August 30, 2021-- (Forced) Family Fun Month
by Karen Schwabenland I once thought I was the originator of the phrase, "Forced Family Fun." But recently, a friend mentioned it in a conversation we were having. "Oh, it's probably time for some forced family fun," she sighed. " Are you kidding me?" I said. "What do you mean?" "You just said 'forced family fun,'" I replied. "I thought I was the only one who used that phrase, In fact, I thought I had invented it." And then ensued an argument over who had used the phrase first. According to Urban Dictionary, Forced Family Fun refers to: The desperate pressure of both hope and expectation inherent in the well-meaning, but ultimately defeated, coordination of family events, vacations and other group interactions; in the end, destined to be undone by the predictable actions of the family members themselves. After copious research, the only thing I could find on the etymology of the phrase, "Forced Family Fun," was...nothing. However, the television series, "Parenthood," had an episode in the third season titled, "Forced Family Fun." It first aired on November 1st, 2011 which is some time before I ever gave the phrase a second thought. So, I do not believe I coined the phrase any longer. I did not watch that episode of "Parenthood," nor any of the episodes of the show. A few people I know are phenomenal fans of this series. However, I never liked it, and they still cannot believe this fact. I have been asked, more than once, why I do not watch "Parenthood." The answer is both complicated and simple. It is the same reason I do not like watching "The Good Doctor" or "Atypical." These are all television shows that feature a person on the autism spectrum. While I am happy that autism disorder is becoming more mainstream, I don't enjoy the shows that feature characters who are actors acting like they have autism. Although, ironically, I am a fan of Freddie Highmore (the actor who plays the main character on "The Good Doctor"). By now you may be thinking that I am an avid supporter of "cripface." Cripface is a form of racebending or whitewashing, except it is used to refer to times when a non-disabled actor is used to portray a disabled character. The truth of it is that I really don't care. I just support having more depictions of disabilities in the media. The simple truth is this. "Parenthood" is too much like watching my own live unravel on television. "Atypical," on the other hand, looks like some better version of my own life, although I must admit I have never watched it. And I don't intend to. Likewise, "The Good Doctor" is some enormous and overwhelming fantasy account of my life. It is the way my life would be if I won the manifestation lottery. Just think about it. If you had to watch some variety of your life on television, and that show featured some of the most demanding and challenging events you ever had to face, and the events were somehow unique--but not at all universal, would you tune in? Probably not. Sometimes, every once in a blue moon, forced family fun is not so forced. And that is why we planners of it keep slugging away, trying to meter out and maintain those mandatory moments that turn into memorable magic. A while ago, when I was still working, I sat with a group of teachers around our usual lunch table discussing plans for the weekend. Most of them stated where they were going out to dinner that Friday evening. When they got to me, I said, "Oh, I am not going anywhere." My friends looked puzzled, so I continued, "There's a new episode of "Sponge Bob," that airs tonight." They laughed and someone said, "But of course!" They knew I lived with a phenomenal fan of the series. by Karen SchwabenlandAugust 27, 2021--National Inventor's Month
