May 31, 2021--Write in Complete Sentences Day
There is a woman in my neighborhood who is out to kill me. She has tried to run me down twice now in her large sport utility vehicle. She drives a black Lincoln Navigator which is always shiny. She waits to pick up her children from an elementary school located in my neighborhood like some secret service agent waiting to pick up the presidential precious cargo. I have grown weary of her machinations at my demise. I ride my bicycle everyday through my neighborhood. My typical route takes me past this woman's children's elementary school. I have determined that since she is out to kill me, I will avoid riding at the parent pickup time when school is out. Currently, I have a ninety day reprieve, but not from a restraining order. Since school is officially over for the summer, I can ride my bike with impunity or at least without fear of getting killed by my assailant. She made the first attempt at my life when I was riding past the school one day this spring. I was pushing my pedals on the sidewalk as all of the pick up mommies had lined up their cars in the street. I was just at the crosswalk to the school when the woman nearly plowed me down. I was crossing the school's driveway, and there was even a teacher with a walkie talkie directing traffic. However, she wasn't doing that great of a job managing the onslaught of vehicles making their exit from the child pick- up drive-thru because she did not see the Navigator either. As I crossed the drive way to the school, Black-Lincoln-Navigator- Woman was bearing down on her gas pedal as she exited the parking lot of the school. I should have had the right of way since I was on a bicycle and she was in a car. She hit her brakes just as the handle bars of my bike would have hit her right fender. As she continued on her way, she never even glanced at me. She didn't she see me, but I saw her. I saw that she was talking on her phone. In the backseat sat two little kids ensconced within the confines of leather seat cushions and strapped into their places like astronauts on the space shuttle. Even though she had the darkened windows of the secret service on her Navigator, I could still see within the interior as I was that close. The second time she tried to kill me was about two weeks later. I made the mistake of riding my bicycle at the time that school let out. I thought I would avoid my assassin by riding away from the direction of the school. I had made a circuitous route avoiding the school and was on my way back home. I had almost made it to the corner of my own street, but still had a crossing to make where the street that the school is on crosses the corner that I need to pass to get home. As luck would have it, this woman made her second attempt on my life. Just like the first time, I don't think she ever saw me, but I saw her. She was still on her phone and her passengers still sat shackled in the backseat. I avoided a collision by stopping my bike altogether and waiting at the curb. As I sat there watching, I saw her right fender once again come precariously close to my personal being. I shudder to think why this woman has it out for me so badly. I wanted to shout, "Stop menacing me!" If it happens again, perhaps I will. It is time to take control of the situation. Now that summer is here, I have time to think on this scenario. Today is Write in Complete Sentences Day and also Memorial Day. I did not want to tell this story in terms of Memorial Day however, for fear of it becoming true. I have finished my story. In complete sentences. Until now. May 29, 2021--End of the Middle Ages Day
Someone once said that fifty is the new thirty. When I turned fifty, it seemed true. And this year, I will turn sixty. I guess that means that sixty is the new forty. So technically, according to that way of thinking, I should still be in my middle ages. Funny, but I don't exactly feel like I am middle aged, but I am also not old. I am somewhere in between. "Betwixt and between" is what Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings called the yearling. A yearling is animal that is a year old. A year old animal is still a pup or calf. Still playful, but ready to be an adult at the same time. It's a time of transition in the animal's life. Too bad that at the end of the book, The Yearling, the actual yearling, Flag, dies. Oh, darn. Spoiler alert. I seriously doubt anyone is going to read that book, though. I would like to think of our sixties as our yearling decade. We are adults, but we are ready to resume the playfulness we left behind when we started to meet the challenges of adulthood. We are ready to be entertained. We are shedding our aprons and work belts to put on leisurewear. Department stores with Resort Wear sections and travel agencies cater to us. There's our health to take care of when we are sixty, which could become a full time job. Especially if we haven't done much about it in the recent past. If you don't want taking care of your health to overtake your life, may I suggest the book, Younger by Next Year? Misogynistic and boring, if you can get through it, it could change your thinking. And instead of taking care of your health, you will be taking care of yourself. And you are guaranteed to live longer if you follow the rules outlined in the book. Most of us will retire when we are in our sixties, but the book, Younger by Next Year, says to put off retirement as long as possible. The authors