Be Careful What You Ask For...

I've been asking my youngest to start a Blog. Well, she did today, I guess as a Mother's Day Present. A twisted, warped Mother's Day present.

I present to the blogging world, my kid.

http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/

Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!

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I needed a new laptop. Being very impressed with the free customer service my oldest received when her laptop BSoD'ed three days after the warranty expired, I ordered myself the same brand, you know, the one that starts with a "Dell".

I know I am not the best typist in the world, but I do know when I am not causing the cursor to appear somewhere else in a document I am attempting to type, like I sent it through some short-term memory time warp. Due to the fact that I so hate/loathe/despise to talk to Tech-Lack-Of-Support, I emailed Dell and am waiting with baited breath for a reply. Since Google is my friend, and conferring with my brother-in-law, I have determined that this brand of laptop has had issues with wonky keyboards in the past (go Google "wonky keyboards"and Dell will most likely come up in the top ten search replies).

So, we shall see what transpires. By the way, I've had to retrieve my cursor at least fifteen times while typing this post.

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My sister tells me one needs to be very specific when asking the Universe for something. Perhaps I should request a codicil.

A Child's Bouquet

When Spring came to my childhood home and May finally appeared, our yard became flush with violets. Islands of purple amidst a green grass sea. Blooms bowing slightly on long stems. Along side the stone foundation sprouted clumps of Lily of the Valleys, the small white, perfectly formed bells hung like fragrant dewdrops from the strong green reeds. Nature worked Her magic by placing these two flowers to bloom at just the right time in the life of a child. Simple flowers that grew in such a way that they could be easily plucked by little hands. Violets, so vibrant in color, so subtle of scent. Lily of the Valleys, simply white, but complex in perfume and quietly exquisite in formation. Flowers in perfect balance, joined together at the right time to make a delicate child's bouquet...a tussy-mussy to be excitedly given as a token of love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Are you sure typing when the easier, I mean when they, and and I mean when being that that that that the audit deduct up to if?

Technology is wonderful, if not funny in a "pull-your-hair-out-by-the-roots" kind of way. My new computer has voice recognition, where you can dictate emails, documents, and whatnot. It's not perfect, though, although I am sure the computer would blame my voice and lack of diction for any and all mistakes. So I thought I would dictate a blog entry without adjusting for what the computer thinks I am saying, just to showcase how wonderful and helpful this this may be in my life.


I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph


The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.


I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?


I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?


And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.


So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.


I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.

Fashion-not-sa

Out of sheer boredom the other day, I picked up a copy of a woman's fashion magazine so I would have something to read as I waited in the school parking lot for my daughter.

It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.

The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?

I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.

The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.

Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.

So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.

And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"

I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.

Benched

When the trees turn green and the wind blows warmly down the river valley, I will most likely find myself back to this place.

I have sat at this bench many times, for many reasons. Reflection, boredom, escape. I've sat, watching fishermen situated under the bridge, hoping for the big Walleye. Maybe they sit in their boats for the same reason I sit at this park bench, using a fishing pole as a prop so as to not seem purposeless.

I watch as barges float by, impossibly silent and serene. They look unoccupied, save a solitary figure walking against the flow of the river as he makes his way to the cabin. He looks like he is going nowhere, as if he is strolling in the opposite direction on an automatic walkway. I figure it probably isn't a very good idea to jump up and down in one place on a moving barge, especially if standing by a large object. Would they fall over it or crash into it on the way down?

I have sat at this bench a few times, daring myself not to leave the bench until way after sundown. Maybe a argument or a bruised ego found me here, and this bench is as far away as I will come to ever running away from home. The chill of the coming evening and the sting of mosquitoes, plunging their needles into my skin tells me my passive-aggressive nature will not win out.

I am always alone at this park bench, except for the constant companion of high frequency ringing in my ears, not unlike the sound of the mosquitoes zeroing in to steal my blood. The river draws me in, not physically, but emotionally. It is the ultimate "road not taken". I watch the river forever flowing within the boundaries of its shores until it finds freedom in the wide expanse of the oceans.

