smarties soaring when the handles on our plastic pumpkin pails broke. Still, propelled by our stupidity and untiring greed, we pressed on, knowing that we were in a mad race against time to annoy as many homeowners as possible. The darkness was full of barking dogs, thugs toting pillowcases and those old neighborhood cranks who would turn off their lights and pretend to not be home (until they screamed death threats out their windows when we short-cutted across their lawns).
When I managed to make it home alive, I'd dump my bucket full of crap onto my bedspread and try to find something I could eat. There wasn't much. Unfortunately, I was a child of the 70s, when half of all candy doubled as hardware store adhesive...and the other half doubled as rocks. I'd search through a pile of depressing Jawbreakers, Jolly Ranchers, Bit o' Honeys, Licorice, Tootsie Rolls, Charleston Chews, Mary Janes, Boston Baked Beans, Jujubes, Good 'n Plenties, Mike 'n Ikes and Now 'n Laters*** just to find one or two blessed Snickers bars. Oh ... I almost forgot about the Sugar Daddy ... a gooey, chocolate glob that was not only adhesive, but came on a stick. So, if you didn't injure yourself by involuntarily extracting a couple of your back molars, you could give yourself brain damage by harpooning the roof of your mouth. (Fortunately, after sucking down enough Red Hots, Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs, your mouth wouldn't feel it.) And I haven't even mentioned Pop Rocks, which came along right after I stopped trick-or-treating. The candy of my day was clearly designed to be used as a tool to further all that population control the hippies told us we needed.
So ... I'd carefully pick out the good stuff (aka: "chocolate"), some Sweetarts and, of course, what money got thrown in there and let the rest fossilize on my dresser until Christmas. Fortunately, my brother (who trick-or-treated until he was, oh, twenty-five), would always wander in the door around midnight dragging a pillowcase holding his loot and heaven knows who else's. My brother might have been... well ... a thug ... but he wasn't exactly picky about what he ate. If I stole some Milky Ways out of his stash, he'd never even notice. We're talking about a boy whose favorite dinner was "bread and milk tore up" ... which is a dish that came about when my folks were really broke. Unfortunately, he continued to eat this stuff even when Mom and Dad had some money. He'd take a half a loaf of bread, rip it up in a mixing bowl, dump half a quart of milk on it, cover the whole mess with sugar and then he'd sit at the kitchen table and shovel it in with the biggest spoon he could find. He'd glaze over with this spooky (yet serene) expression on his face while he ate, milk dripping from his slack-jawed bliss, which creeped me out even more than the slop he was eating. I am truly hopeful the nightmares will someday stop.
So ... you like that? Now you get to be creeped out too. No amount of Laffy Taffy will ever pull that image out of your brain.
It is true that Halloween is a bigger deal these days. People put up lights, shop in Halloween-themed stores, decorate their lawns with inflatable gargoyles and put way too much thought into sophisticated, high-tech costumes. But it was a lot scarier when I was a kid... and, I think, a lot more fun. Heck, a few of us even survived it.
So, when I see the way some parents coddle their kids the way they do today, I do pity those kids. How are they ever going to find out how tough they really are?
But Halloween is no time to be deep and philosophical or hell, even halfway intelligent. It's a time to celebrate the innocent joy of childhood and the unbridled stupidity of adulthood. So, truly, I want to wish a Happy Halloween to all, and to all a fun night, even if you do have to wait 'til November this year. I hope you all have a blast scaring and getting scared.
And, if you're not scared enough, just think about my brother and his bowl of bread.****
*And yes, of course I give out full-sized candy bars. Someday - when I rise to power - I plan to execute the idiot who invented the so-called "fun" size.
**Actually, Dad preferred to stay back at the house and hand out candy so he could sing "Trick or treat-smell my feet-give me something good to eat" to every single child who climbed up our steps.