claim that nothing makes you feel older than not having a purpose to your life, and for them, work has given that purpose. I don't know if that is a man thing or not. I know plenty of women who love their careers and do not wish to retire just because they can. I chose to retire when I did not only because I could, but also, I had too much on my plate. Taking care of my dad when he became dependent on me was the straw that broke this camel's back. Not everyone has the choice to retire when caring for an elderly relative, though. And if you fall into that category, then your middle ages just got prolonged. I have found that retirement suits me well. If my middle ages have ended, then I have replaced them with something better. I have more time to let the creative part of my brain flourish. If the real middle ages were the dark ages of history, then what comes after should be a time of enlightenment--a renaissance, or time of rebirth. In history, the actual Renaissance time period was marked by a time of the revival of classical learning and wisdom. I am well on my way to becoming the wise woman, or crone. By the way, if you do read the book, Younger by Next Year, and follow the tenets of it but don't feel younger, you could sue the authors for malpractice. But you will be too busy being dead. May 26, 2021--National Paper Airplane Day
One school where I used to teach grouped all the kids into pods or teams. All kids whose last names began with certain letters of the alphabet would share the same teachers across all subjects. And so it came to pass that entire groups of kids would come to my classroom precisely after their science class. One day, I began to notice paper airplanes or, more specifically, paper space shuttles getting carefully brought in among all of the books, binders, and pencil bags. The first period this happened, I didn't think much of it. Then, when kids in the next period also had an air force's worth of space shuttles I began to wonder. So I asked. "They're from science," was the only answer that was supplied. So, I tried to ignore the fleet of airplane rockets that lined the floor of my classroom. Each one sat neatly next to its owner's desk. It reminded me of an article I read once in People magazine. Somewhere in Florida, there is an entire fly-in neighborhood. Homeowners each have their private planes parked next to their homes in what would normally be a driveway. My day went on. Each preceding class period, the paper planes began to look more ominous. It was a bit threatening, to tell the truth. I felt like when I was cruising down the freeway right after 911, and I saw a parade of military equipment making its way to San Antonio. Knowing the state of the world back then, I felt both safe and insecure at the same time. As I taught the lesson that day, I roamed up and down the aisle of my classroom, as usual. I was careful to not step on anyone's paper airplane. However, near the end of the day, I got careless. Or perhaps I grew tired. I was pacing down an aisle when I heard a distinct crunch like the crumbling of a sheet of paper. The class grew silent. I gingerly looked down. Underneath the heel of my shoe lay a crumbled and destroyed paper space shuttle. All eyes were on me, expecting, I suppose, some hyper perplexic verbal lashing. I like to think I ran a tight ship back then, but really I just had good kids. The owner of the now ruined space shuttle looked down and then straight ahead. There was an unspoken rule about paper airplanes in class. Everyone knew it. It fell under the heading of "anything not conducive to the learning environment." I didn't know what say at my faux pas. I didn't mean to step on the kid's science project. And I didn't know what to make of the arsonal of paper airplanes that could destroy the class decorum at a moment's notice. Finally, the moment was saved. Another student, a wise cracking young man across the aisle, said in his best authoritative voice, "Houston, we have a problem." Everyone laughed. And that is when I ventured to ask why all of them were keeping the shuttles. "Oh, we just like them, Miss," was the response. Oh, thank goodness. I thought they were a homework assignment or something that had to be turned back in. If that had been the case, I had already been composing in my head the note that I would have written. It would be peppered with lots of flowery language and would have mentioned how this particular shuttle had "slipped the surly bonds of earth," and "touched the face of God." May 25, 2021--Geek Pride Day
Our daughter thinks Husband and I are nerds. How did this happen? We used to be cool. The reason I don't know this is because my own parents were nerds. I did not see this transition coming. The definition of a nerd is a person who is boring and lacks social skills. Boringly studious is an alternative definition. When did the art of study become boring? Here are some things I am currently studying: where to buy wallpaper border, how to perfect a godet, and a better way to play arpeggios on the piano. Husband likes to study the stock market, where and which mountains to visit next, and French. I don't know what is so bad about any of that. There are some things that I think I study, but really, I do not study them at all. Rather I apply the knowledge of what I do not have. For example, the subject of feng shui is something I have tried to study in the past. I even bought a book on it, but as far as making each