In comparison to the river, I am a mere creek, twisting its way out of existence before it can ever merge with the sea.

In the name of pride.

I noticed that my youngest daughter was unusably quiet this weekend and was not her normal quirky self. Knowing what time of year it was, I had my druthers as to what the culprit was. So seeing that I had her full and undivided attention in the van this morning, heading for school, I asked her if she tried her best on her essay paper, which is her second attempt.

"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."

To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.

I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.

"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.

"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.

I don't think that counts though.

And she's gone.

Last week, my daughter and son-in-law finally started married life together in another state after six months of separation. She called me to tell me about the duplex they are renting. "It has a dishwasher!!!" she excitedly pointed out to me. I am so glad for her husband, since the girl couldn't hand wash a dish to save even my life.

She called me while she was cooking her first dinner in their new lodgings, sounding as giddy as a toddler with a new Easy Bake Oven. She asks me how much is two-thirds of a cup. She senses my confusion and explains that she forgot to buy measuring cups when they went grocery shopping to set up their pantry.

She calls me every morning with a cheery "Good Morning", which is bizarre since she isn't a "morning person". While at home, I was lucky if I got a grumpy mumbled imitation of the greeting.

She calls me while she's shopping at the BX.

She calls me as she's driving through town.

She Calls Me. All. The. Time.

She's five-hundred miles away, yet I feel she is still here with all the phone calls.

I am so incredibly lucky.

Dashboard Moments

Since I live a whole block too close to my daughter's school, and her unwavering fear of acquiring a driver's license (not like I am in a huge hurry for her to be driving anyway), I take her to and from every day. I'm not complaining mind you...we spend the time talking about everything from political issues to the upcoming Star Trek movie and how it better not end up full of fail, as she puts it.

One day I decided to stash a camera in my purse, just in case I might see something interesting while I was out and about. Sitting at a stoplight, first at the line, I thought I would snap a picture and try an experiment where I would post the resulting snapshots under the heading of "Dashboard Moments", and tell a story about what I viewed at that particular intersection.

So, without further ado (or adon't), here is my first installment.

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The Green Mill Fire Aftermath

Most anyone who grew up in my town or surrounding area (you know who you are) probably ate at this restaurant which was at the corner of Columbus and Madison Streets. It was one of the longest running restaurants in Ottawa. My family and I ate there at least once a month when I was a child. I remember a man named Nick, who would meet my parents at the door, and welcome them with a flourish of , "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Leach! Your booth is open towards the back. Your lovely family can take a seat and your waitress will be with you very soon."

He actually knew my parents by name! We had our "regular booth"! I felt very special as he would escort us to our seats and hand us our menus. The booths were slightly worn down by years of patrons, and I had to sit on my feet to reach the table top comfortably. I remember that there was an unsaid rule that moms and dads ordered from one side of the menu where the steaks and seafood dwelled, and children ordered from the other side of the menu where the hot dogs, hamburgers and fish sandwiches lurked. I asked one day why I couldn't order a steak.

"Well, you are too young cut your own steak. Your Father ends up cutting it for you, and by the time he is done, his food is cold. It's not fair. When you are able to cut your own steak, you can order one."

Mom was right. It wasn't fair that my dad would have to eat cold steak, so I settled for a fish sandwich. Sometimes I would plead that I was "old enough" to cut my own steak, but after a few failed tries, my dad would set off to work, making sure my steak was cut in small enough pieces where I couldn't choke while eating. Dad would then start cutting into his cooled off steak and I would feel a twinge of guilt. If I was well behaved, didn't order steak, ate my dinner and didn't fight with my sister, I would get to order dessert. It was usually rice pudding with cream and cinnamon. I loved the candied orange pieces that hid among the creamy comfort of the pudding. I thought of them as little gems I had to dig for.

The Green Mill changed hands few times through the years, and I had always thought about stopping in for a bite, to see if I could transport myself in time where a cheery and graicous man named Nick would make me feel like I had the most important family in the world. But I never did, because reality is never as bright and shiny as the memory of a child.