Earlier this week, I searched and cursed my handbag, stating that I couldn't find anything in it. "It's just so dark in there, and everything is jumbled up." We were driving in the car, and Mister said, "What are you looking for?" I replied, "My sunglasses." He glanced at me. "Try your face," he said. I reached up and tried to touch my eye, but I couldn't. It was blocked by, you guessed it, my sunglasses. "Well, that explains the darkness," I said. Do you know how many times I have searched for my reading glasses to find them on my head? When I was still teaching in the classroom, it was a daily, even hourly occurrence. Every so often, I'll have my "seeing" glasses on my face, and my reading glasses on my head. My seeing glasses are the glasses I use to see long distances, as in from the couch to the television. I mostly wear them all the time. That is except when I want to see smaller spaces, like from my chair to the computer screen. When I want to see something really close, as in reading a book, I go with my totally bare-naked eye. It's true. I can still thread a needle without glasses. That is why I refuse to get bifocals. Bifocals are what, to my mind, make you seem old. Who needs bifocals when you can just wear reading glasses on your head and seeing glasses on your face? The irony is I don't really read with what I call my reading glasses. The glasses I am speaking of are just an older prescription pair that are milder and let me see clearly at a shorter distance. However, for actual reading and for using my phone, I don't need any kind of head gear. Speaking of using your phone, have you ever done a "find my phone" electronic search with--YOUR PHONE? Well, I have. Once, I was talking to Mister on my phone when I told him I had been searching for it all day. And to add drama to my Bazar-o-world, Mister had the nerve to say, "You mean the thing you are talking to me on?" And all this time, I thought I might be the only one who had these temporary cranial casualties. But Mister, he's been holding out on me. Just yesterday, Mister looked at me and said, "I've been searching all over for my pencil, and then I discovered it was in my mouth." Aha! So, I am not the only one to whom that sort of thing happens. If we can print things in 3-D, then why can't we find things in 3-D? Think about it. Someone should invent something like a metal-detector device to locate all of our missing objects. I will not be the one to actually invent it, I'm just putting the idea out there. But I will require at least forty percent of the profit for this item. And as far as me and the mister? If he agrees to tell me when what I'm looking for is on my head or in my ear without malice, then I agree to always have a freshly sharpened batch of number two pencils at the ready. It's the least I can do. And as a partner, I always agree to do the least. August 21, 2021--Poet's Day
Today, I have a guest blogger--Nathan Schwabenland! This is the script to a spoken word poem he read at the Inclusive Arts Showcase at the River/Theatre Under the Stars. So proud to have my son's artistic work recognized. I am Nathan Schwabenland and I have autism. Having autism is like seeing dead people walking around like regular people. Autism should be exorcised. To be precise, I have hearing processing problems. I have gone to more doctor meetings than I can count. I have miscommunication issues. I hate not getting jokes. Irony and subtly are my weaknesses. I have anxiety issues and can get really upset once I witness something bad happening around me. And I loathe jump scares! However, despite all of my issues, I still have a routine-schedule to keep track of, like any ordinary, non-autistic person. I attend weekly meetings and activities for special needs, namely Easter Seals Group, the Coffee House, Acting Classes, All of these acting classes are in preparation for my future, which will be a filmmaker. Houston does not have a group for filmmakers with disabilities. If they did, I would already be in it. Theatre for folks with disabilities is as close as I can get to a filmmaking experience. A career in filmmaking does not mix well for someone with autism, unless you know someone in Hollywood. So much for my life, but what about life in general? If you are suffering from depression then what I am about to recite is for you. For I myself was struggling to survive with depression, probably longer than you have been alive! So much for the real world involving religion and complaining to God on a stack of papers, am I right about that? Before you can talk about the future, you must talk about your past, which might be your wasted hopes and dreams in disguise, waiting to be fulfilled someday. Life Forms are only on planet Earth for now! And yet why are we so different yet the same altogether?
