So, here's the thing...
Yesterday after work, I stopped in at the dollar store at Shoregate to pick up some Diet Coke. I don't know if it's called "The Dollar Store", so I apologize if that's wrong. There are many "dollar" chains around town, and I can't keep track of what any of them are called. So, going forward, maybe I should use fictional names so I don't appear to be favoring or excluding anybody.
Anyway, I had run out of pop during the day and figured I had only hours left to live without it. I'd hate to miss autumn; it's one of my favorite seasons. So... I needed to buy some more fertilizer for my next kidney stone. Where to go? Dollar Genie was my best option. The grocery store -- a few hundred feet away -- was simply too far to drive. And, once inside, there were going to be far too many people with kids trying to buy healthy, over-processed wheat bread, peanut butter, jelly, pencils and snot rags for the first day of school (which is today at Willoughby-Eastlake).
So, forget the Giant Eagle ... I would just run into the Dollar Desert, grab my poison and get out.
And, for a change, that's all I carried up to the register ... an 8-pack and four dollars. Usually I take time to browse a little and buy half of what's on sale, but I could already feel my hands shaking from the withdrawal. I hadn't had a Coke since 3 o'clock. I needed to go home and drink.
I was in line behind a nice lady and her daughter. The daughter -- who I'll call Roberta* -- asked the clerk, "Where are your debit cards?"
Actually .. she didn't say "debit cards." That's just what I heard because I was probably thinking about mine. What she said was, "Where are your deck of cards?"
This girl looked to be about 10 years old.
And she was asking for them in FRONT OF HER MOTHER? I was thinking, "Geez, kid, don't you know anything? Hide your vices from parents! Never let them know you're a drunk, a drug addict or a compulsive gambler! Honestly ... these kids are simply not being taught properly anymore. Shame on these lazy parents. Why raise your child to be a degenerate if you don't learn 'em to cover it up?
But Roberta, or Nancy, or Debbie, or whatever her name was kept asking for playing cards.
The nice clerk pointed her around the corner. "They're hanging there."
The child plucked a cellophane-wrapped deck of Hoyle off the peg board and asked, "These?"
Mom looked a bit confused. "Are you sure that's what you need?"
And the clerk said, "Oh yes, my kid's in the same grade. That's what they want."
I heard all this, and figured my withdrawal had gone into overdrive and the hallucinations were starting. Playing cards? What were these schools doing ... teaching these kids poker or blackjack in case the economy never improves and the casino's their only hope?
So, after I left the Dollar Demon** and drove home, where I guzzled down a 20-ounce and started feeling better***, I visited Royalview Elementary's website and checked out some of school supply lists.
Here's the one with the PLAYING CARDS.
Note...I have not altered (altared?) this list in ANY way. I copied. I pasted. And then I shook my head and cried:
ROYALVIEW ELEMENTARY SCHOOL Supply List 2013-2014
Fourth Grade
Please label all supplies
2” 3 ring binder
1 green two-pocket folder (NO PRONGS)
1 blue two-pocket folder (NO PRONGS)
1 red two-pocket folder (NO PRONGS)
1 yellow two-pocket folder (NO PRONGS)
1 white glue (liquid) 8oz. size
2 marking pens
1 box Crayola magic markers – small tip (8-12 count only)
1 highlighter
2 large boxes of Kleenex
24 pencils #2
large pencil eraser
1 pair scissors –
medium sized 1 box of crayons - not more than 48 count
2 spiral notebooks – one subject only
1 deck of playing cards
1 package of Clorox Clean-Up Wipes (Please stick with Clorox brand)
6-8 dry erase markers– small tip
1 sock
2 glue sticks
1 mini pencil sharpener (no battery operated)
1 small package of post-it notes
Last names (A-L) sandwich size Ziploc bags
(M-Z) gallon size Ziploc bags
1 bottle of hand sanitizer (no larger than 12 fl.oz.)
*Please do not send in items not listed due to lack of space, including pencil cases or bags.
*If in Mrs. Goodrich’s class, please see her supply list posted for the looping class.
***
Okay, so... um .... where do I start here? Several questions come to mind. May I share them with you?
1) What is this irrational hatred toward PRONGS? What is so terrible about a prong?**** Aren't they those little metal thingies that kinda hold the paper inside the folder? They're tiny ... they're barely noticeable .. they fly under the radar. What, did some kid somewhere accidentally fall asleep and puncture an eyeball? I feel sad for the prongs. They deserve better. And... okay ... why do the file folders have to be specific colors? Back in MY DAY (warning - I'm going to say that a LOT), teachers couldn't give a rat's behind if they were red, green, blue or psychedelic orange. They were just thrilled we remembered to bring them.
2) I think it's cute that elementary aged kids are required to bring highlighters. Highlighters did exist when I was a child... they were invented in 1962 (which was also when I was invented). But highlighters were something used in offices or possibly in high school. Back in MY DAY at Royalview, if you wanted to "highlight" something, you used a crayon, a pen or you folded down the corner of the page. In the end, we weren't really encouraged to highlight things, because that meant marking up a book that we were supposed to give back at the end of the year. We also used a little-known learning device known as "taking notes," which meant writing down important stuff that might end up on a test.
3) I want to understand the count limit on markers and crayons here. I really do want to understand. Really. Because, back in MY DAY, we weren't required to bring markers - they were optional. We were required to bring crayons, but again, there was no Crayon Police checking the number of crayons or how thick they were or what brand they were. Frankly, variety is good for kids ... it teaches them which kids' parents have more money than everybody else's. My birthday is in late August, so as a child I always got school supplies as gifts. One year somebody gave me a Crayola Box of 64 and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I was a BIG SHOT at school because I had the BIG HONKIN' BOX OF CRAYONS with the colors nobody had ever heard of, like "burnt sienna" or "peach" (which used to be "flesh" but was renamed in 1962 because of the Civil Rights Movement). Those poor kids with their measly 32-count boxes could all bite me.
Sure, later it was those same kids taunting me on the playground, but at least I had my memories.
So now, our education system wants to deprive children of those rare, fleeting moments when they can feel superior to everybody else. I think that's just so wrong.
4) Why do these kids need their own pencil sharpeners? Back in MY DAY every classroom had its own crappy, dull-bladed metal pencil sharpener that destroyed our pencils. But...the cranking noise was a welcome distraction during tests.
5) What's with all the Kleenex and hand-sanitizer? How filthy and unhealthy ARE today's youth? Back in MY DAY, if we needed Kleenex, we excused ourselves, went to the lavatory and used toilet paper (or got some Puffs from the nice teacher who may have had some on her desk). Or, if we were THAT sick, we stayed home with Mom so as not to infect the rest of the class. And, wouldn't one think that if the kids are required to have hand sanitizer, they wouldn't NEED the Kleenex? And what's with the Clorox wipes - NO off brand here - CLOROX wipes? Again ... how fragile are these children that they must decontaminate every single thing they touch?
Back in MY DAY, there were no wipes beyond those coarse brown paper towels in the bathroom, and our "hand sanitizer" was that stuff -- also in the bathroom -- known as "soap." When I remember how dirty we got during recess ... all the booger fights ... and how some poor child barfed up her tator tots at least twice a week .. it's a wonder I'm sitting here writing this blog. How did I ever survive all the contagion?
And finally ...
Ziploc bags? The other bags aren't allowed, but the Ziplocs are okay?
Half the class has to bring little ones.
Half the class has to bring big ones.
What, exactly, are they bagging?
Uneaten food?
Insects for science class?
Something they can sell at recess to pay for all these school supplies?
*I went to school with a girl named Roberta. We were best friends in Mrs. Blackstone's fourth grade glass. In seventh grade, however, she literally tried to strangle me during band class, which was kinda messed up... so we stopped being friends after that. Actually ... Roberta was nuts, and this little girl in line seemed nice, so forget Roberta, I'll call her "Nancy." I had lots of friends named "Nancy."
**Who are they kidding? There's nothing in those stores that costs an actual DOLLAR.
***I really need to figure out why I'm not sleeping well.
****Of course, I'm not really thinking about prongs, I'm thinking about prawns and that lovely shrimp dinner I had over at the Red Lobster on Saturday.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Political incorrectness, political ineptness
When you live in Northeastern Ohio, there are certain markers that tell you summer is officially here. A few include:
-- Cedar Point is open every day
-- The Indians' closing pitching has started to suck
-- Some super hero movie is being filmed downtown and now none of us can figure out how to get to work
-- The soft-serve ice cream shops are all open for business
-- We've all gracefully transitioned from the "it's too cold" bitching to the "it's too hot" bitching *
and, best of all ...