section of your home reflect a certain energy, or chi, according to scientific calculations, I just don't think it can be done. I even bought a book on feng shui once, and what I remember is the direction your home faces is everything. And for most of us, there is little we can do about which direction our home is facing. There is also some kind of formula that has money or the source of your money in one room, and the source of rest and relaxation in another. Theoretically, the source of your money should be a home office. But what if home office chi is located on the side of your home where your kitchen is located? And location of rooms is key, according to the book I used to own. Not many of us can relocate our kitchens according to the whims of feng-shui knowledge. I certainly can't. And according to this book, my place of rest and relaxation, which should be my bedroom, turned out to be my den. I got rid of my book on feng-shui. All I really remember from it is that moving things around keeps your home from having stale energy. Or maybe I made that part up. I use my lack of feng-shui knowledge to my advantage by constantly moving furniture around and making objects change places. You need to get in touch with your chi. And all of us have our own unique chi. Somehow my channeling my chi makes me a nerd in the eyes of Daughter. Well, I actually don't know what makes Husband and me nerds in her eyes. I only know she has told us that we were nerds, maybe once or twice. Apparently only she holds the key as to who qualifies as a nerd and who does not. I also know that she does not share my penchant to rearrange stuff. From her lack of enthusiasm, I get that my relocating things is nerdy. Does arranging all of your DVD's in alphabetical order so that they are easier to find make you a nerd? Well, that is something I have done. And what about still owning a boom box? That is very nerdy, apparently. If truth be told, we also still own a VCR machine. And VCR tapes, as well. Our wedding was recorded on a VCR tape. How am I not supposed to own a VCR machine if I have an important part my life recorded on a VCR tape? I used to see advertisements in the newspaper about companies who would switch your old VCR tapes to DVD's or I guess now to completely digital. I don't know how to find one of those ads anymore, as I no longer have a subscription to the newspaper. It would not surprise me if all of those companies have by now gone out of business, as I may be the last remaining person on earth who has valuable content on a VCR tape. And now it may be too late to have that content transferred to digital. This fact further implicates me as a nerd. The definition of geek is an unfashionable or socially inept person. This definition is the one that Daughter must use when categorizing her parents. We are socially inept in our hesitancy to embrace the newest tends. Our holding on to old ways and customs, especially in the form of technology, makes us unfashionable. If studying where to buy wallpaper makes you a nerd, well then, I am guilty as charged. I would rather replace the broken wallpaper, then have to redecorate the entire kitchen. If getting better at the craft of sewing in order to make my clothes last longer and be more wearable, then color me guilty. If perfecting my arpeggios on the piano in order to play any song I want without actually reading the bass clef, then I guess I am nerdy. I am nothing if not always finding ways to do things faster and easier. Faster and easier is the younger generation's mantra, I think. But the truth is both generations want to do things faster and easier. It's just that the older ones of us find ways to do things faster, easier, and better in the most mundane tasks. While for our younger cohorts, nothing has yet become mundane. May nothing for them ever become dull, monotonous, or humdrum. Or when things do become dull and humdrum, may they all have children to remind them that they have become dull, humdrum, and monotonous. Oh, and above all else, let them be reminded of the repetition. They will have become repetitive. May 23, 2021--National Safe Boating Week
My husband owns a four man raft and air pump. This contraption has proven great fun for us on many trips to lakes and beaches. I can't even remember the purpose for its purchase many years ago. Could it have been to save our lives when we still lived in a house with ditches in the front? One summer, we booked a room at the prestigious San Luis Resort and Hotel in Galveston, Texas. Husband packed the minivan with the raft and his air pump. We checked in, took our bags to our room, and enjoyed the hotel's many amenities. One of those amenities is a very short walk to the beach. The San Luis, like most hotels in Galveston, sits right on the beach. Well, not exactly on the beach, but across the street from it, and up steps along the seawall. The seawall is there the protect Galveston from hurricanes, but what it actually means is that there is a wide sidewalk all along and above the beach. The street that runs adjacent to the sidewalk and the seawall is called Seawall Boulevard, a busy street that must be crossed in order to get to the beach. To get from the our hotel to the beach, you had to exit through the hotel's fancy front hall filled with wicker settees, chandeliers, and oil paintings of old Galveston. After the long, gilded front hall, there is an outdoor passageway, still hall-like, but shorter and filled with