Researchers at the college of Baylor in CA have discovered this interestingly enough phenomenon to have a major effect on people’s lives. The chief neuroscientist and researcher, Dr. I.M. HAPPIE, spoke to a press TED Talks conference in Boulder, CO about how keeping a level head makes a person feel more aware of your surroundings. Come now, you, the audience, have to admit that I am right on SOMETHING now that I am all grown up, over 18, able to drink wine but don't want to, all that Jazz… You need to go out into the world, they say. “But what if I don’t have enough money (all probably because of my over-protective parents or some other guardianship factor) or, even better, privileges,” you may ask? You need not to worry! There is still time for you as long as you are living! A dream is a dream no matter how wasted or cheesy. August 20, 2021--National Radio Day
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip. It started from a tropic port, aboard a tiny ship. The weather started getting rough! The tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost. So begins the old and annoying television series, "Gilligan's Island." I am ashamed to say that I can sing almost all of its opening theme song. I'll bet many of us have that thing memorized, even those of us who claim to never have watched it. That is actually impossible. If you have ever turned on a television, you have at least once seen this show. The five hapless characters on it stayed on that island for about eleven years, or at least three seasons. It seemed like an eternity. And it all started when... The ship set down on the shore of this uncharted, desert isle. So this is the tale of our castaways. They're here for a long, long time. They'll have to make the best of things. It's an uphill climb. No phone, no lights, no motor car, not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, its primitive as can be. In the television series, the Skipper owned a transistor radio that the characters used to find out what was going on back home. The Professor was able to use coconuts to make an antenna so they could all listen to news reports from the rest of the world, but he was not able to use the batteries and the parts of the radio to create a way to call for help. Many of the younger demographic, or the Gen Z group of people, may not understand the importance of a radio, nor have seen "Gilligan's Island." 'Radio' may be a new vocabulary word, or at least a word that they seldom use. Questions from them may arise: "What's a radio?" "Is it a thing your parents listen to in the car?" Well, yes... and no. A radio can exist outside of your car. "What?" " How?" "Doesn't it need wi-fi?" Actually, no, children, it doesn't need wi-fi. It can be powered by wi-fi, but that would only be a radio app, and not an actual radio. A radio, boys and girls, is powered by electricity and the sound comes through it on something called radio waves. "Like in the ocean?" "Without a hotspot?" Yes and no. The radio waves are not like ocean waves. They are invisible. But you do not need a hotspot. So, my young and impressionable Gen Z'ers, there is good news and bad news. The bad news is that the characters in the before mentioned show ended up staying on that island for a really long time, but the good news is they had access to entertainment from something called am radio waves. Those are the kind of waves that can travel further distances. So, kids, if you are ever in a boat that gets tossed ashore, it might be important to have a transistor radio with you. Otherwise you will actually have to talk to the other survivors for entertainment. At this point, astute readers may be thinking that I have way too much information on "Gilligan's Island" embedded in my frontal cortex. Yeah. You're right. I do. You see, I spent a copious amount of time during my formative years in front of something that is referred to in my other favorite nautical/tropical television series as, the idiot box. Also, that other show, the one that uses some of the same tropes as "Gilligan's Island," is one that Gen Z readers are most likely familiar with. August 19, 2021--International Bow Day
In grade school, I wore bows in my hair--well actually ribbons. My mother tied a yarn ribbon in my half ponytail every morning. These fat and thick yarn ribbons were ubiquitous in girls' hair when I was small. I wonder why you do not find them today for sale in stores? When I watch shows or movies set in the 70s and there are young girls, the drama never rings true to me because that big, fat yarn ribbon is missing. It's as if it has vanished from the planet. It had to be extra thick. Think about it. Unless you are a Barbie doll, a single strand of yarn tied into your hair does not do much. The 70s were the decade of the fiber arts. Wall hangings of macramé, hand knit sweaters, and shag carpeting could be found in any home. Is it any wonder that parents decorated their daughters in the same fashion? The bow-tie blouse (also know as the pussy bow blouse--not kidding here, that is its name in the fashion world), was all the rage in the late 70s as well. So much so that it was the reguer du jour every Friday during football season when I was in high school. Not for everyone, but for the select few--the members of the elite dance/drill team. Not only did we have uniforms, both for practice and performance, but our parents also had to supply a prescribed dress for us to wear to school each Friday, known as our Friday Dress. During my years as a member of this team (I might insert weak link here, instead of member, but you know what they say about basketball, right? Even players who sat on the bench the whole game were still members of the team) we had to wear a white pussy bow blouse