-- It's festival season again!
Ah, the church festivals ... I can't imagine summer in Ohio without them ... where we see the same Ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl traveling from parking lot to parking lot. These festivals, held to benefit local churches and civic groups, have it all ... pop, beer, corn dogs, games of chance and, of course, the raffles. St. Mary Magdalene in Willowick usually holds its festival early in the summer, and the car raffle is always a big deal (they also have a cool technology raffle where you can win a TV, iPad or Nook). This year's car raffle offers the winner a choice of $15,000 or a 3-year lease on a Chevy. There are also lesser cash prizes, so do check it out:
http://www.smmwillowick.org/festival
The raffle is always a lot of fun, and I always enjoy sitting out in our tent on Vine Street, waving people over to buy tickets.
But, for the festival itself, I wanted to do something different this year, so I signed up to work the Chinese auction. As I'm sure you probably know (if you're from here), Chinese auctions aren't exactly auctions. They're really a sort of raffle, usually involving different prizes. You buy a ticket, and you put the ticket in the container for the prize you want to win. If you really favor one prize over another, you can increase your odds by buying lots of tickets and putting them in the container for that prize (so, maybe in that sense, it does have an auction aspect). They're a lot of fun, and lots of churches and libraries use them in their fundraisers.
And then I made a huge mistake.
After talking my sister into purchasing a sheet of raffle tickets for the car, I stupidly told her I had signed up to work the Chinese auction. I was proud of my volunteer spirit and wanted to share it with Barbara, as if to say, "See what a cool sister you have, aren't you impressed?"
Barbara lives in San Francisco. **
So anyway, after I told her this, I heard her sort of gasp on the other end of the phone... and then she said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
I repeated my news.
"A Chinese Auction? What the hell is that?"
I couldn't believe it ...how could she never have heard of these? So, I explained what it was.
There was a significant pause on the other end, and then she said, "You know that's totally racist?"***
I had always prided myself on not being the racist sort. But c'mon ... Chinese auctions have been around forever. I told her so.
"So was slavery. But we got rid of that, right?"
I assured her that nobody here uses the term "Chinese auction" with the slightest notion of it being politically incorrect or racist, and that we used the term because it's always been used in the most innocent light. Who could accuse a church or a library of wanting to be racist? It's just a name given to describe a type of strange little raffle. It can't be bad if somebody just wants to win a breakfast basket filled with pancake batter and Pop-Tarts.
But I didn't want her to think I was a total jerk, so I countered with, "Well, I can see where that might be a bigger deal where you live, because you have a higher Chinese population. We do have Chinese-Americans living in Willowick, but probably not as many as you do." Of course, as I'm saying all this, it's occurring to me that I'm sounding like an even bigger jerk because this is one really sad argument if it's all I've got. Welcome to some truly warped Willowick existentialism... sort of like the old "if a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound if nobody can hear it?" discussion. Only now I was reduced to arguing that the term isn't offensive if there's nobody to offend (or, if there is somebody to offend, they're not offended enough to tell us about it).
Barbara called me on my B.S., still insisting we were all terrible. So then I tried a different angle and said, "Well, if we don't call it a Chinese auction, people won't know what it is because there's no other way to describe it." This, of course, sounded lame the second it left my mouth. But really, what else COULD you call it?
Finally, out of desperation, I told her I'd Google it to find out where the term had, in fact, originated... but that got me nowhere. **** Some scholars (or Wikipedians pretending to be scholars) suggested that the term was coined with the word "Chinese" to suggest something exotic and mysterious. Others noted that the use of "Chinese" was meant to be derogatory; suggesting a "sneaky" sort of raffle that wasn't a real auction at all. Either way, I'm still clueless where it came from. I have no idea if it's all that bad. It probably is.
So, in the end, I brilliantly ended the discussion by declaring, "I got nuthin'."
Last Saturday, I was at the beauty shop having my hair colored and I told my cosmetologist (who shall remain nameless, as I don't want to offend anyone wielding scissors) about how upset Barb was over my working a Chinese auction.
Scissors lady looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Oh, why ... because she thinks it's wrong for the church to use raffles to raise money?"
What a relief ... it's not just me.
So, next Friday, I will be sitting at a table at St. Mary Magdalene selling Chinese raffle tickets ... and I truly and sincerely hope the term doesn't offend anyone. But I'm not too worried ... after all, mostly Ohioans will be attending the festival, and we understand the importance of tradition. We don't worry too much about political correctness, at least not until we have to. After all, who are we to even try? We've spent our entire lives defending the Cleveland Indians and their timeless leader, Chief Wahoo, and nobody likes a hypocrite.
*On average, I think Cleveland gets about 13.5 perfect days per year where it's not too hot, too cold, too humid, too snowy, too rainy, too cloudy or too windy. Those days, lovely as they are, only serve to bewilder and confuse us.
**I always feel I have to mention this -- not sure why.
*** What is it about Californians? Must they always be so conscious of their environment, not to mention political correctness and other people's feelings? Do they not understand we Midwesterners have no time for such matters? We just try to make it through winter without dying...the rest is all gravy.
****There are those who think Google is the source of all knowledge, but I believe it's also the source of all stupidity. But, hey, at least it's convenient to find it all in one place.
-- Cedar Point is open every day
-- The Indians' closing pitching has started to suck
-- Some super hero movie is being filmed downtown and now none of us can figure out how to get to work
-- The soft-serve ice cream shops are all open for business
-- We've all gracefully transitioned from the "it's too cold" bitching to the "it's too hot" bitching *
and, best of all ...
-- It's festival season again!
Ah, the church festivals ... I can't imagine summer in Ohio without them ... where we see the same Ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl traveling from parking lot to parking lot. These festivals, held to benefit local churches and civic groups, have it all ... pop, beer, corn dogs, games of chance and, of course, the raffles. St. Mary Magdalene in Willowick usually holds its festival early in the summer, and the car raffle is always a big deal (they also have a cool technology raffle where you can win a TV, iPad or Nook). This year's car raffle offers the winner a choice of $15,000 or a 3-year lease on a Chevy. There are also lesser cash prizes, so do check it out:
http://www.smmwillowick.org/festival
The raffle is always a lot of fun, and I always enjoy sitting out in our tent on Vine Street, waving people over to buy tickets.
But, for the festival itself, I wanted to do something different this year, so I signed up to work the Chinese auction. As I'm sure you probably know (if you're from here), Chinese auctions aren't exactly auctions. They're really a sort of raffle, usually involving different prizes. You buy a ticket, and you put the ticket in the container for the prize you want to win. If you really favor one prize over another, you can increase your odds by buying lots of tickets and putting them in the container for that prize (so, maybe in that sense, it does have an auction aspect). They're a lot of fun, and lots of churches and libraries use them in their fundraisers.
And then I made a huge mistake.
After talking my sister into purchasing a sheet of raffle tickets for the car, I stupidly told her I had signed up to work the Chinese auction. I was proud of my volunteer spirit and wanted to share it with Barbara, as if to say, "See what a cool sister you have, aren't you impressed?"
Barbara lives in San Francisco. **
So anyway, after I told her this, I heard her sort of gasp on the other end of the phone... and then she said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
I repeated my news.
"A Chinese Auction? What the hell is that?"
I couldn't believe it ...how could she never have heard of these? So, I explained what it was.
There was a significant pause on the other end, and then she said, "You know that's totally racist?"***
I had always prided myself on not being the racist sort. But c'mon ... Chinese auctions have been around forever. I told her so.
"So was slavery. But we got rid of that, right?"
I assured her that nobody here uses the term "Chinese auction" with the slightest notion of it being politically incorrect or racist, and that we used the term because it's always been used in the most innocent light. Who could accuse a church or a library of wanting to be racist? It's just a name given to describe a type of strange little raffle. It can't be bad if somebody just wants to win a breakfast basket filled with pancake batter and Pop-Tarts.
But I didn't want her to think I was a total jerk, so I countered with, "Well, I can see where that might be a bigger deal where you live, because you have a higher Chinese population. We do have Chinese-Americans living in Willowick, but probably not as many as you do." Of course, as I'm saying all this, it's occurring to me that I'm sounding like an even bigger jerk because this is one really sad argument if it's all I've got. Welcome to some truly warped Willowick existentialism... sort of like the old "if a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound if nobody can hear it?" discussion. Only now I was reduced to arguing that the term isn't offensive if there's nobody to offend (or, if there is somebody to offend, they're not offended enough to tell us about it).