flowing fountains and tropical plants. To enter the hotel thusly, you immediately forget that that you were just standing on the blazing sand of the beach or the humid and hot asphalt parking lot. On the left side of the outdoor passageway is a tropical swimming pool for guests, and on the right side is a walkup bar, complete with reggae music and overly priced pina coladas. To continue straight, you are confronted with the hotel's Porte Cochere, bell boys, and valet parking attendants. To exit the hotel and get to the beach the quickest way is to turn left right before the Porte Cochere and walk down a narrow bougainvillea lined pathway. This trail leads to the corner of the parking lot in front of the hotel. On the corner is a traffic light that stops cars and trucks so that paying hotel guests can cross safely to the beach and the seawall. On this trip, we spent the greater part of our first day at the tropical pool. The second day we ventured to the beach. Boy, was it hot. Husband wanted to air up the raft, but decided to do so in the coolness of our hotel room. I would like to say here and now that I was against this maneuver. The San Luis Resort and Conference Center is a four star hotel. Although this story happened some years ago, the rate for a room today is upwards of $450.00 without any discounts. Don't worry, we would never pay that much for a room, then or now. I know we had used some kind of a discount because we always do. I only mention all of these facts because the place has the air of money about it. So that is why we looked like a bunch of hillbillies toting our giant banana colored blubbery raft through the place. After it was aired up, we had to let some of the air out again to get it through the door of our room. Once in the lushly furnished hallway, Husband replenished the air and the four of us began the parade to bring the thing to the water. We were dressed for water. We had on swimsuits. life jackets and water shoes, but no towels or cover-ups. We were going straight to the ocean. Sun tan lotion had been applied inside our room. When the elevator stopped on our floor, we managed to stuff ourselves and the raft inside, but there was no room for anyone else. Most of us were hidden behind the raft, so we did not get to see the surprised expressions of the folks on the other side of the elevator doors who had punched the button to go down. We stopped several times. Each time the elevator doors opened on a new floor to reveal a giant raft taking up most of the space. Not one patron of the hotel ventured on that elevator with us. Then we got the first floor, manipulated the monstrosity out of the elevator, navigated it past the front desk clerk and the concierge. Husband easily took on the role of admiral of our small navy. We had to jockey our way through the well-appointed lobby and negotiated the raft down the long main entry hallway with its oil paintings, thick carpet, and luxurious wallpaper. Finally, we got to the outside passageway. Husband came to an abrupt stop. "The raft is too big for the tropical trail to the beach," he stated. "Gee, ya think?" I thought. We had to walk right past the parking attendants and bell boys. And then on to the traffic light. To this day, I wonder what we looked like. We were a large raft walking sideways powered by two pedestrians--a mom and a dad-- and trailed by two little kids each holding an oar, making sure to point it aloft. One of us may have been wearing swimming goggles as well because you know--boat safety. We had us a time on that raft trip. The oars were not even necessary except for measuring ocean depth. The waves did the rest. We quickly got past the breakers and still floated out to sea. When shore line looked like a dim and distant memory, I began to get nervous. The little raft was doing its thing holding the four of us in the safety of its palm, but I could not shake an ominous feeling that we were drifting too far out. I finally insisted that we head back to shore as I didn't want to end up in Mexico with nothing to change into. Basically, it was a good thing. Taking the raft out of the hotel in the manner that we did spoke volumes to our children. And to other hotel guests as well. You can put on all of the airs of the upper crust, but when it comes down to it, we are all just small boats bouncing our way around the universe, waiting for that rip tide current to shoot us to our next destination. May 21, 2021--Memo Day To: Mall Kiosk Owners and Operators From: All Shoppers Subject: Stop your hustle Shoppers are tired of getting harassed and handed small samples of hand lotion. They have nowhere to put said lotion and must keep it in their hand until they can find a trash receptacle. Or they are forced to toss it into the bottom of their purse where it will reside in perpetuity. Eventually, they will have a need to change handbags, and out will fall the now defunct, old, and tattered hand lotion sample. The person to whom you once upon a time gave the lotion will then be faced with a dilemma. Should they toss it? Should they keep it? And if keep it, then where? It looks to be expensive, and perfectly good, albeit, a bit bendy and torn, hand lotion. What would Marie Kondo do? The person to whom you gave this hand lotion sample is now faced with having to decide if they love it or not. They would love it if it were in the proper size bottle, but given its extremely small size, is it even lovable? What would the Home