with a plaid vest over it and a black skirt as our Friday uniform. Patterns for this outfit and information on where to buy material were handed out at the first parent meeting of the year. Dress makers were expensive. My mother, in her frugality, determined that I didn't need a couture Friday Dress. Since it was made of a certain plaid print, we would fork over the money for the vest to be hand sewn, but only for that. The blouse and the skirt were solid colors, white and black respectively. Those could be purchased for cheap at a department store. I didn't mind the store bought black skirt as that could be easily faked. I mean a black skirt is a black skirt is a black skirt. I found myself in almost agreement with my mother's spending decision on the skirt. However, the store bought blouse remains one of the banes of my existence to this day. On the first game day of the school year, girls showed up to school in their Catholic school girl looking outfits, as that is what the Friday Dress ended up looking like-white bow blouses, red plaid vests, and black skirts. The only thing that kept us from looking like the first page of a Playboy magazine spread was a lack of knee socks. We were required to wear panty hose, another women's style accessory that has gone the way of the thick yarn ribbon. As I looked around on that first Friday, I couldn't help but feel forlorn, like some outcast Christmas ornament with a broken hanger or scratched and faded paint. Everyone else's white blouses had perky bows that stood up at attention, like the starched uniforms of the military. Mine, constructed of lesser fabric and factory made, drooped down in a determinedly depressing way. I went into the girls bathroom immediately after recognizing this fact and tried to retie it so that it stood up. I was having the first of many more Ron Weasley moments in that bathroom. No matter how many ways I tied that thing, it always just fell downward, looking like the ears on a basset hound when it should have been a beagle. Of course someone said something. How could they not? After I owned my own response, admitting that it had been my mother's doing and out of my control, not another word was spoken of it. But I was always reminded of it, every Friday for three years. And even now, it haunts me, every time I am in a store and am confronted with a pussy bow blouse. From my memory of the rotund hair ribbon to the one of the bent and languid bow-tie blouse, isn't it strange that my mother's hands are tied to each? August 18, 2021--Admit You're Happy Month On September 23, 2019, a young child gave a threatening and depressing speech to the United Nations on climate change. If I had to address the United Nations, or really, anyone at all, here is what I would say. My message is that God is watching us. This is all wrong. I shouldn't be here. I should be back on my bicycle or better yet, swimming in the ocean. Yet you all come to me, a tired and older person with worldly experience, looking for hope. How dare you! My dreams and my childhood have been stolen with broken promises and personal lack of follow through. My writing is just empty words. And yet I'm one of the lucky ones. People are suffering. People are dying. Entire ecosystems and countries are collapsing. We are in the beginning of a mass extinction, and all I can think about is spending money and fairy tales and the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. How dare me! For more than 30 years, the state of world affairs has been muddy and murky and completely unclear. How dare I continue to look straight at all of it, and still persist in feeling that I'm am enough, when the politics and solutions needed are still nowhere in sight. You say you hear me and that you understand the urgency. But no matter how ridiculously rapturous and absurdly apt I am, I still want to believe that you will all lighten up. Because if you really understood the situation--that this is the only life you will ever have--and you still kept on failing to be deliriously delighted, then you would be evil. And that I refuse to believe. How dare you pretend that your eternal soul can be saved with just 'business as usual' and some camel jumping through the eye of a needle at the midnight hour solution? With today's world problems, personal guilt and remaining anxious, worried, and tight assed seem to be the only way to go, but those emotions will be entirely wasted for the next 8 1/2 millennium. There will not be any solutions or plans to global concerns presented here today, because worrying about them makes some of you too comfortable. And I am just immature enough to tell it like it is. Or at least my version of it. You are failing yourselves. But the young people are starting to understand, I hope. The eyes of all future generations are upon all of us. And if you choose to remain unhappy, I say: What a waste of your own potential! I will not let you get away with this. Right here, right now is where I draw the line. The world has always had problems. And more are coming, whether you like or not, so you may as well look on the sunny side. Or at least the side with the least amount of shade. Thank you. August 12, 2021--Karen Martyrs' Day