***I'll bet your teeth hurt right now, don't they?
****Okay, maybe it's not exactly "scary" ... but sickening is a KIND of scary, isn't it?
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Brenda's Buckeye Blues
My father used to tell the same four or five jokes, over and over, and even though his kids could easily recite them from memory by the time we were six, we’d still laugh at his punchlines just so we wouldn’t hurt his feelings. Anyway, one of the lamest jokes he ever told was about Ohio… it went something like,
“Do you know how ‘Ohio’ got its name? Well, one Indian* was taking a walk one day when he bumped into another Indian. He was surprised, and said, “Oh!” And the other Indian said, “Hi!” Finally, the first Indian said “Oh!” and kept on walking.
I said they were jokes.
I never said they were good jokes.
The reason I bring this up is because I want to talk about Ohio, who we are, lots of deep stuff like that. This is a great state. I grew up here. And, every four years, the United States cares what we do on Election Day. But … I’ve often wondered … when someone says, “Ohio” to a person from another state, what do they immediately think?
Here’s what I’m talking about …
If you say “Florida” to me, I get a mental picture of alligators, oranges, old people and Mickey Mouse.
If you say “California,” I think of the Hollywood sign, earthquakes, mudslides and the cover of the National Enquirer.
Iowa … cornfields.
Alaska… polar bears, glaciers and Sarah Palin.
Texas … cowboys, armadillos and line dancing.
Hawaii… pineapples and Jack Lord.
Vermont … maple syrup and skiing lunatics.
You get the idea. But I really do wonder what out-of-staters immediately picture when someone says “Ohio.” Now, I’m not talking about Cleveland … at least when someone living in Wyoming hears “Cleveland,” he or she might think, “Oh yeah! Rock and roll and sports teams that always lose.” But c’mon … say “Ohio,” and what you’ve got is a blurry mental picture of nothing special. Unfortunately, I think this wonderful state I live in has always suffered from something of an identity crisis. We share our state bird, the cardinal, with six other states. Our state flower is a red carnation (a sad little flower that always makes me wonder who died). Our state fruit is a tomato (which, I’m sorry, is just wrong) and our state gemstone is “Ohio flint” (you know, so you won’t confuse it with “Illinois flint” or “Massachusetts flint"). Oh no ... forget diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and all those other gemstones. The man of my dreams will be getting down on one knee and handing me a ring made out of FLINT. (And if I’m lucky, maybe he’ll buy me a pair of gravel earrings to go with it.) I mean … flint? Okay, if THAT’S where the bar** is, then I would like to propose we change our state flower to “Ohio Dandelion” (because we don’t want anyone confusing our dandelions with those crappy weeds growing across the border in Indiana.)***
This lack of having something unique that makes us stand apart from our 49 sister states is, I believe, the reason why we’ve almost always had ugly and/or boring license plates, and I’m not talking about those attractive special plates we pay extra for, like the ones with the kitties and doggies. I’m talking about our standard-issue license plates that most of us end up with…it's almost always red, white and blue, has no picture on it, and says something like, “Birthplace of Aviation” because the rest of the U.S. probably wouldn’t know that unless we decided to constantly remind them.**** Of course, then … would they really care? Would we really care if they did care? Who cares?
This is the plate that's currently on my car:
(No, these aren't the real letters/numbers on MY car. Sorry.)
Out of curiosity I decided to go over to the Ohio BMV website to see what exciting new design they’re offering for 2013. Here it comes, baby…
(Wow! What a difference!)
But to give those folks in Columbus a break, there’s just not a whole lot they can put on there. Our state tree is a buckeye, but when you say “buckeye” to somebody from Nebraska they think, “Oh… yeah … right … football.”**** Nobody thinks of a goofy tree with useless nuts hanging off of it, but hey, that’s our state tree because it’s the best we’ve got, apparently.