Edit girls do? Is there a jar with a decorative lid that can be purchased to hold such items? And precisely how many items should be stored? What size jar? Should one sample of hand lotion be sorted from other same size, but different samples? Please stop handing out small samples of worthless hand lotion. The sample size is smaller than what one would pick up in a hotel and barely enough for one application. Also, this gesture, while maybe done in kindness, has not helped sales, and has in fact slowed mall walking traffic. In summary, stop placing small samples in the hands of walking customers who are enroute to more legitimate retail establishments. To: Mall Kiosk Owners and Operators From: All Shoppers Subject: Stop your hustle Shoppers have not responded well to questions asked by your employees, and as a marketing strategy, the proverbial question asked by a salesperson to a potential client is a tired and untrue strategy. Moreover, it has not been used in the correct way by your kiosk operators. Instead of asking the shopper or passerby if they are looking for anything in particular, the sales force is simply posing a question to a question. It has been reported that sales people are stopping shoppers who are on their way from one department anchor chain to another by posing the question, "Can I ask you a question?" Not only is this redundant, but asking a stranger who is intent on an errand, to stop and consider how to answer that question is both ridiculous and illogical. There is no way to answer, "Can I ask you a question." The fact is that by posing the question, the answer has already been submitted, albeit nonverbally, perhaps not even from the reluctant responder. If someone has asked if they can ask a question, then the asking of it is also the answer. And to be absolutely technical, the correct way to ask such an annoyingly repetitive inquiry would be to say, "May I ask you a question?" Since the question responder is more than likely to be a complete stranger, then using may instead of can is the preferred methodology of posing this (again redundant) question. While, it might seem to be a marketing strategy, it is not one, in fact. Probably it stems from the often used, "May I ask you a personal question?" which in sales should only be used after a rapport has been established with a potential client or buyer. However, even then, getting past the established norms of seller and buyer is often tricky business. Many a buyer has walked away from a transaction because a seller has been too forward. Please, for the love of ALL THAT IS HOLY, stop. Stop harassing possible customers with the nonsensical, "Can I ask you a question?" question. While the question is illogical and absolutely has no answer except for the implied one that is posed in the syntax of the uttered sentence, should any future customer answer it at all, their answer whether non-verbally infused or verbally spoken, is always, IS ALWAYS, "No, you cannot." May 20, 2021--Eliza Doolittle Day
I must 'Eliza Doolittle' myself every morning. What do I mean by that? Simply this--I must turn myself from your average "homely street person" into something that looks slightly better. If you remember in the movie, "My Fair Lady," the character, Eliza Doolittle, is called a "squashed cabbage leaf" by Professor Higgins. After their experiment to improve Eliza's station in life is agreed upon, the first thing that happens to her is that she is given a bath for the what may be the first time in her life, and her clothes are burned. I never thought of getting dressed in this way until a week ago. I was in Las Vegas, Nevada, and the climate is so different there that it did a number on me. It is extremely dry. Some may call it arid, but I prefer evaporated and barren. When I awoke for the first time in our hotel room and stumbled to the bathroom, I had my first look at what the desert conditions can do to a person. Who was that woman in the mirror looking back at me? If I didn't know better, I would swear I was a smoker. I looked like a girl "who had been rode hard and put up wet." Oh, if only that were the case. The normal dark moons under my eyes had turned into the dark circles of someone who had lived her life confined in a cellar. My face was puffy as well. And not in a good way. The normal creases and very small lines that say, "a life well-lived," had developed into deep channels of desperation. After my initial shock, I did my best to repair myself. And that took some time. I began to think maybe it was the hotel's mirrors. Perhaps my mirrors at home didn't show me off in the same light. If it were the hotel's mirrors, it did not make sense, though. Why in the world would anyone, including us, pay so much money for a room with a mirror that did not show us off to our best advantage? If what I was looking at was my best advantage, then heaven help us all. It had to be the climate. So far I have only discussed my face. I have not even started describing my hair on this trip. The term 'horse hair' comes to mind. Before this trip, I had recently begun to think that my hair had at last achieved some kind of glory--for the first time in my life. During the pandemic, I had let it grow out. Not so much due to salons closing, but because I had no where to go and no reason to have it styled. With more time on my hands, I had invested in deep conditioners, which I should have been doing all along. You know, working and motherhood just