Because all the cool kids are doing it...

...I have a Facebook account.

Now, what do I do with it?

Winter Pallor, or, "A Paler Shade of White".

I stumble out of my warm bed to be welcomed by the chilly morning air. I assume it's morning. My alarm clock reads 6:01 am, but the sun has other plans as it still is hiding below my horizon. I turn on the bathroom light and scowl at my reflection in the mirror, my skin's shade of white echoing the color of last night's dusting of snow.

I blame it on the lights above the bathroom sink...

Okay, enough of the poetic monologue...I am so frickin' sick of winter! It's yet another morning of single digit f*ckitude. This is the Winter of my discontent.

But, then, when have I ever been content with Winter?

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In other personal news, because isn't that what a blog is supposed to be about? Personal stuff? My daughter's cat Valhalla, the cat who wasn't there, is now a permanent fixture on my living room chair. She has finally decided that there is more to the house than the upstairs bedroom. Val has bravely ventured downstairs, took on the corgis and won for now. There is a detente at the moment, sporadically broken by one of the corgis venturing too near Val's bunker on one of the dining room chairs, resulting in a barrage of hissing, barking, yelping, and bruised doggy egos.

And she is such an affectionate cat! Look at her rub up against my leg, meowing sweetly...awww!

"Mom, she isn't rubbing against your leg, she backing up against your leg", Rachel explains drolly, as only Rachel can. "She's in heat. Again."

Nothing like being reminded of the *feline birds and bees by my younger daughter. Gawd, I feel so used.

***

My son-in-law has graduated from his IT classes at the AF base in Biloxi, and is now home for few weeks, working in the local recruiter's office, shanghi-ing signing up potential recruits. In the first year my daughter and her husband have been married, they have lived apart. They will be moving to Nebraska and finally be starting their married live together. May reality slap them upside the head gently. Please.

So, in about a month, be prepared to read a weepy, glurgy post about mommies letting their daughters fly from the nest and all that while Perry Como sings "Turn Around" in the background. Hell, she flew from the nest years ago. At least she thought she did in her sixteen-year-old-I-know-it-all mind that prematurely reared it's head at age seven.

I knew enough not to let go back then. Hopefully I'll know enough to do so when the time comes.

*Yes, the cat is going to be fixed.

Divisive Benediction?

It's a somewhat disturbing day when I agree somewhat with Glenn Beck.

Part of President Obama's message has been one of ending the divisive rhetoric and actions that has plagued this country for the past eight years. The "either/or" mentality of the the Era of W. The reaching across the aisles, figuratively and literally.

The act of the majority of this country, voting for a man that came from stock outside of White Bread America, showed that we too, wanted an end to the madness, and that we could expand our minds beyond the idea that someone too young, too foreign of a name, too black could lead a Nation.

So, was there any room for Reverend Joseph Lowery's benediction? In a time when President Obama, in his now famous keynote speech the the Democratic National Convention of 2004, invoked a different America with these words:

"There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America."

Compare these words to those invoked by Revered Lowery:

"We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to give back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will embrace what is right."

Thought provoking, or ill-timed rhetoric? It probably depends on what side of the fence one is, a fence I thought President Obama sought to tear down...all fences...racial, political, spiritual.

I realize that this is a major time in history for African Americans, more so possibly for those who crawled through the trenches of racial discrimination so many years ago. Those who walked with MLK, those who saw him stuck down amidst his mountainous climb. The Little Rock Nine, children who simply wanted to go to school, who found the Arkansas National Gaurd blocking their way. The Tuskeegee Airmen who fought so bravely during WWII for this country, only to come home to find that they were still directed to take the back entrance.

So, I see where the good Reverend is coming from, but remember, it's a major time for us all. A time where we are beginning to judge a person by his words and deeds, and not by words that describe his appearance.