Barbara called me on my B.S., still insisting we were all terrible. So then I tried a different angle and said, "Well, if we don't call it a Chinese auction, people won't know what it is because there's no other way to describe it." This, of course, sounded lame the second it left my mouth. But really, what else COULD you call it?
Finally, out of desperation, I told her I'd Google it to find out where the term had, in fact, originated... but that got me nowhere. **** Some scholars (or Wikipedians pretending to be scholars) suggested that the term was coined with the word "Chinese" to suggest something exotic and mysterious. Others noted that the use of "Chinese" was meant to be derogatory; suggesting a "sneaky" sort of raffle that wasn't a real auction at all. Either way, I'm still clueless where it came from. I have no idea if it's all that bad. It probably is.
So, in the end, I brilliantly ended the discussion by declaring, "I got nuthin'."
Last Saturday, I was at the beauty shop having my hair colored and I told my cosmetologist (who shall remain nameless, as I don't want to offend anyone wielding scissors) about how upset Barb was over my working a Chinese auction.
Scissors lady looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Oh, why ... because she thinks it's wrong for the church to use raffles to raise money?"
What a relief ... it's not just me.
So, next Friday, I will be sitting at a table at St. Mary Magdalene selling Chinese raffle tickets ... and I truly and sincerely hope the term doesn't offend anyone. But I'm not too worried ... after all, mostly Ohioans will be attending the festival, and we understand the importance of tradition. We don't worry too much about political correctness, at least not until we have to. After all, who are we to even try? We've spent our entire lives defending the Cleveland Indians and their timeless leader, Chief Wahoo, and nobody likes a hypocrite.
*On average, I think Cleveland gets about 13.5 perfect days per year where it's not too hot, too cold, too humid, too snowy, too rainy, too cloudy or too windy. Those days, lovely as they are, only serve to bewilder and confuse us.
**I always feel I have to mention this -- not sure why.
*** What is it about Californians? Must they always be so conscious of their environment, not to mention political correctness and other people's feelings? Do they not understand we Midwesterners have no time for such matters? We just try to make it through winter without dying...the rest is all gravy.
****There are those who think Google is the source of all knowledge, but I believe it's also the source of all stupidity. But, hey, at least it's convenient to find it all in one place.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Technologically Speaking...
I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but sometimes I feel overwhelmed by technology.
And…that’s a shame … because I think it means I’m not young anymore. I can still remember the first microwave my parents ever bought; my mother was terrified of my using it without her supervision (which, translated, meant “standing two feet away and staring at what my hands were doing”). She was certain anything I put in there would cause the universe to explode.
And, I can remember the first VCR Dad ever bought. No, the blinking 12:00 on the front of this scary, hulking box wasn’t too much of a concern… but every time he’d put in a movie, the FBI warning would come up on the screen and Mom would freak. EVERY SINGLE TIME. She was certain the police were on their way over to arrest us (that is, if the house was still standing because we hadn’t blown it with the microwave).
So, when I say that I’m “overwhelmed” by technology, I type those words with some anxiety. I don’t want to be shamed and ridiculed by my younger relatives …although I suppose I deserve that, given what I just wrote about my beloved parents. On the other hand, I can remember Mom poking fun at Grandma because, when she found out Mom was going to fly to California on a real airplane, Grandma (who was scared to death of planes and would never fly anywhere) warned, “When you’re on the plane, Betty, be careful and don’t open the window.” So … I guess ridiculing our elders’ fear of progress is something we all do, and maybe that makes it okay. Or maybe this is just payback time for yours truly.
But honestly, I think my inner hard drive is running out of RAM, because lately technology has succeeded in making me feel creeped out or, at the very least, really, really stupid.
So today I felt like giving you my top five favorite technological turn-offs.
Now, before I go there, let me just say I love most technology. Digital cable is right up there with my Kindle, my Keurig and my iPad as one of the greatest joys of my life. But here’s some stuff I probably would have been happier without:
1) "No touch” technology in public restrooms…specifically, I hate faucets and paper towel dispensers that involve me having to make wild gestures in order to get them to do something. Faucets should be turned on by turning a knob. Paper towels should be dispensed by cranking a handle. I shouldn’t have to frantically wave at something to get it to acknowledge me. (And don’t you just love it when they’re broken and you feel like a total fool, waving and waving and waving and nothing happens?) There are Some Wise Folks who say, “But motion-activation saves on germs.” Really? Last time I looked, people are still out here getting sick. And when it comes to germ avoidance, when was the last time you kicked the bathroom door open with your foot? Or positioned your posterior on top of the toilet without brushing against porcelain poisoned by someone else’s cooties? (Does anybody really think a piece of tissue paper in the shape of a toilet seat is going to protect you from whatever gleep is waiting to crawl up your butt and kill you?) And hey …if we’re all that worried about germ-free cleanliness in the bathroom, I think the doors should be programmed to automatically go into lock-down whenever some lazy fool can’t remember to flush his or her excrement. I'm too often amazed-- and horrified – by the number of people roaming our streets who think it’s okay to leave their dumps sitting on display for the next unhappy victim. But… maybe the problem is that there’s too much technology in today's toilets, and it's distracting people from taking proper care of their number ones and twos. I mean, with this thing popping up in men’s bathrooms these days, it’s a wonder guys even remember to wipe anymore:
2) Robot vacuums. I bought one of these things and yes, they do work. In theory, they’re great … while you go about your busy life, you can program the thing to just glide around the house cleaning crud off your carpet. When it’s done, it docks itself at its base and you come home, look around, and think, “Wow, it’s all clean! It’s like MAGIC!” But here’s the problem…I have cats. And, like dogs, ferrets, gerbils, alcoholics or any other life form we’re inclined to keep as pets, animals have a knack of bringing chaos into an otherwise danger-free zone. Stupidly, I thought this little bot* would be an entertaining spectacle for my felines. Sadly, Miss Kitty – who is prone to throwing up at the smallest provocation – decided to test its fortitude by launching her dinner all over the six inches of carpet the thing was about to clean. (I will spare you the more graphic details, lest you launch your dinner and consequently blame me for it.) So, I quickly learned that I can’t let this thing run unsupervised unless I lock up the cats first.** But, to leave the cats out, I have to be home…and it’s kinda hard to relax in my bed or in my easy chair while this noisy little machine is growling around on the floor.
Furthermore, the entire time it’s working, I’m not enjoying my life-that-is-so-busy-I-can’t-be-bothered-to-vacuum-the-floor. I’m sitting there like a lump thinking, “Dear God, I can’t believe I’m THIS lazy.” And it’s not like this robot doesn’t ever need human assistance; once it stopped cold because its battery pooped out. Another time it stopped cold because it had gotten icky stuff tangled around its roller and needed an emergency crud-ectomy from Dr. Meskunas.*** So, while it’s a nice toy, I wish I had thought it through a bit more.
3) The scrambled letters in the box I have to type every time I want to buy something off a website. Actually, let me expand this to include every annoying thing I have to go through when it comes to Internet shopping. Now … I love Internet shopping, I do. I don’t think I’ve walked into a physical mall in more than two years. **** But if it’s a website I’ve not been to before, I have to register, come up with a log-in name, come up with yet another password I’ll forget in five minutes, and then be bombarded by emailed ads from these people, daily, until I die. Then, when I can’t remember the password I so thoughtlessly created…or if I dare to use a different computer entirely… the web site bombards me with “hint” questions like, “Who was your best friend in high school?” And naturally, because I AM a flake, I can’t remember the answer I originally put in there. Was it Judy? Kim? Chocolate? Barry Manilow?