puts a hold on things sometimes. I was watching Dr. Phil recently when there was a segment with his wife, Mrs. Dr. Phil. She was promoting her beauty products as usual. I don't normally pay much attention to celebrity endorsements. Or to celebrity's wives' endorsements, but something she said hit home. She had some poor slob on the air to show off a beauty makeover using products promoted by Mrs. Dr. Phil. I heard her tell the audience that this person had previously been "washing her face in the shower with shampoo." What? Are we not supposed to do that? I always have so much shampoo left over in my hands, it has to go somewhere. I always start with my face and work my way down until I am out of suds. I think airplane air might have had something to do with my physical condition on that trip to Vegas, as well as cigarette smoke. We had a floor in the hotel that did not allow smoking, but the lobby, the casino, and everywhere else was rife with smokers. It's like everyone who has been put off by all of the smoke free environments all over the world has landed in Vegas. We are home now, and I think I have lost that fossilized look. I am back to my regular beauty routine and my complimentary mirrors. And I never thought I would say this, but I am thankful for humidity. Where I live is like dwelling in a steam sauna when you step outside. My face may be puffed up from it, but my wrinkles are too. May 19th, 2021--Golden Ratio Day
I had a friend who taught math to the same set of sixth graders that I taught English to. While I spent the entire year showing movies such as, "The Sword in the Stone," "Sounder," "Where the Red Fern Grows," "Tom Sawyer," "The Yearling," and "Where the Lilies Bloom," she only had one movie she could legit show the students that would be a learning experience. And that movie is "Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land." "Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land" came out in 1959. In fact, in the mid-seventies, my own seventh grade math teacher, Mrs. Garby, showed it to my class. When she showed it, it was on a reel to reel film. When we students walked in, everyone was excited because we never ever watched movies in math class. When my teaching friend showed the same movie, it was on VCR. The giant television was rolled into her classroom, and when the students walked in, they got all excited because they never ever watched a movie in math class. Years later, when I got stuck teaching Humanities to a bunch of high school sophomores with no curriculum, no course outline, no real understanding of what the course should be, and no personal goals except to survive another year in the trenches, I remembered this movie. I showed "Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land" to my sophomores. By this time, the movie was shown on a Smart Board from the internet. For reinforcement of the concepts in the movie, I took them on a nature walk around the perimeter of the school building to look for the golden triangle in nature. The next day we took a second nature walk, collecting materials to use in a collage. Most of the students ended up taking pictures with their phones and then made an electronic collage. We then spent two days of class time having them present their findings. To this day I have no idea if that lesson had anything to do with Humanities. All I know is that this course was a year long elective, and by the spring semester, we had all had it with each other. I managed to make one Disney movie last for an entire week long lesson. That's what twenty seven years in the classroom does to a person. "Donald Duck in Mathmagic Land" is all about the golden ratio and similarly the golden triangle. In all my years of learning math in school, not one teacher mentioned this magic number to my recollection. Not even Mrs. Garby after showing the movie to our class. Donald Duck appears in this movie at the very beginning only. The narrator enters his brain which is filled, as you can imagine, with messy files and trash that needs to be thrown out. When I saw the film in seventh grade, I was too busy trying to figure out when Donald Duck would reappear to pay much attention to the rather lengthy part about the golden ratio. Today, I do not claim to know much, or anything, about the golden ratio. You see, I graduated from the College of Humanities at my university. One might think that should have prepared me to teach a high school class titled Humanities, but I cannot say that it did. It prepared me quite well to teach English, though. But to cram all of art, literature, history, and philosophy and religion into one succinct high school class for disinterested sophomores--quite a challenge. My point is that I have no reason to remember the golden ratio, especially because I live with a man who is more than happy to point it out to me. Each time he does, I always, respond with, "Could you please refresh my memory?" He will then wax on about this magical number and its inverse or reverse or something. And I will smile and nod and think about what I could possibly put on my blog for the next day. By the way, I asked Mr. Schwab to be a guest blogger for today, but no dice. He claimed that he would need to write an entire book on it, and it would be boring to the average reader. So, happy golden ratio day. Have a piece of pi to celebrate! May 8th, 2021--Give Someone a Cup Cake Day