Burma/Myanmar is in Southeast Asia. Within this large country is a group of people or a tribe called the Karen. Karen legends refer to a "river of running sand" which ancestors reputedly crossed. Many Karen believe this refers to the Gobi Desert, although they have lived in Myanmar for centuries. The Karen constitute the third largest ethnic population in Myanmar. The word may have originally been a derogatory term referring to non-Buddhist ethnic groups. Really? Derogatory as long ago as that? According to my copious research, the Karen coexisted peacefully within Burma until after World War II. When failing to get the recognition they believe they deserved, there was a political uprising. Since then, until as late as the early 2000s, there have been many attempts at government coups and uprisings by the Karen. Thousands of Karens have fled the country, living in refugee camps and migrating as far as North America, which brings us to our present day. It goes without saying that the name Karen today invokes a certain derogatory kind of woman. This turn of events in name calling just makes me so sad. Everyone with the name of Karen deserves the respect given to all of humanity. I have heard broadcasters and youtubers apologize and say things like, "We aren't talking about your typical woman named Karen." Oh, but yes, you are. Whenever does anyone today feel emboldened enough to call someone a negative name that is shorthand for a larger group of people? Besides the noble group of people from Burma, here is a list of other famous Karens:
Today is Karen Martyr's Day, a day meant to be reserved for the misplaced Karens of Myanmar, specifically for Saw Ba U Gyi, a Karen who was murdered in 1950. As of today, there have been no American martyrs named Karen, unless you count Karen Ann Quinlan. However, I contend that it is just a matter of time. I do not intend to be that person. I mean I should have died like three or four times already. Once when my cancer diagnosis started at a stage 4, but got downgraded to a 3, and eventually to stage 0. Before that there was the time my daughter was born by planned C-section, and I developed a weird staff infection at the wound sight and had to return to the hospital for a number of days. And before that when I had my first baby who was an emergency C-section. And between those two times when I almost bled to death from a miscarriage, which turned out to be a grave miscarriage of justice as well. Too much information? Well, how about the time that Mister took a wrong and bull-headed U-turn in the middle of a highway in San Antonio? Or the time when I ran smack-dab into a stop sign on my bicycle? I guess what I'm saying is that we Karens can take all of this good natured kidding up to a point. What that turning point turns out to be remains to be seen. On that note, I have one final thing to say in this post. According to the legends, the Burmese Karens took a long time to cook shellfish at the river of flowing sand, until the Chinese taught the Karens to open the shells so as to acquire the meat. This story is an example of history repeating itself. Case in point: just this morning Mister said to me, "You have the lowest cooked meals to kitchen gadget ratio of anyone I know." August 9, 2021--Book Lovers Day
Hello, fellow Lover...of books, that is. I love books so much that even when I am faced with a bad one, I go ahead and finish it. In my way of thinking, a book has to pass the Gatsby and Mockingbird field-test, which is made up by me. Basically, I ask myself two questions.
August 4th, 2021--Quotation Day
To celebrate Quotation Day, I have written a complete story out of nothing but movie quotations. May the Force be with you, and may the odds be ever in your favor as you read: A young couple sat on a bench in a park. The girl looked at the boy slowly while he tried to think of something witty to say. Failing miserably, he said, “Hakuna Matata!" The girl looked at him strangely. She thought she might have misjudged his age. “Teenagers. They think they know everything. You give them an inch, they swim all over you," she said to herself. The boy, feeling emboldened that he got any response at all, replied, "I like you, very much." The girl looked straight at him and responded, "I'm a big tough girl. I tie my own sandals and everything." "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in while, you could miss it. If watching is all you're gonna do, then you're gonna watch your life go by without ya." "You’re mad. Bonkers. Off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret, all the best people are," she said. "Some people are worth melting for. Adventure is out there ," he said. He smiled at her, and then fished a package of gum out of his pants pocket. He offered her one. She shook her head as if to say no. He got out a map and began to look at it. "Remember who you are. If you don’t know where you want to go, then it doesn’t matter which path you take," she said. "Faint hearts never won a fair lady," he said. "I am not a prize to be won," she said, rolling her eyes. "Venture outside your comfort zone. The rewards are worth it," he said. She sighed and looked at the sky. Then she looked at him and shook her head back and forth. "There’s always a chance, Doctor, as long as one can think,” continued the boy. The girl began to gather up her things which consisted of a book and a tote bag. The boy tried to help her. "I'm a damsel, I'm in distress, I can handle this," she said. She stood up, and he handed her her bag. She began to walk away, but he fell into step beside her. “Everybody’s got problems. The world is full of problems, he said. "Let me walk with you." The girl shrugged her shoulders and sighed again. A man who had been sitting nearby also stood up, and walked right past them. As he did, he whispered to the boy, "Go on, and kiss the girl." The young couple began to walk out of the park. When they reached the gate, an older woman sized up the young man, then said aloud to herself, "I'll have what she's having." And...Scene. Key:
"To infinity, and beyond!"-Toy Story August 3rd, 2021--National Ernie Pyle* Day (*a Pulitzer prize-winning war correspondent in WWII from the front lines of Europe and Japan. He was captured and killed by the Japanese in April, 1945.)