So, in the time it would have taken me to drive to the stinking mall, I finally figure out how to get past the website’s security system that was apparently put in place to protect me from myself. But if I am lucky to actually be able to BUY something, I then have to deal with that fuzzy box with the five or six figures that are supposed to resemble actual letters and numbers. You know the one … where you have to retype those exact letters/numbers so the computer knows you’re a real person. In my case, all it shows the computer is that I’m a really impaired person, because inevitably I'll see a blurry “4MV3Ick9” floating upwards into the heavens—which I then type as “4NlV31dc9”—and then the screen pops up with yet another box of crap that looks like something a stoned kidnapper wrote in a ransom note. I keep trying to type it back until I eventually make a lucky guess ...or give up entirely and turn off the computer.*****
4) The monitoring device I let Allstate talk me into. Okay, so here’s the deal … I asked my agent how I could save money on my car insurance, and he suggested that I plug this “Drive Wise” device into the car (under the dash) so the device could spy on how well I drive and transmit the data back to Allstate. The theory behind this is it will prompt me to drive more carefully, knowing I’m being monitored, which will make me less of a risk and less likely to be in an accident and have to file a claim. So, I figured what the heck, why not give it a try – I have nothing to hide, right?****** So, after having this gizmo installed for a few weeks, I got an email from Allstate telling me my first “driving performance results” were ready to be viewed. I logged onto the website, pulled up the results, and was shocked to see that I had been letter-graded in different categories. What the heck? Worse, it gave me an overall grade of “B-“! Sorry, but that was unacceptable in high school and, out here in middle-aged real life, it’s just as distasteful. It turns out this snotty little professor gave me an A+ in “braking” and an A+ in “speed” *******, but gave me a C- in “time of day” and “traffic congestion”. Excuse me? How is any of that within my realm of control? Does Allstate expect me to call my boss and demand that I be permitted to work the night shift so I can avoid rush hour? Or maybe I should move to Frozen Lemming, Alaska********, so as to avoid other humans driving cars? I'm reading this report card and enduring unsettling flashbacks to what I hated most about childhood: constantly being judged. I really resent knowing technology … which was always meant to serve man … is now not only judging us, but shaming us as well.
5) My cats’ plastic anti-gravity watering dish. I realize this isn’t fancy technology, but I just wanted to point out that if something is entirely made of plastic, no amount of technology or understanding of basic physics is going to alter plastic's basic nature: which is, of course, to crack, split, warp, fray or Just Not Fit Together Right. I finally found one that I could assemble properly and it seems to be working, but it's too bad I had to spill a gallon of water all over the floor first.*********
So, in conclusion, I just want to say this … a little technology is good. But our society has become technology-obese. There’s a device for everything that happens in the real world and an app for everything that happens in the virtual world. Must we have a crutch for everything ? **********
*I think the real reason I bought it is because it cutely resembles the Jupiter 2 from “Lost in Space.” I like to imagine there’s a tiny Major West steering the thing underneath my bed. ("Danger, Will Robinson! Dust balls ahead!")
**In which case, one of the rooms doesn’t get cleaned and c’mon, then, what’s the point if I have to vacuum anything myself? Half the effort is pulling the vacuum out of the closet, detangling the cords and plugging it in.
***I ended up pulling out a strange combination of cat hair, blouse threads, two blades of shiny yellow Easter grass, an earring and three pellets of cat food…all thanks to the cats, of course.
****Dear God, I can’t believe I’m THIS lazy.
*****In which time, of course, I could have finished my shopping at the mall and had an orange Julius in the food court.
******Whenever you stupidly think this … about ANYTHING … you have plenty to hide, but you’re just too senile to remember it all.
*******Big whoopity do … I drive a 2006 Chevy with 130,000 miles on it … it wouldn’t go faster than 80 even if I had flames coming out the rear like Adam West’s batmobile.
********Not a real place. I made it up. And it’s too bad I have to footnote something like this so I don’t piss off Alaska, but Sarah Palin might still be lurking around up there and that is one scary lady.
*********And no stinking robot is going to help clean THAT up.
**********And, of course, I type these words as I'm using the spell check feature to review my blog entry. Hypocrisy is such a sad thing.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Your Time And Weather Is ...
"Does anybody know what time it is? Does anybody really care?"
This is a line from one of my favorite "Chicago" songs (the group, not the musical), and it always crosses my mind twice a year when I wake up on a Sunday morning, look at my clock, and softly begin to cry.
Of course, that's before the screaming starts.
"WHY? WHY? WHY DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS???" I run around the house, pull dusty clocks off walls, move the rusty little wheels, and know in six months I get to do it again. And, of course, there's always at least ONE clock I'll forget, and it's usually the one sitting upstairs at the top of the hall. So, after I've forgotten it, I leave it alone out of spite. I also get crazy about the clock in my car...I refuse to touch it, because that involves my having to pull out the Chevrolet HHR mini-encyclopedia that I keep in the glove compartment. I can never remember how to set the clock, and I resent having to look it up. So, for half the year, I drive around with my friends saying, "Do you know your time is wrong?"* Of course I do. I'm proud of being behind my time. I do feel some qualms of guilt, though, when I remember how it used to confuse my poor mother. She didn't realize that I stopped adjusting the clock. She just thought the car engine magically displayed the correct time, so it never occurred to her it wasn't correct. We'd get out of the car, go into some restaurant and Mom would ask me what time it was. She'd be horrified when I'd tell her, and she ended up thinking time was passing a lot faster than it actually was. That's a mean thing to do to an old person.
(By the way, If you want to know more of the history behind this time-changing madness, and really want to live in a world where we stop messing with our internal and external clocks, visit: http://www.standardtime.com/ .)
I wholeheartedly reject Daylight Savings Time. I feel our lives are complicated enough without our government deliberately mixing things up. (I will pause for a moment until the general laughter dies down.) And yes, while I appreciate the longer days Spring and Summer naturally bring, I don't see a need to have daylight still happening while I'm trying to enjoy my prime time television. I'll be sitting on my couch after working hard all day ... trying to watch "The Amazing Race" ... and I'll hear the backyard whispering ... "Awww, come on out! Weed a garden! It's still light out!"**
And don't even get me started on the internal messiness. I know everybody's going to be in a rotten mood at work tomorrow, including people who actually made it to work on time. Yeah, I know what the experts say ... to avoid this angst, we're supposed to force ourselves to go to bed earlier, 15 minutes a night, so that our internal clocks are ready for the change. Really...who does this?***
So yes, rainy days and time changes always get me down.
It used to be ... in olden times ... when I was sad, lonely, bored, and really confused about which coat to wear outside, I'd turn to my old friend ... The Weather Channel. TWC was always there for me. When I needed excitement, I could always look for my pal, Jim Cantore, cowering on some pier in South Carolina waiting for the next hurricane to blow him into the sea. When I needed to feel better about myself (and let's face it, people living in Cleveland always need more self-esteem, our sports teams suck), I could turn on TWC and watch some blizzard kicking the crap out of Minnesota and think, "Cool, at least I'm not living THERE!" And when I needed a weather forecast RIGHT NOW, I knew I could count on my "Local on the 8's" to deliver exactly what I needed and when I needed it.
I think, for many of us, TWC was the first reality television programming to reel us in. When the channel began in 1982, I can remember many people ridiculing it. They'd scoff, "Who's going to tune in to watch a channel that only talks about WEATHER?"****
Now, I understand that in some parts of the country, TWC probably doesn't get a lot of traffic. Why do people in San Francisco (which I understand is a really big city in California) need a forecast when the only thing that matters is what time the fog's rolling in so the locals know when to go outside and laugh at all the tourists freezing to death? Why do people in LA need a forecast when they spend their entire lives sitting inside their cars waiting for traffic to move? And why do people in Florida (aka: "Jurassic Park") need any forecast from March until October...it's hot, sticky, and storms every afternoon at 3 o'clock.
But here in the Midwest, a LOT of folks watch TWC because our weather ranges from moody to psychotic. We never know what's really happening out there. Last March, it was 80 degrees and the minimum-wage workers at Walmart were scrambling to get the pools and patio furniture put out on display. This March, it's been in the 30s and 40s and we're all cranky and achy.***** So, when I turn on TWC this time a year, I'm looking for reassurance that it's someday going to warm up and stay that way.
But what I'm NOT looking for are these weird programs The Weather Channel is airing now. When did they start launching shows like "Storm Stories" and "Ice Road Truckers" and "Thrill-Seeking, Brain-Damaged Idiots In Cars Running From Tornadoes"?****** There is nothing more annoying to me than when I turn that channel on to get my forecast and I am looking at somebody showing us all how to build an igloo in Alaska.
Oh, wait ... there is something more annoying than that.
Who at TWC thought it was a clever idea to name WINTER storms? I'm willing to put up with guys' names being used on hurricanes, but a winter storm named "Saturn" ... are you kidding me? I could go on and on about how bat-crap crazy this makes me, but it's a sunny day******* outside and I need to get going on some yard work. I just looked at the clock, and it's a lot later than I thought.
Good thing I'm not upstairs.
*It always amazes me that people who've known me for years still ask me that question.