by Nathan and Karen Schwabenland Earlier today, I had no topic. My writer's well had run dry. However, my son has saved me. We had the following conversation on our ride home: Son: There's this new series called Showzen. Have you seen it? Me: Not only have I never seen it, I have never heard of it. What's it about? Son: Well, they use puppets... Me: Puppets? Son: Yeah, they use puppets and potty humor to appeal to the current man-child. Me: Man-Child? What's a man-child? Son: It's a male person who watches adult cartoons and shows with puppets who make lewd jokes. Me: Are you a man-child? Son: Well, I'm trying to get up to speed. That made me think. What are the qualifications to be a man-child? Here's some things Son and I came up with: You might be a man-child if
Where would I be without you? I have raised you. I have taught you. I have shaken you awake in class. I have bought you Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs to eat for breakfast. I have graded your essay on the "Significance of the Laser Sword in the Star Wars Franchise." I have cheered on your lame attempts to adult, and I have rejoiced in the moments you got there. Keep on keeping on, Boys. There's years of rowing ahead. May 7, 2021--International Tell Your Crush Day
Howdy, Gowdy! By Karen Schwabenland He makes occasional appearances on Fox News, always looking dapper. He has silver fox colored hair and sometimes wears nerdy glasses. What I like about him is his tenacity for always sounding right. I hate to admit this, but I sometimes watch Fox News, mainly to see what the arguments of the day are and to see what kind of spin is put on them. Everyday there is a new spin, to be sure. I can't even watch for very long because it gets too depressing. Everything is suspect, it seems. I cannot live my life that way. Suspecting every single leader of the known world as evil is just too Mandalorian for me. I guess I'm fickle that way. But today is International Tell Your Crush Day. Lacking better topic, I have decided to tell. So one day, I was tuning into Fox News while getting dressed, as I usually do. And there was this guy. He had a strong Southern accent, and an even stronger Southern persona. And that will get me every time. I paused from my eyebrow plucking to look at the screen. Who was this guy? His voice had the air of authority. He waxed on about when he served in Congress. Congress? Oh, boy. Not another politician. I can't fall in love with another politician. Even if from my fantasy point of view. Nope. Not happening. But there he was. Slim of stature, besuited, and stylish. Yet not forthcoming in his smartness. He spoke sage advice from a place of humbleness. The show's host ended the interview with, "That's Trey Gowdy, Ladies and Gentlemen, and now a word from our sponsor." I had to find out more. So I did some research. Trey Gowdy is from South Carolina, graduated from Baylor University, and attended South Carolina School of Law. A former federal prosecutor and a four term congressional representative, he is married with two kids. I admire the former information and will not let the latter info stop me. Now I find my self tuning into Fox News late at night, but only for the promise of more of Mr. Gowdy's opinions. Opinions are all he can give, really, as he is not a news reporter. You could say he is currently cashing in on his own success, but why not? He is close to my own age, and if I had a way to cash in on my personal experiences, who's to say I wouldn't take it? Trey Gowdy, your mother's name is Novalene. Your middle name is Watson, you married a first grade school teacher, and you have three dogs. These are only some of the reasons I am compelled by you. Even when you are wrong, you are right. I try to find the flaws in your argument. Your delivery is what gets me, though. While you are going on and on in your smooth Southern speech, I get lost in it. Is there anything better than a man who thinks he knows what he's talking about? I'm a sucker for it every time. I got something to say, and then I ain't gonna say no more, Mr. Gowdy. Trey Gowdy, you make me wanna hang clothes on the wash line and drink Dr. Pepper from a bottle with a cap. When you pop on my screen, I find myself wanting to wear a sundress with a straw hat, weed the garden, turn off my central air conditioning, raise my windows and sit in front of an electric fan while sweat drips from my brow and other places, like the condensation on a jar of opened pickles. When I hear your voice over my telly, I want to bathe in a claw foot tub while sipping gin and tonic. I imagine you in black and white ink jumping out at me from my local, dust covered newspaper. I want to sneak into the back of a courtroom and watch your closing arguments while the live oaks whisper their earthly knowledge through the soft Southern wind which blows through an open window to my soul. Mistah Harold Watson "Trey" Gowdy, III, you had me at "fiscahl rehspahnsibility." May 5th, 2021--National Grump Out Day
Grumpiness is out. Charm is in. At least for today. Today is National Grump Out Day, but it is not what it would seem. Instead of taking the time to get all of our grumpiness and gripes on the table, we are advised to try to make it through the entire day without being grumpy. In the guise of getting my grumpiness and gripes on the table, let's play a game. It shall be called, "Guess What/Why I'm Grumpy!" Not much really makes me grumpy, but in order to play this game, I'll try to recall what has made me grumpy in the past.