Beautiful Ohio… it’s just a really nice state that just doesn’t exude a whole lot of personality. If all 50 states were girls who got invited to a dance, ours would be the pleasant, round-faced girl with glasses in the corner serving up the punch and cookies … but only until the presidential election rolls around, of course. Then her fairy godmother shows up, waves a magic wand and turns Dowdy Miss Ohio into the loose-legged prom queen who’s holding the winning lottery ticket. EVERYBODY wants her. At first she’s flattered and giddy from all of the sudden attention, but by the end of the evening she’s begging the class president and the head of the football team to go away and leave her the hell alone. “You’re suffocating me! I’m sick to death of you! Can’t you two please go annoy some other girl?” They do go away … but in five minutes they’re both back for one more “why you should sleep with me instead of that other jerk” spiel.
So, while I know a lot of you feel the way I do – sick of all the political ads, tired of the name-calling and just wanting the whole tiresome evening to be over … don’t wish it away too quickly, fellow Ohioans. Once that clock hits midnight on November 6th, we turn back into pumpkins.
But at least that’s better than being a tomato or a nut.
*I know this is politically incorrect ... I'm supposed to say “Native American” (my apologies to all Native Americans reading this), but my Dad didn’t know the meaning of “politically correct.” Hell, nobody from his generation did.
**The closest bar to me is at 305th and Lakeshore. Just in case you needed to know that.
*** For a list of all our state symbols, songs, etc., go to http://www.netstate.com/states/symb/oh_symb.htm
****Actually, there is a rather pretty (albeit boring) "Beautiful Ohio" plate that eventually became a no-cost alternative to the yawner hanging off the back end of my car, but by then I was stuck with ol' red, white and snooze. Figures.
***** Go Bucks! Thank goodness you guys are winning, because in Cleveland you’re all we’ve got and you don’t even play here.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Fat Stance
Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile; I’ve been plagued by serious self-esteem issues. It seems that along with having a weight problem (something I’ve struggled with my entire life), my pounds -- along with those of an American two-thirds majority -- are now a “national security threat.” Well, at least that’s what First lady Michelle Obama says. ("If you want me to vote for your husband, Michelle, that's NOT the way to get on my good side.")
Now, I’m not writing a political blog here … these days, I spend most of my waking hours trying to avoid politics by shutting off the television and unfriending Facebook buddies who post anti-Obama or anti-Romney tirades. I’m sick to death of all this negativity. And now, on top of it all, Michelle is telling everybody and their kids that we're too fat.
Well, duh, of course we are. I think the two-thirds of Americans who are currently overweight have a clue that we are, in fact, overweight. We own mirrors; we try on clothes at Walmart; we join gyms and then not go. Do our elected officials and their wives seriously need to point out our physical failings? Why stop there? Maybe Mrs. Romney can jump on board and tell us that along with being fat, our raging acne, sagging chins and bulging skin tags are causing a national insecurity epidemic. Then again, why shouldn’t politicians harp about our weight … should the media have all the fun? Here’s a new one:
So… according to this article, half of all Americans in several states are going to be obese by 2030 – not overweight – but OBESE (a word that doesn’t get any uglier unless one puts “morbidly” in front of it). My theory is that the problem is only going to get worse because all this constant nagging about our fatness will stress us out and make us want to eat more. Or, worse, we’ll all just give up and decide to party like it’s 1999 because we’re going to drop dead from raging type 2 diabetes and heart disease any second now.
I’m not saying the diseases I’ve mentioned aren’t serious problems – they most certainly are. I’m not mocking these illnesses or the people who have them. I’m mocking those in the media who feel compelled to unnecessarily yammer on about it when this yammering obviously cures nothing. I wish I could see a show of hands from you overweight readers out there who can remember at least one parent harping about your being too fat. How’d that work for you? Did your father joking about your weight inspire you to find some will power and miraculously get skinny? Nagging only reinforces any undesirable behavior; most smart parents know this. So, this “you’re fat you’re fat you’re too fat” mantra coming from our TVs is, I feel, programming Americans to.. well … be fat. The more they nag, the fatter we’ll get. Most of us are, at heart, still rebellious teenagers: “I’ll show you – you think I’m too fat now? I’ll show you what fat is! Just you wait!”