**Of course, after I ignore those whispers, the house usually chimes in with, "Get up off your ass, you lazy slacker, and clean out this closet! JUST DO IT!"
***Probably the same souls who plan their meals to correspond with the USDA's food pyramid.
****Of course, these days, we have channels devoted to shopping, home decorating and food preparation, so the weather looks pretty darn exciting next to all that. I keep waiting for the premiere of the PDC (the Paint-Drying Channel).
*****Along with my other five favorite dwarfs, "Snotty, Sneezy, Weepy, Whiny and Pooped."
******Did I get the name right?
******* I think I'll call this one "Fred."
This is a line from one of my favorite "Chicago" songs (the group, not the musical), and it always crosses my mind twice a year when I wake up on a Sunday morning, look at my clock, and softly begin to cry.
Of course, that's before the screaming starts.
"WHY? WHY? WHY DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS???" I run around the house, pull dusty clocks off walls, move the rusty little wheels, and know in six months I get to do it again. And, of course, there's always at least ONE clock I'll forget, and it's usually the one sitting upstairs at the top of the hall. So, after I've forgotten it, I leave it alone out of spite. I also get crazy about the clock in my car...I refuse to touch it, because that involves my having to pull out the Chevrolet HHR mini-encyclopedia that I keep in the glove compartment. I can never remember how to set the clock, and I resent having to look it up. So, for half the year, I drive around with my friends saying, "Do you know your time is wrong?"* Of course I do. I'm proud of being behind my time. I do feel some qualms of guilt, though, when I remember how it used to confuse my poor mother. She didn't realize that I stopped adjusting the clock. She just thought the car engine magically displayed the correct time, so it never occurred to her it wasn't correct. We'd get out of the car, go into some restaurant and Mom would ask me what time it was. She'd be horrified when I'd tell her, and she ended up thinking time was passing a lot faster than it actually was. That's a mean thing to do to an old person.
(By the way, If you want to know more of the history behind this time-changing madness, and really want to live in a world where we stop messing with our internal and external clocks, visit: http://www.standardtime.com/ .)
I wholeheartedly reject Daylight Savings Time. I feel our lives are complicated enough without our government deliberately mixing things up. (I will pause for a moment until the general laughter dies down.) And yes, while I appreciate the longer days Spring and Summer naturally bring, I don't see a need to have daylight still happening while I'm trying to enjoy my prime time television. I'll be sitting on my couch after working hard all day ... trying to watch "The Amazing Race" ... and I'll hear the backyard whispering ... "Awww, come on out! Weed a garden! It's still light out!"**
And don't even get me started on the internal messiness. I know everybody's going to be in a rotten mood at work tomorrow, including people who actually made it to work on time. Yeah, I know what the experts say ... to avoid this angst, we're supposed to force ourselves to go to bed earlier, 15 minutes a night, so that our internal clocks are ready for the change. Really...who does this?***
So yes, rainy days and time changes always get me down.
It used to be ... in olden times ... when I was sad, lonely, bored, and really confused about which coat to wear outside, I'd turn to my old friend ... The Weather Channel. TWC was always there for me. When I needed excitement, I could always look for my pal, Jim Cantore, cowering on some pier in South Carolina waiting for the next hurricane to blow him into the sea. When I needed to feel better about myself (and let's face it, people living in Cleveland always need more self-esteem, our sports teams suck), I could turn on TWC and watch some blizzard kicking the crap out of Minnesota and think, "Cool, at least I'm not living THERE!" And when I needed a weather forecast RIGHT NOW, I knew I could count on my "Local on the 8's" to deliver exactly what I needed and when I needed it.
I think, for many of us, TWC was the first reality television programming to reel us in. When the channel began in 1982, I can remember many people ridiculing it. They'd scoff, "Who's going to tune in to watch a channel that only talks about WEATHER?"****
Now, I understand that in some parts of the country, TWC probably doesn't get a lot of traffic. Why do people in San Francisco (which I understand is a really big city in California) need a forecast when the only thing that matters is what time the fog's rolling in so the locals know when to go outside and laugh at all the tourists freezing to death? Why do people in LA need a forecast when they spend their entire lives sitting inside their cars waiting for traffic to move? And why do people in Florida (aka: "Jurassic Park") need any forecast from March until October...it's hot, sticky, and storms every afternoon at 3 o'clock.
But here in the Midwest, a LOT of folks watch TWC because our weather ranges from moody to psychotic. We never know what's really happening out there. Last March, it was 80 degrees and the minimum-wage workers at Walmart were scrambling to get the pools and patio furniture put out on display. This March, it's been in the 30s and 40s and we're all cranky and achy.***** So, when I turn on TWC this time a year, I'm looking for reassurance that it's someday going to warm up and stay that way.
But what I'm NOT looking for are these weird programs The Weather Channel is airing now. When did they start launching shows like "Storm Stories" and "Ice Road Truckers" and "Thrill-Seeking, Brain-Damaged Idiots In Cars Running From Tornadoes"?****** There is nothing more annoying to me than when I turn that channel on to get my forecast and I am looking at somebody showing us all how to build an igloo in Alaska.
Oh, wait ... there is something more annoying than that.
Who at TWC thought it was a clever idea to name WINTER storms? I'm willing to put up with guys' names being used on hurricanes, but a winter storm named "Saturn" ... are you kidding me? I could go on and on about how bat-crap crazy this makes me, but it's a sunny day******* outside and I need to get going on some yard work. I just looked at the clock, and it's a lot later than I thought.
Good thing I'm not upstairs.
*It always amazes me that people who've known me for years still ask me that question.
**Of course, after I ignore those whispers, the house usually chimes in with, "Get up off your ass, you lazy slacker, and clean out this closet! JUST DO IT!"
***Probably the same souls who plan their meals to correspond with the USDA's food pyramid.
****Of course, these days, we have channels devoted to shopping, home decorating and food preparation, so the weather looks pretty darn exciting next to all that. I keep waiting for the premiere of the PDC (the Paint-Drying Channel).
*****Along with my other five favorite dwarfs, "Snotty, Sneezy, Weepy, Whiny and Pooped."
******Did I get the name right?
******* I think I'll call this one "Fred."
Monday, March 4, 2013
Animal House
These are not easy times.
Here's a fun game. See if you can match up the correct noun with the adjectives that most accurately describes it:
1. The U.S. government a) lost and confused
2. The Catholic church b) leaderless and confused
3. Cleveland, Ohio c) depressed and confused
4. My brain d) just really, really confused
5. My house e) overrun by knuckleheads
It's Monday, and I'm not in the mood to deal with a lot of confusion...so, let's focus our attention on number 5 ... my house ... which is, in fact, overrun by knuckleheads. I include myself in that group, because ever since Mom died in January, I have come to realize that I've gone completely out of my mind and now I'm really, really confused. I wake up confused. I go to bed confused. I'm really thrilled when I get to go to work because it's the one thing in my life that seems to make sense.*
But then I get to come home to a house that used to have my Mom in it and now it doesn't, and the confusion starts all over again.
And somewhere ... in the middle of all this confusion ... two cougars moved into my house.
It began shortly after my Mom passed. My nephew decided to move to another house, and asked me to temporarily take care of his two kittens. They were little gray tabbies, very sweet-natured, and I was assured they wouldn't be much trouble. Billy told me their names - which I promptly forgot ten minutes after he left - so I decided to name them Sheldon and Leonard (given that the networks re-run episodes of "The Big Bang Theory" almost constantly, I thought it would be helpful if the boys heard their names every five minutes.)
S and L have been living with me for several weeks now, and I don't know when they're leaving. Frankly, I will be sorry when they do leave, because they're wonderful boys and I love them dearly (although my cat, Miss Kitty, wishes they would run outside and get hit by cars). But, you know what happens with kittens? They grow into cats ... and, in this case, these two are BIG cats. Huge. Mountain lions. When these brothers chase each other up and down the stairs, it sounds like the buffalo have returned to the Great Plains. Even now, as I type this blog entry, I can hear them knocking each other senseless upstairs and it sounds like we're having a thunderstorm. As long as I don't hear glass breaking, I figure everybody's okay and hopefully today my house insurance premiums won't go up.