Bricks

Just a short post. I'm helping to spread this through the blogosphere. Take a moment to visit this blog created to help a fellow blogger after a fire totally destroyed his home January 4th.


http://www.habitatfortravis.blogspot.com/

A Quiet Existence

I'm still living at my dad's house as he recuperates from open heart surgery and a mild TIA he suffered the first week home, which was most likely the scariest moment in my life to witness. But it has left no shadow in its wake, thankfully, except for the lasting image in my mind, looking into my dad's blue-gray eyes, fearfully realizing that for a few agonizing minutes, he was not there, for the glitch occurring in his brain.

In the almost three weeks I've been here, I've discovered quiet existence. At times I feel I am in a monastery, as we sit monk-like, just being. Simple housework has become zen-like, along with observing the minutiae of daily life. I note the patterns in the carpeting the vacuum cleaner leaves behind. I inhale the scent of freshly dried laundry, wondering why my clothes at home don't smell the same as I make a mental note to pick up Dad's choice of laundry soap. I reminisce as I see Mom in almost every corner of the house though her collections of antiques and scattered snapshots depicting happier, healthier times. Dad occasionally notices the wind playing with the tree tops, commenting that the weather is changing. We both lightly laugh at the cat's antics as she randomly bats at a fake furry mouse, then darts away from it as if it suddenly became real. Sometimes we banter back and forth over some news item, snickering at the state of Illinois politics. I ask him if he wants lunch, or if wants to take yet another handful of medication as my throat closes at the thought.

The passage of time is marked with the emptying of Dad's compartmentalized medicine organizer, as if it were a calendar.

We sit together in this large house, silently, not because we have nothing to say to each other, but because we don't have to, if we choose.

This time spent in this house, with my dad, reminded me of his quiet acceptance. Life is what it is. Move on the best you can because another day is just waiting on the other side of the hemisphere. My dad could howl at the moon, curse at the harsh light of day. Who knows, he may in solitude. He may not. I do know my dad is anxious to get some semblance of his life pre-surgery returned to him. He is itching to be able to drive wherever and whenever, or be able to push himself out of his chair using his arms. I bet he's waiting for the day when he owns the t.v. remote again (he has relinquished it to me for some reason), when he can belch without apology...who knows, walk around the house sans clothing. He knows, though, that going on and on about what he can't do isn't going to make the day when he can arrive sooner.

I am going to have to return to my home soon. Back to my hyper corgis, the cat who isn't there, my too-small rooms stuffed with too much, well, stuff. Back to my daughter and her off-kilter humor that sometimes needs to be reigned in. Home to the other quiet man in my life, one who for whatever reason is not totally comfortable with lingering silence.

But, if I have learned anything living with my dad for this span of time, I have rediscovered that quiet place within me that can exist outside solitude. When the corgis bark and yip at imaginary sheep, or when my daughter channels Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and Stephen Colbert at the same time, or when my husband waxes unpoetical about glass manufacturing operations...all of the above usually happening simultaneously, I'll have somewhere to go.

Happy New Year

My wishes for you and yours this New Year...

Smiles and laughter.
Silly moments.
Quiet interludes.
Many hugs.
Health.
Dreams come true and wishes fulfilled.
Peaceful sleep and mornings filled with hopeful anticipation.
Epiphanies.
Good friends, good times, good food and good spirits.
A love which no words can describe its depths.
Simple things made profound by appreciation.
A well lived year.

Make it a good one.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, however that term holds meaning for you, and Happy Holidays.

I am finding my day away from my family this year. They are only a few minutes down the road, but it is still "away". My eldest daughter has a new family and new traditions to celebrate the day this year, as this is her first Christmas as a young married woman. My youngest, at sixteen is at home with my husband, I am sure playing Half-Life on her new Xbox, wearing her vintage-style motorcycle goggles, rainbow toe socks on her feet, courtesy of what she found under the tree yesterday.

I guess at sixteen, one can be flexible on which day to open presents.

I was not there to witness the unwrapping, as I am hovering over my dad for the next two weeks as he recuperates from open heart surgery. I have a feeling that he'll soon tire of me and kick me out, which is a good thing. He is doing amazingly well. Dad is navigating stairs and doing most routines on his own. When one thinks of the process of open heart surgery, being placed on a heart-lung bypass machine, having parts replaced and plumbing re-routed, keeping the body oxygenated while the heart is temporally turned off until it is zapped back into service...it almost makes the mechanics of the body, well, mechanical. Simple. But as we all know, the body is more complex than that.