I read once that if the entire world was air-conditioned, there would not be enough energy for all of us. So my argument goes thusly: Global Warming = Heat in August Heat in August = High energy/kilowatt usage Lower energy usage = lower core body temperature Lower core body temperature = soak in galvanized steel Therefore, having a "Hillbilly Hot Tub" is good for all mankind. Summer is coming. The heat is on, or soon will be. Pools around here have already opened. It is now making me grumpy that my stock tank pool has not been ordered, nor put into action. I feel that my voice has not been heard, and that is the one thing that can make anyone grumpy. Instead, a trip to the desert is on my radar. How can this be? It is the complete opposite of my argument. This game is over. Now, I am grumpy, and I have not made it half-way through the day. When my family is lost in the never ending circle of death in the desert, may this post serve as a warning. However, since charm is in, let me end in this way. I'm so thrilled to have to pack up every single personal item I will need for the next week and rattle away in a tin can above the world deepening my carbon foot print, only to hike around a hot city and even hotter desert area. Oh wait, I was going for charm. Sorry. Can't be done. April 4th, 2021--Poem on Your Pillow Day
Prepare to Turn Left in 1,000 Feet Prepare. To turn left. In 1,000 feet. How much is 1,000 feet? Is a football field 1,000 feet? Is a parking lot? What does 1,000 rulers Laid side by side look like? In school we were told To prepare for the age Of the metric system. We were NOT told To prepare for the age of now. Prepare In 1,000 feet To Turn Left. If a man wears A size twelve shoe And has a closet Full of them, Is that what 1,000 feet Looks like? Is 1,000 feet Only a roomful of 500 really tall men? If you are married to a man Who wears a size 12 shoe Can he tell you When to turn? If you have lain beside him At least 1,000 nights But never listened To him once, Can you start To listen now? Can you listen 1,000 times? Prepare to turn left. In 1,000 feet. Is it too late? Can anything ever Be saved, really? Can a man hear What he wants to hear And disregard the rest? 1,000 Acres is how many Times King Lear Victimized his daughters. So we have been told. Things we were Never told: How much is enough? How far is a Separate Peace? How unkind is "How." Why things have A way Of working out. Turn Left. Now. Now. Now. Now. Recalibrating. May 3, 2021--Great Lakes Awareness Day
I was aware of the sand pit lake Behind our neighborhood. It was largely ignored by most. I had ridden my bike around it Countless times. Always, I was told, "Don't go near the sand pit." I was aware. I went near the sand pit. How could I not? So pleasant to feel the breeze From the lake sweep past While riding my bike. Why didn't more people enjoy this? Spring breezes Give way to summer stillness. Kids left at home With hours to fill. Stifling hot outside. Nothing to do. A neighbor said She had swum in the sand pit. Harmless it was. She had lived To tell about it. Three girls on my block went, I among them. Swim suits, towels, sun tan oil. We were smart about it. We rode our bikes Toward summer fun. We knew the danger. Waves on the shore, Inviting us in, Friendly. So pleasingly refreshing In that lake. Water Pure and Clear and Cool. Swimming out And with no bottom. We could no longer touch What they said Would swallow us. We didn't care. We knew how to swim. Hours of getting wet, We grew hungry. We floated back to shore. Time on our towels to air dry. Sun on our faces. Sand in our toes. Back on our bikes Toward home. Not sure which was better, The ride in anticipation Of the sand pit With its illicit depth Beckoning us toward it. Or the ride home In sensational satisfaction, Sun on our shoulders, Behind us now. Pinky swears not to tell. Having an adventure. At last. May 2, 2021--World Laughter Day
It's World Laughter Day today. So, "Laugh, Clown, Laugh." Laugh and the world laughs with you. Or at you. Either way, the end result is the same. It's a joy to be laughed at, in my opinion. I live for it. You just have to own it. Has anyone ever really been laughed at like Charlie Brown In his classroom when he sharpens his ball point pen by mistake? Or when the teacher calls on him in her "Wha, wha, wha" voice? Has an entire class laughed at someone's antics in mortal disdain? I think not. Rather, to be laughed at is to be loved. To feel loved. You just have to own it. Laughter is best when it is organic. Fresh from a weekend spent with three in a hotel room, And a daughter who is dead tired from studying too much For four straight years, We had our laughs. But to repeat them here would not make sense. L/C or location jokes are those things that make you laugh For no particular reason at a particular place and time, But to repeat them is redundant. And would not make anyone else laugh. To repeat something that made you laugh Creates an end result that is not the same. And one more word about laughing at-- True, one can be laughed at, I suppose. But is laughter done with meanness really laughter? Laughter, in its true organic state, is not mean. Organic refers to things in nature, Or something that occurs naturally. Therefore, to be laughed at in a mean way is not natural. If it feels mean, it is not laughter. It is bullying. It is political in that one person must start it, and Everyone else must follow. Not organic. Laughter is the best medicine. So, cheers to the clowns of the world, Those people who drive us on toward Gatsby's Green Light. Remember to own it, if you are laughed at. Even if not on purpose, the end result is the same. Laugh and the world laughs with you. Own the times when others laugh at you, And you will have the last laugh. And if you cannot laugh, then Smile. What's the use of crying? You'll find that life is still worthwhile. If you... just... smile. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
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