You have to understand ... I grew up as a DOG person. My folks always had dogs, I loved dogs, I still love dogs. I have never EVER chosen to have a cat. Years ago, when I lived in Chicago, I thought it would be nice to volunteer at my local animal shelter, and I wasn't there more than 48 hours before some nice lady with a very sad face asked me to "foster" an abandoned calico cat and her kittens. I didn't know what I was doing. I bought a litter box, some litter, some food, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I never gave any of them real names because I didn't want to get too attached to some cats I knew I wouldn't keep. So, I sort of got into the habit of calling the momma cat "Miss Kitty" and each of her three babies, "Stop That You Idiot." The kittens were all eventually put up for adoption, and were - happily - adopted the same day, but the momma cat had litter box issues...mainly, she occasionally forgot to poop in it, and I'd find her tootsie rolls outside the box. When I mentioned her toilet lapses to the Person In Charge at the Shelter, I was told she would not be put up for adoption and would likely be put down. This was not about to happen in Brenda's Universe, so Miss Kitty (it was too late to give her a better name) came to live with me permanently. That was 16 years ago.
She is, of course, the darling of my life. She's sweet and petite (two qualities I highly admire, being neither) and she's turned out to be an excellent companion. Never weighing more than six pounds, she's often invisible and never a disruption. She's very affectionate and loves kisses.
Once "the boys" moved in, however, Miss Kitty Congeniality turned into The Saber-Toothed Vampire Cat From Hell. Not only am I now living with three cats, it also sounds like I'm living with a psychotic python, because whenever "the boys" invade her territory,** her incessant hissing starts. The boys don't hiss. They're huge, they're happy, and they believe that everyone in the world must love them unconditionally because they're just so darned cute and all. They do not understand that Miss Kitty does not want to play... today or any other day. They do not understand she is old and f***ed up. And they do not understand that when she hisses at them from the couch, it means they should leave her alone and drop dead. These knuckleheads are also not extremely bright. Leonard has absolutely no grace, and can't figure out how to jump up on furniture without promptly skidding off the other end... and I've seen him eat at least three things off my carpet, none of which I've been able to identify and none of which, so far, has sent us to the emergency room. Sheldon, on the other hand, has a passion for water. His favorite recreational activity is to shove his heavy ceramic water bowl across the bedroom floor until all the water splashes out. I have patiently tried to explain to him that he's not going to have anything to drink if he keep it up, but he has a tiny kitty brain that has the attention span of dirt. I know I'm not getting through ... but, being the biggest knucklehead living here, I keep trying.
And they never - EVER - stop pooping. I clean litter boxes constantly. At the rate these boys are eating, they will soon be the size of Great Danes.
So, here we are. It's Monday and I have to go to work. My brain is insane, my house is insane, our government is insane, my future seems hopeless and my church is Popeless. The animals have completely taken over. I am looking out my bedroom window and see a herd of deer stealing birdseed out of my bird feeder. There is a flock of sparrows sitting on the bush outside my window screaming at me about all this. I am very, very confused about it all.
But ... I think ... maybe, just maybe ... it's okay, because I think this means Somebody Up There is still in charge. And whoever He is, He's making sure that although I might be very confused, I'm never truly alone.
*And then I remember that I work for the U.S. government.
**Uh, that would be the ENTIRE house. All of it. Every last inch, it's hers, all hers, get out.
***These don't indicate a footnote. These take the place of actual letters so I'm not guilty of writing a bad word.
Here's a fun game. See if you can match up the correct noun with the adjectives that most accurately describes it:
1. The U.S. government a) lost and confused
2. The Catholic church b) leaderless and confused
3. Cleveland, Ohio c) depressed and confused
4. My brain d) just really, really confused
5. My house e) overrun by knuckleheads
It's Monday, and I'm not in the mood to deal with a lot of confusion...so, let's focus our attention on number 5 ... my house ... which is, in fact, overrun by knuckleheads. I include myself in that group, because ever since Mom died in January, I have come to realize that I've gone completely out of my mind and now I'm really, really confused. I wake up confused. I go to bed confused. I'm really thrilled when I get to go to work because it's the one thing in my life that seems to make sense.*
But then I get to come home to a house that used to have my Mom in it and now it doesn't, and the confusion starts all over again.
And somewhere ... in the middle of all this confusion ... two cougars moved into my house.
It began shortly after my Mom passed. My nephew decided to move to another house, and asked me to temporarily take care of his two kittens. They were little gray tabbies, very sweet-natured, and I was assured they wouldn't be much trouble. Billy told me their names - which I promptly forgot ten minutes after he left - so I decided to name them Sheldon and Leonard (given that the networks re-run episodes of "The Big Bang Theory" almost constantly, I thought it would be helpful if the boys heard their names every five minutes.)
S and L have been living with me for several weeks now, and I don't know when they're leaving. Frankly, I will be sorry when they do leave, because they're wonderful boys and I love them dearly (although my cat, Miss Kitty, wishes they would run outside and get hit by cars). But, you know what happens with kittens? They grow into cats ... and, in this case, these two are BIG cats. Huge. Mountain lions. When these brothers chase each other up and down the stairs, it sounds like the buffalo have returned to the Great Plains. Even now, as I type this blog entry, I can hear them knocking each other senseless upstairs and it sounds like we're having a thunderstorm. As long as I don't hear glass breaking, I figure everybody's okay and hopefully today my house insurance premiums won't go up.
You have to understand ... I grew up as a DOG person. My folks always had dogs, I loved dogs, I still love dogs. I have never EVER chosen to have a cat. Years ago, when I lived in Chicago, I thought it would be nice to volunteer at my local animal shelter, and I wasn't there more than 48 hours before some nice lady with a very sad face asked me to "foster" an abandoned calico cat and her kittens. I didn't know what I was doing. I bought a litter box, some litter, some food, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I never gave any of them real names because I didn't want to get too attached to some cats I knew I wouldn't keep. So, I sort of got into the habit of calling the momma cat "Miss Kitty" and each of her three babies, "Stop That You Idiot." The kittens were all eventually put up for adoption, and were - happily - adopted the same day, but the momma cat had litter box issues...mainly, she occasionally forgot to poop in it, and I'd find her tootsie rolls outside the box. When I mentioned her toilet lapses to the Person In Charge at the Shelter, I was told she would not be put up for adoption and would likely be put down. This was not about to happen in Brenda's Universe, so Miss Kitty (it was too late to give her a better name) came to live with me permanently. That was 16 years ago.
She is, of course, the darling of my life. She's sweet and petite (two qualities I highly admire, being neither) and she's turned out to be an excellent companion. Never weighing more than six pounds, she's often invisible and never a disruption. She's very affectionate and loves kisses.
"Miss Kitty" aka: Cat. Very Cute.
Once "the boys" moved in, however, Miss Kitty Congeniality turned into The Saber-Toothed Vampire Cat From Hell. Not only am I now living with three cats, it also sounds like I'm living with a psychotic python, because whenever "the boys" invade her territory,** her incessant hissing starts. The boys don't hiss. They're huge, they're happy, and they believe that everyone in the world must love them unconditionally because they're just so darned cute and all. They do not understand that Miss Kitty does not want to play... today or any other day. They do not understand she is old and f***ed up. And they do not understand that when she hisses at them from the couch, it means they should leave her alone and drop dead. These knuckleheads are also not extremely bright. Leonard has absolutely no grace, and can't figure out how to jump up on furniture without promptly skidding off the other end... and I've seen him eat at least three things off my carpet, none of which I've been able to identify and none of which, so far, has sent us to the emergency room. Sheldon, on the other hand, has a passion for water. His favorite recreational activity is to shove his heavy ceramic water bowl across the bedroom floor until all the water splashes out. I have patiently tried to explain to him that he's not going to have anything to drink if he keep it up, but he has a tiny kitty brain that has the attention span of dirt. I know I'm not getting through ... but, being the biggest knucklehead living here, I keep trying.
"The Boys" aka: "Pumas."
(Note: See the rocking chair? You should never ever have one of these if you have cats.)
And they never - EVER - stop pooping. I clean litter boxes constantly. At the rate these boys are eating, they will soon be the size of Great Danes.
So, here we are. It's Monday and I have to go to work. My brain is insane, my house is insane, our government is insane, my future seems hopeless and my church is Popeless. The animals have completely taken over. I am looking out my bedroom window and see a herd of deer stealing birdseed out of my bird feeder. There is a flock of sparrows sitting on the bush outside my window screaming at me about all this. I am very, very confused about it all.
But ... I think ... maybe, just maybe ... it's okay, because I think this means Somebody Up There is still in charge. And whoever He is, He's making sure that although I might be very confused, I'm never truly alone.
*And then I remember that I work for the U.S. government.