So, my Christmas Day is spent back in my childhood home, waking up in my childhood bed. The bed is shorter than I remember, the room my bed now resides in smaller. The night-time sounds are the same, though. The expansion and contraction of the one-hundred year old home are the same as they were when I was a child, only this time I know they are not sounds of secret monsters in my closet or under my bed. The smells are the same, scents that evoke memories spanning forty years. Memories of those no longer inhabiting this space. Memories of my mom.

I awoke early this morning, and still in my jammies snuck downstairs, not to see a Christmas tree and a pile of presents, but to see my Dad, sitting in his easy chair, a cup of coffee on his side table.

"Good morning," he greeted me.

It was the best Christmas present I could have ever received.

The heart of the matter, and other reasons

It's been awhile since I've added anything here, in this little spot of the Internet I call "ME" space. Not that there hasn't been anything to write about, I guess I just haven't felt the itch to do so.

So, without further ado, here is somewhat of a update, for those who wondered if I fell off the face of the earth, or if my laptop finally gave up the ghost:

My father had open-heart surgery Tuesday to replace his aortic valve. It was discovered at that time he would also need a bypass. He is doing as well as one can expect after having one's sternum cleaved open then wired back together. The surgery was very successful, and I will be returning to see him this weekend and hopefully bring him home. He's in one of the premier cardiac hospitals in the state about a two hours drive away, but as I sit here at my home, I feel like I'm thousands of miles away. I know that right now he is in very capable hands, but I still feel torn.

The ICU holding room is a very surreal place. It sits inside its own space/time continuum...like Vegas, but without the flashing lights and garish carpeting. Families huddle around in their small areas of real estate as if they are trying to collect warmth from an invisible campfire. They wait for surgical updates, biding their time until they can spend their allotted 15-20 minutes with recovering loved ones. Or loved ones who are trying to recover, or those who will never recover.

My father, in his situation, makes me realize, despite all the pain he is in, how fortunate our little family clan is.

We, being my husband, my sister and myself, spent some time with an elderly woman whose husband of sixty-two years was recovering slowly from a heart attack. She has been living in the ICU waiting room for almost a month. She had her suitcase and carry-all full of bottled water along side the chair she would sleep in at night. Quietly she would work on crossword puzzles, occasionally checking her watch to see if enough time had passed until she could spend another twenty minutes with her husband. That is how time passes in ICU, in two hour blocks and twenty minute increments.

When my husband asked her if she was staying at a hotel nearby, she shook her head and replied,"I've been with him for over sixty years, I'm not leaving him now."

Whenever I want to picture "strength" from now on, I will forever see this woman in my mind.


Other reasons...

About a month ago, I started taking a anti-depressant which is doing great for the black moods, but it has really done a number on my creative processes. I feel as if someone shoved cotton in the wanting-to-write center of my brain. Or, it could be as simple as the fact that I have removed "Sarah Palin" from my Google news alerts. My sister, who has some novels bouncing around in her head, waiting to be set free tells me that the lack of impetus to write lessens with time, so I will try and be patient. So, hopefully soon, I will emerge again and prolifically blog once more.

Lucky you, you dear readers.

What R/C Pilots do when it is too damn cold.

Here is a video from one of the local newspaper's on-line editions which features my husband and my youngest daughter who have found a Winter outlet for radio-control flying. My husband is the one with the Nascar (natch) sweatshirt, and my daughter is along-side with her Godiva hair and emo glasses.



My husband and daughter usually fly planes that weigh in the pounds during the warm months. The planes they fly indoors usually measure in ounces. They are powered by small motors, tiny servos, and battery packs the size of half a stick of gum, if that.