AT THE FRONT LINES IN HOUSTON, August 3, 2021--In this life, I have known a lot of dogs who were loved and respected by their humans. But never have I crossed the tail of any dog as beloved as Guv. Baku Dallas Schwabenland of the West Memorial Community of Houston, Texas. Guvnor Baku was an appointed commander and guard for the Schwabenland Family in their second house. He had guarded his family long since before he was the only dog of the household, and ever since he left the puppy farm of the Special Pals Dog Shelter. Upon my last interview with him, he was very old, in his mid-eighties in dog years, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guarded by him. "After my own children, he came next," the father told me. "He always looked after us," one of the children said. "He’d fetch a ball for us every time." "I never knew him to bark at anything inconsequential," another one said. I was in the vet's office the day we put Guvnor Baku's body down. The sun was nearly full up to its highest point at the time, and you could see dogs and owners waiting their turn. Puppies made puddles on the floor as they waited. Sick and injured dogs had been coming in and out of the exam room all morning, lashed onto their owners' arms by their leashes. They came lying belly-down and getting dragged across the threshold of the office door, their tails hanging down and their leashes loose, winding their way around their owners' legs, their stiffened fur sticking out awkwardly from their necks to the end of their backs, their tongues bobbing up and down with anxiety as their owners walked. The injured dog's owners were afraid to sit beside the sick dogs and owners, so the owners of the sick dogs had to crowd onto one side of the room. Even the injured dogs were reluctant to wait near the sick dogs, and later refused to be unleashed and lifted off the floor by their owners, so a vet assistant had to do it himself, and ask others to clear a path. The first dog came early in the morning so it was crowded by the time we arrived. We slid Guvnor Baku down from inside the car and stood him on his feet for a moment, while we tried a new grip on his leash. In the bright light he might have been merely a sick dog standing there, leaning on us. Then we laid him on the ground in the shadow of the low waiting room chair. I don’t know who that first dog was who went to meet his fate while we were waiting. You feel small in the presence of sick or injured dogs, and ashamed at being alive, and you don’t ask silly questions. Somebody said their dog had been sick for four days, and then nobody said anything more for a long time. We eventually talked waiting room talk for an hour or more. The sick dogs lay all alone underneath their owners' low and uncomfortable chairs. __________________________________________________________________________________ "I am truly sorry," said the vet. And finally we put our dog down, and then I reached out and gently straightened the crookedness of the Guvnor's muzzle, and then his dad sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his fur around the injection site. And then after a short bit, we got up and walked away, down the hallway into the hopeful waiting room, alone in our thoughts. After that we went back to the car, leaving the sick and injured dogs waiting in a line in the vet's office, end to end, in the shadow of their owner's chairs. We lay down in our beds when we got home, not knowing what to do next, and pretty soon we were all asleep.* *(a parody of sorts, based on "The Death of Captain Waskow," by Ernie Pyle) |
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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