**Uh, that would be the ENTIRE house. All of it. Every last inch, it's hers, all hers, get out.
***These don't indicate a footnote. These take the place of actual letters so I'm not guilty of writing a bad word.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
My Sequestration Requestration
I have a requestration: that the word "sequestration" be banned from everyday life... starting, of course, immediately after I finish writing today's rant.
Now, I realize that "requestration" isn't a real word. I just made it up. But as I obviously live in a world where reality has no meaning, it's a word that works for me. Anybody out there know what "sequestration" -- as it applies to all this doomsday stuff you're hearing on your TVs -- really means?
Here's the definition from www.m-w.com :
Now, I realize that "requestration" isn't a real word. I just made it up. But as I obviously live in a world where reality has no meaning, it's a word that works for me. Anybody out there know what "sequestration" -- as it applies to all this doomsday stuff you're hearing on your TVs -- really means?
Here's the definition from www.m-w.com :
Definition of SEQUESTRATION
1
: the act of sequestering : the state of being sequestered <a jury in sequestration> *
2
a : a legal writ authorizing a sheriff or commissioner to take into custody the property of a defendant who is in contempt until the orders of a court are complied with
b : a deposit whereby a neutral depositary agrees to hold property in litigation and to restore it to the party to whom it is adjudged to belong
Examples of SEQUESTRATION
- the sequestration of a jury
- During their sequestration, jurors were not allowed to speak to reporters.
First Known Use of SEQUESTRATION
15th century**
Okay...it would seem none of this has anything whatsoever to do with all the penis-waving*** and chest-pounding that's apparently eating up every elected official's valuable time in Washington, correct? So, out of frustration, I clicked on the link for the Kid's Dictionary, and here's what it said:
se·ques·tra·tion 
Pronunciation:
s
k-w
s-
tr
-shn, sek-
Function: noun
: the act of sequestering : the state of being sequestered****
Pronunciation:
sk-ws-tr-shn, sek-Function: noun
: the act of sequestering : the state of being sequestered****
Consequently, the bottom line here is that "sequestration" was the first college word a flunky found in a dictionary, who then said, "Hey, Mr. President, let's use this one, none of these voters will know what it means anyway."
I always enjoy it when our federal government redefines our reality...and, as this happens all the time, my consciousness is the happiest place on earth. Too bad for you, Disney World.
But if The Powers That We Elected are going to do that, why not go all the way?
They could have called it flooperization, or frustrationquation or The End of The World.***** My philosophy is, pretty much, if you're going to risk looking ridiculous, go all out and KNOW you're going to look ridiculous. Risking anything suggests uncertainty and fear, but if you go for the Big Loss, you'll be much more comfortable and will probably live a lot longer.
Okay, so no ... the word doesn't begin to describe what's happening in Washington. Of course, to choose a word that aptly describes a situation, one must be able to comprehend what the situation IS ... right? So, what exactly is going on, you ask? What IS happening in Washington (I mean, other than Congress and The President going on vacation while The World is Ending?). Let's see a show of hands ... anybody out there know? I sure don't. But I do have a few theories:
1) The woods are on fire, and two firemen aren't putting it out because they can't stop arguing over which hose to use.
2) A plane is crashing into the side of the mountain because the pilot's hands are around the co-pilot's throat and not on the controls.
3) A lot of millionaires (aka: "elected officials") are only pretending to work, because we the American People had an election to decide who would be the most useless in a crisis, and these are the idiots who won.
4) A lot of millionaires are confused over which Lobbyist of the Month is holding which puppet string. (There's just SO many to keep track of, you know?)
5) A series of severe, mindless budget cuts will automatically trigger at the end of the week because nobody ever got around to putting out an actual budget (even though I think ... I THINK ... that's part of the "Elected Official" Job Description).
6) Each side is secretly building a Death Star to destroy the other side.******
So, maybe I'm being a tad unrealistic. Maybe "sequestration" works as a word to describe this mess because no real word with any real meaning can describe the meaningless insanity that is torching the trees and flying our planes into mountains.
For the sake of this argument, I'm not a Republican or a Democrat. I'm not anything. I think everybody's the problem because I also think everybody's the solution. I personally believe that the reason nobody can come up with a reasonable solution to our budget crisis is because all that's on the table are tax hikes and spending cuts, and NEITHER WILL ENTIRELY SOLVE THE PROBLEM. Even a combination of both won't solve the problem. Our real problem is we aren't collecting the taxes that are already owed us. The Tax Gap******* in this country is the real problem. We don't need MORE taxes. We need to collect the TAXES THAT ARE OWED US. Of course, with the Dept. of the Treasury facing budget cuts like everybody else, fat chance we're going to collect more of THAT money. This country is full of liars and cheats when it comes filling out tax returns, and guess what? Even if there were no liars or cheats, we have a growing population vs. a shrinking number of jobs that produce ... uh ... income .... that would then generate the ... uh ... income TAX. (And because we like to give people child credits as a reward for having more children, our population isn't going down anytime soon).
So, the "income tax" has become a joke, and needs to be replaced. Some intelligent people have suggested a flat tax for everybody ... but I don't believe that would fix the problem either, because it's still based on income nobody seems to have anymore, and, well, there still would be cheats and liars filling out tax returns.
The only obvious solution is a federal SALES tax, which would replace the income tax. Maybe everybody doesn't have income they're willing to declare that the government can tax, but EVERYBODY buys stuff. I'd like to know that my brother ... poor as he is, collecting Social Security, would still have to cough up his fair share by paying tax on all that booze and all those ciggies he's buying over at the food mart. And I'd like to know the drug dealers are paying their fair share when they purchase all those cars, boats and vacations their lucrative, formerly tax-free gains have enabled them to buy.
This is common sense ... and therefore has no place in Washington, I do realize.
So, forget that. Instead, let's all sit on our hands and watch the Big, Meaningless Washington Reality Show play out on TV. As a federal worker, I don't even care anymore if sequestration happens. Let whatever's gonna happen, happen, so we can move on with our lives. Frankly, I'll bet this is going to be a replay of the whole Y2K doomsday scenario where everybody expected the world's computers to crash on Jan. 1, 2000, and then NOTHING happened.
*Yeah, okay, that cleared it all up nicely. Thank you for playing.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Groundhogs and Puppies
Happy Big Ugly Rodent Day!
As I have always been a fan of the irrational and ridiculous, Groundhog's Day has always been one of my favorite pointless holidays. Asking a primitive-brained mammal to forecast weather is like asking my brother (another primitive-brained mammal) to analyze my stock portfolio.* Of course, if I were going to offer a full comparison, I'd invite Fox News over to the house with TV cameras to tape the excitement... during which, of course, my neighbors would be dancing around on my front lawn and passing out in the snow.
(Given that 90% of my neighbors are over the age of 75, there could be 9-1-1 calls and upsetting lawsuits to follow.)
Also, asking Punxsutawney Phil or Buckeye Chuck or Sockittome Sam** to assure me Spring is only a couple weeks away is laughable. With the exception of last year (the never-to-be-forgotten "Year Without Winter"), spring NEVER comes early to Northeast Ohio. When that over-bloated groundhog (beaver, squirrel, sea otter - would we really notice the difference?) predicts "six more weeks of winter," most Clevelanders will pray he honestly means it. "Really? Only six weeks? It'll all be over in March? Do we dare to dream the dream?"
Speaking of delusional dreaming ...
The Super Bowl is tomorrow. For folks in Baltimore and San Francisco... and New Orleans ... Green Bay ... Indianapolis ... Pittsburgh ... Boston ... Denver ... and at least 10 other cities ... it's the pinnacle of reality television. For sports fans in Cleveland, it's like watching science fiction. I would expect to see Darth Vader herding Ewoks down Ronald Drive before ever watching the Browns scoring touchdowns in February.