It's a fun time. If there is the inevitable mid-air, the planes usually end up fluttering to the ground like stunned birds. No harm done. Dear Husband says even I could fly one, but I could never wrap my head around that "right-is-left-and-down-is-up" when the plane is flying towards you.

Black Friday Death

According to the breaking news this morning, a Walmart worker was trampled to death after opening the doors at 5am to the sales-maddened throng waiting outside. Other sources are reporting that a woman also miscarried after being knocked to the ground.

Other shoppers were upset when the police closed the store afterwards.

Does the thought of saving $200 on a flat-screen television equal losing any sense of humanity? Does common sense get tossed out the window, so much so that nobody even conceives the danger that is mob mentality?

I can't blame the slumping economy for this. Black Friday Blitzes have always been marked down as a "must do" date on many calendars, along with weddings and birthdays and the Fourth of July. The huge variety of electronics and other gadgets, items that supposedly are to make our lives easier, or objects to distract us from life in general are usually the main items that cause many to storm the castle of consumerism. Really, how exciting does a Black Friday Sale on Fruit of the Looms sound?

I feel that the stores that perpetuate this atmosphere of MUST HAVE NOW!!! are culpable. The masses are spoon-fed weeks before with "leaks" of one-day sales. The "first-to-have" title when new games or cell phones are released also play into the Sheeple mentality.

"I got the new iPhone!"
"Well, I stood in line for ten hours so I could be the first one to buy it."
"You're the man, dude!"

"I knocked down three shoppers to be one of the first people in Walmart!"
"You're the man, dude!"

Really, are these stories we want to be regaling to our grandchildren someday? "I survived the Black Friday Blitz of '08!" As it is, some Walmarts hand out pins emblazoned with past Black Friday survival stories to their employees as a badge of honor.

Shopping as "Survival of the Fittest". I'm waiting for the new reality show, coming soon to a network near you. But, it's worse. It's "Shopping as Bloodsport".

Christmas in July, please! (In honor of Black Friday)

You know, I so hate this time of the year. Winter, us humans naturally go into a hibernation state. Something we never totally brushed off after eons of evolution. Snow falls, temps fall, sun sits lower in the sky, even at noon, no longer at it's lofty zenith of the height of summer.

Time…slows…down.

Then, just to screw around with human's natural want/need/desire to hunker down and stay warm under a pile of pelts made of cotton and flannel and wool, hopefully with a warm mug of toddy cradled in our hands…Marketing Demons declare it's SHOPPING SEASON!!! Drag yourselves out the warmth of home and hearth (even those without a fireplace) and slog around in the frozen muck and frigid wind to do the "Holiday Thing". Denizens of mallcrawllers, no longer crawling, but rushing, tripping, fretting…any antonym of "leisure" would work here just fine…a glazed, dazed look, something like a lemming might look like as it follows it's fellow lemmings off a sheer cliff. This is why it's been said Christmas should be in July.

Hell, then I would probably be bitching about the human's natural instinct to seek shade and cool shelter in the heat of the day instead of running around like crazed lemmings…

Thankful

For those who celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving. May your festivities be as stress-free as possible. This year there will be no cooking by anyone in my family as we decided on something different as the only thing being made by me this year are reservations. Small house + two dogs + person who hates to cook (me)≠ a happy, carefree celebration.

Whereas, my husband loves to cook for Thanksgiving. Well, if by that you mean drop a turkey in a vat of hot oil for an hour cooking, then, yes, he loves to cook. No, I should give him a break. Fried turkey is as Alton Brown says, "Mighty good eats", especially if you don't burn down your deck in the process. No, he has never set anything ablaze because I discovered the secret...turn OFF the gas, slowly drop bird in oil, after and only after the bubbling-popping-spattering of oil is done, turn the gas back on.

Well, it works for us, but I'm not promising anything for anyone else. And besides, I'm digressing. Sometimes I swear I'm channeling Andy Rooney, and he's still alive, last time I checked.

Anyway, I am looking forward to a nice dinner out with my husband, both my daughters and my dad, always thankful that they, and all the rest of my family and friends who aren't sharing our table, are in my life.

Thank you.