And I, my friends, am a rebel with a cause. It’s bad enough when I have to watch the videos of headless people on CNN while some size-zero bimbo announces a new “why obesity is bad for you” study. (By the way – how is that EVER news? Now if somebody announced that obesity is GOOD for you... that, my friends, would be real news, and news I could use.) It’s tough to be told, over and over, that being fat automatically means we're unhealthy, sexually unattractive, unemployable, a walking liability, weak, lazy, stupid and even immoral. (Of course this is garbage, but because political correctness bans society from criticizing everybody else, the world overcompensates by beating up on us). And while this is tough, I can take it. But I don’t have to take this kind of crap from the airlines. Let me tell you what happened to me last week when I had to fly to D.C. for training.
Now … it had been awhile since I had been on a United Airlines regional jet … aka: “toy plane.” These are not real airplanes; they’re winged torpedoes designed to give the sky-bound that unique “I’m trapped on a submarine and suffocating to death” experience we all secretly crave. On my flight to D.C., I was delighted that I didn’t need the seatbelt extender … but understand that I was probably one Big Mac, one large fry and two Heinz ketchup packets away from needing one. That was disturbing enough. But what really upset me was that my luggage – my tiny carry-on bag – was TOO FAT for the overhead. When did those compartments get so small? My purse would barely fit in there. I bought the bag because the salesperson promised me the thing would fit under any seat or in any overhead and, uh, it did no such thing. And, because I’m fighting with this bag in the middle of this microscopic aisle with other full-sized humans, I can’t lean over without knowing my back-end is in somebody else’s face. (“I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to point this thing at you, I swear.") Finally, I gave up and checked it (the bag, not my rear, although that would have been a nice option), thinking, “Flying shouldn’t be this hard.” I felt bad for my carry-on, though. I know I’m too fat, but it’s hard when the world taunts me about my stuff being obese as well.
And yet, this tale gets worse.
It's a few days later, and I’m flying home from my trip. I get to travel on yet another regional jet. (I really need to talk to my boss about attending training classes on the west coast; at least then I’d get to fly in an actual airplane once in awhile.) I checked my bag ahead of time so I wouldn’t have to subject it to more humiliation. I sat down in 10D and was arranging myself when the young lady in 10C asked me if I would switch with her fiancé, Jason, who was sitting up in the first row. They wanted to sit together. Awww. So ... because I’m both sentimental and stupid, I agreed. I changed seats with the happy bridegroom-to-be and realized too late that the bulkhead seats have no moveable armrests. I squeezed myself in; it was tight, but I made it. And, by some miracle, I didn’t need the seatbelt extender. I sat back and readied myself to suffer through yet one more miserable short flight when the flight attendant made this disturbing announcement:
“We have a couple empty seats in the back, and our pilot has informed us that two of you in the first two rows will have to move back to those seats so that we have proper weight and balance.”
I’ll give you a moment to absorb this.
Now … I want to assure you that I did NOT take this personally. Not at all. As I processed this information, my inner dialogue went something like:
“WHAT? Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? Now I’m too fat to sit at the front of the plane? What does this thing weigh? How many TONS does this aircraft weigh? And I’m going to upset its delicate balance? Me? I know I’m not Princess Kate, but c’mon, I’m not starring on the Discovery Channel either. And I only moved so that Mr. Oh-So-Happy could sit next to Miss Oh-So-Happy and this is my freaking reward? Well, forget it; I already moved once, I’m not doing it! I’m not going! If you want to get me out of this seat, you’re gonna need a court order and a crowbar!”
Fortunately, the guy sitting next to me must have been reading my mind (I sure hope I didn’t say any of that out loud) and cheerfully volunteered to move back, as did somebody sitting behind me.
So, there you have it … we’re all getting fatter, and the airlines are getting meaner about it. I've included a link that I like … I could relate to the photo of the woman in this one. I know she knows my pain. Fat chance the airlines do.
I’d go on, but I’m depressed and need to go find a cupcake.
P.S. I'm seriously re-thinking trains. They have cabooses; I'll bet they'd understand what it's like to drag one around.
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