My sister, Barbara, lives in San Francisco, and hasn't stopped bitching about her team since Christmas. Every time they'd win a game, she'd call me up and begin every conversation with, "Well, the fucking 49ers won again." She obviously hates football. And when she says stuff like this, I tell her I'd hate her if I didn't love her so much. I try to explain to her that saying this to me would be like me telling a starving, homeless guy how much I hate lobster.*** But, I do get her point ... San Francisco is glutted with crazy people**** on a good day, so a major sporting event in their tiny little town resembles the day the power failed in Jurassic Park and all the dinosaurs got out. For somebody just trying to go to work or shop at the grocery, it's a commuter's worst nightmare. So, I kinda get why she's annoyed. But here in Cleveland, we'd weep with joy over the prospect of being thusly inconvenienced because, dammit, we never win ANYTHING. All of our sports teams universally suck. If a nationwide competition would be held to see which town's sport franchises suck most consistently, that's one championship we'd have a shot at actually winning. Cleveland's really a wonderful little city with a lot going for it, but decades of losing have polluted Lake Erie and the Cuyahoga River with rolling fumes of inadequacy and inferiority. Seriously ... if you stand next to either one and close your eyes, you can hear the voices floating in off the water ... particularly Stillwell Angel's from "A League of Their Own" chanting, "You're gonna lose! You're gonna lose!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FUB8SrlQAE
Consequently, I won't be watching the Super Bowl. To me it's like being a chubby, pimple-faced high school girl being invited to watch the quarterback nail the head cheerleader (right after he spits on me and makes canine references). Fun? Not so much. And I don't care about missing the commercials because ... well ... I won't. If they're any good, they'll be on YouTube five seconds after they air. And nobody misses pizza, wings and beer in Cleveland because, c'mon, you can't miss something that's always around. What's special about any of that in this town? You and I both know I just described a typical Friday night. Or Saturday night. Or Sunday night. (But never during the week, because that's when we exist on donuts and french fries). Just like San Francisco now has to deal with Green Police who lurk around at night checking everybody's trash bins for recycling violations, I predict Cleveland will someday have Grease Police who knock on our doors to make sure we're all eating something green.
So ... what will I be watching? Why, Animal Planet's "Puppy Bowl", of course! Every year I watch stupid young animals romping around on a green surface playing tug of war with a toy while smacking each other in the butt... and then I change the channel to watch the puppies instead. I'm especially a big fan of the annual "Kitty Halftime Show." It's good, wholesome entertainment without all the bad lip-synching, wardrobe malfunctions and goofy explosions that make the usual halftime shows so worth missing.
You say I'm wasting my time? Watching a bunch of puppies peeing in the red zone? (While some lucky guy in a referee uniform throws a yellow flag, holds up a little dog and announces there's been a personal foul on the field? Ha ha ha ... I chortle every time!)
Yeah, maybe it's a huge waste.
But c'mon ... my TV is on this morning, and I just saw a bunch of old guys in top hats holding up an obese marmot and telling us all spring is coming early this year. If I'm going to waste my time, at least let it be on something that is cute, warm, fuzzy and loveable in a universe that is almost never any of those things.
*"(Grunt) ... Hey ... this is your Brother Bill ... You need to buy more beer."
**I made that one up. I think. Practically every state has their own, so I can't possibly keep track of them all. I don't think they have groundhogs in Hawaii ... maybe somebody in a grass skirt just holds up a pineapple? I'll bet a pineapple would be a lot smarter than a groundhog. Or my brother.
***Actually, I don't hate lobster. I love lobster. In fact, one of the many reasons I'm single is because I never met a man I loved more than a dead lobster, or who treated me better than a dead lobster.
**** Go ahead ... visit this link and tell me all their silly green technology hasn't rotted their brains:
http://blogs.sfweekly.com/thesnitch/2013/01/5_reasons_your_should_move_to.php
As I have always been a fan of the irrational and ridiculous, Groundhog's Day has always been one of my favorite pointless holidays. Asking a primitive-brained mammal to forecast weather is like asking my brother (another primitive-brained mammal) to analyze my stock portfolio.* Of course, if I were going to offer a full comparison, I'd invite Fox News over to the house with TV cameras to tape the excitement... during which, of course, my neighbors would be dancing around on my front lawn and passing out in the snow.
(Given that 90% of my neighbors are over the age of 75, there could be 9-1-1 calls and upsetting lawsuits to follow.)
Also, asking Punxsutawney Phil or Buckeye Chuck or Sockittome Sam** to assure me Spring is only a couple weeks away is laughable. With the exception of last year (the never-to-be-forgotten "Year Without Winter"), spring NEVER comes early to Northeast Ohio. When that over-bloated groundhog (beaver, squirrel, sea otter - would we really notice the difference?) predicts "six more weeks of winter," most Clevelanders will pray he honestly means it. "Really? Only six weeks? It'll all be over in March? Do we dare to dream the dream?"
Speaking of delusional dreaming ...
The Super Bowl is tomorrow. For folks in Baltimore and San Francisco... and New Orleans ... Green Bay ... Indianapolis ... Pittsburgh ... Boston ... Denver ... and at least 10 other cities ... it's the pinnacle of reality television. For sports fans in Cleveland, it's like watching science fiction. I would expect to see Darth Vader herding Ewoks down Ronald Drive before ever watching the Browns scoring touchdowns in February.
My sister, Barbara, lives in San Francisco, and hasn't stopped bitching about her team since Christmas. Every time they'd win a game, she'd call me up and begin every conversation with, "Well, the fucking 49ers won again." She obviously hates football. And when she says stuff like this, I tell her I'd hate her if I didn't love her so much. I try to explain to her that saying this to me would be like me telling a starving, homeless guy how much I hate lobster.*** But, I do get her point ... San Francisco is glutted with crazy people**** on a good day, so a major sporting event in their tiny little town resembles the day the power failed in Jurassic Park and all the dinosaurs got out. For somebody just trying to go to work or shop at the grocery, it's a commuter's worst nightmare. So, I kinda get why she's annoyed. But here in Cleveland, we'd weep with joy over the prospect of being thusly inconvenienced because, dammit, we never win ANYTHING. All of our sports teams universally suck. If a nationwide competition would be held to see which town's sport franchises suck most consistently, that's one championship we'd have a shot at actually winning. Cleveland's really a wonderful little city with a lot going for it, but decades of losing have polluted Lake Erie and the Cuyahoga River with rolling fumes of inadequacy and inferiority. Seriously ... if you stand next to either one and close your eyes, you can hear the voices floating in off the water ... particularly Stillwell Angel's from "A League of Their Own" chanting, "You're gonna lose! You're gonna lose!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FUB8SrlQAE
Consequently, I won't be watching the Super Bowl. To me it's like being a chubby, pimple-faced high school girl being invited to watch the quarterback nail the head cheerleader (right after he spits on me and makes canine references). Fun? Not so much. And I don't care about missing the commercials because ... well ... I won't. If they're any good, they'll be on YouTube five seconds after they air. And nobody misses pizza, wings and beer in Cleveland because, c'mon, you can't miss something that's always around. What's special about any of that in this town? You and I both know I just described a typical Friday night. Or Saturday night. Or Sunday night. (But never during the week, because that's when we exist on donuts and french fries). Just like San Francisco now has to deal with Green Police who lurk around at night checking everybody's trash bins for recycling violations, I predict Cleveland will someday have Grease Police who knock on our doors to make sure we're all eating something green.
So ... what will I be watching? Why, Animal Planet's "Puppy Bowl", of course! Every year I watch stupid young animals romping around on a green surface playing tug of war with a toy while smacking each other in the butt... and then I change the channel to watch the puppies instead. I'm especially a big fan of the annual "Kitty Halftime Show." It's good, wholesome entertainment without all the bad lip-synching, wardrobe malfunctions and goofy explosions that make the usual halftime shows so worth missing.
You say I'm wasting my time? Watching a bunch of puppies peeing in the red zone? (While some lucky guy in a referee uniform throws a yellow flag, holds up a little dog and announces there's been a personal foul on the field? Ha ha ha ... I chortle every time!)
Yeah, maybe it's a huge waste.
But c'mon ... my TV is on this morning, and I just saw a bunch of old guys in top hats holding up an obese marmot and telling us all spring is coming early this year. If I'm going to waste my time, at least let it be on something that is cute, warm, fuzzy and loveable in a universe that is almost never any of those things.
*"(Grunt) ... Hey ... this is your Brother Bill ... You need to buy more beer."
**I made that one up. I think. Practically every state has their own, so I can't possibly keep track of them all. I don't think they have groundhogs in Hawaii ... maybe somebody in a grass skirt just holds up a pineapple? I'll bet a pineapple would be a lot smarter than a groundhog. Or my brother.
***Actually, I don't hate lobster. I love lobster. In fact, one of the many reasons I'm single is because I never met a man I loved more than a dead lobster, or who treated me better than a dead lobster.
**** Go ahead ... visit this link and tell me all their silly green technology hasn't rotted their brains:
http://blogs.sfweekly.com/thesnitch/2013/01/5_reasons_your_should_move_to.php
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