So, I go to a local convenience store to get a cup of coffee to bring to the office. While standing in line to pay, the cashier yells that there is a little bird that flew into the window and is now lying in front of the door twitching. A guy moves it with his foot to get it out of the way.
I leave with my coffee and I see the bird. He is still alive but unable to move. I get my glasses case and with the help of a nice guy named Jim, move him to a non-traffic area. We stand there and watch the poor bird struggle, knowing that he will die soon. So I begin to sob. Loudly. People going in and out of the store are looking at me with alarm. Jim counsels me, telling me not to worry and that this is nature. I agreed, thanked him and left, still sobbing.
I am still sickened by this and want to go back and rescue this bird, knowing full well that I can't. So that's how my Monday started.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
MTV VMAs
It's the "R" word again. Racism. But wait...is it racism if a black man makes a statement, during a white girl's acceptance speech, that a black woman's work was the "best in the world"? Or would it be racism if a white guy interrupted a black girl to tell the audience about a white woman's video? Seems to me that the people who scream the "R" word are the most racist. Why is it only racism when it suits people? Why is racism a continued excuse?
One day we'll get it right. Till then, kudos to Beyonce' for her class, Taylor for her grace, Russell for his tactful humor, and shame on Kanye.
One day we'll get it right. Till then, kudos to Beyonce' for her class, Taylor for her grace, Russell for his tactful humor, and shame on Kanye.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Turn of the Wheel
Teaching your sixteen year old child to drive is an enlightening and life-altering event. I had the honor of teaching both of our sons to drive, because, quite simply, my husband didn’t have the guts. Let me rectify that statement. He did take the eldest out driving once. As I heard from my son George later, my husband had his left hand on the emergency brake and his right hand clutched on the door handle during the entire trip. He sucked in so much air during the ride that he had hiccups for two hours afterwards. It took a little longer for the nausea to disappear.
My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.
The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.
The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.
We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.
He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.
Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.
I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.
So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”
Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.
My husband told me later that the right side of his face was scraped by tree bark and speed limit signs, because George hadn’t developed that all-important distance judgment yet. As a result, George tended to drive mere millimeters away from the curb. That was the end of the Dad-and-Son Quality Time in the Car.
The second after George got his learner’s permit, he wanted to drive to a friend’s house in a neighboring town. So we hopped into our Dodge minivan, George in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger seat, and Donnie, who was 11 years old at the time, in the very back seat. I felt calm and proud. I was not nervous at all. After all, I reasoned, George is an athlete. His instincts are good and his reaction time on the soccer field is excellent. He has shown maturity and good judgment in the past. Why should driving be any different? Piece of cake. I entertained thoughts of all the leisure time I would have after he got his license. He could drive Donnie to soccer practice, pick him up at his friend’s house, and run errands for me. This will be great.
The drive down the main road in our town wasn’t too bad. Going down another road to the highway, however, was a tad frightening. When did this road shrink? Why hadn’t I noticed how narrow this road is? When we got onto 95, my heartbeat accelerated to three times its normal speed. It resembled a parking lot! Cars were winging by in all three lanes, at high speed, with no consideration whatsoever for us. My shoulders crept up to my earlobes and I clutched the door strap a little tighter, thinking, “George is only a baby, scarcely out of diapers! How can he be expected to operate a motor vehicle? What is wrong with this country?” I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Donnie sitting motionless on the back bench of the van, feet barely touching the floor, hands clutching the upholstered sea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The child was paralyzed by fear.
We made it to the friend’s house, but only after I sweated off about 5 pounds, dug red half-moons into my palms, and bit my lips dry. I had a stiff neck for four days afterwards. Donnie refused to get in a car with George for approximately six months. George actually did fine behind the wheel. It was Donnie and I who didn’t do so well.
He finally got his license, which is a whole other story in itself. We, he and I, were at the DMV from 8:30 AM to 4:45 PM on the day of his road test. We were there longer than the employees. It was not the fault of the DMV; it was our fault. But that’s a tale for another day.
Then, before we knew it, Donnie turned sixteen. Time for another learner’s permit. My husband again refused to drive with Donnie, saying that he was still picking splinters out of his right cheek from four and a half years ago. So it fell to Mother to man it up and put on her teacher’s hat once again. This child was very different from the elder son. This one was supremely confident, and he truly believed that he knew everything there was to know about driving. Donnie actually did okay behind the wheel but that confidence, bordering on cocky, was a little scary at times.
I am ashamed to say that, while he was driving down a street near the city, I actually grabbed the wheel; I was convinced he was going to sideswipe every car that was parked on the side of the road. Apparently his friend Adam, cowering in the back seat, agreed with me, as evidenced by his unholy and piercing shout of terror. This almost caused an accident, but I digress. Donnie took his road test while sick with a fever of 102 and an infected throat. He passed, and wonder of wonders! We made it out of the DMV this time in less than three hours.
So George has been driving for 10 years and Donnie has had his license for a little over five years. I have been driving for 34 years. Yes, 34. I find it ironic that now, on the rare occasion when my sons drive with me, they suck wind, clutch the door straps, and say things like, ‘You SEE that Toyota pulling out, right?” or “Aren’t you a little close to the curb, Mom?”
Whoever said revenge is sweet obviously taught teenagers to drive at some point in his/her life.
Gray And Still Graceful
(Written two years ago)
I will turn 50 on my next birthday. 50. A half-century. Half of one hundred. Most likely ten years past middle age. The downward slope, the other side of the mountain, the slow skid. 50, for crying out loud. 5-freaking-zero.
When I was a kid in grade school, 50 meant old, decrepit, wrinkled and annoying. In my teens, 50 translated into, “Your life is over.” Raising my kids during my twenties and thirties, I barely had time to think about my own age, let alone an upcoming birthday like 50. When my family-rearing slowed down in my forties, 50 meant the Empty Nest, maybe finally having time and money to do cool things and go to cool places. Nowadays, I am amazed at how small the number 50 actually looks close-up.
The glaringly obvious and occasionally disheartening physical signs of near-50 are keeping me in a constant state of “You have GOT to be kidding me,” or “Well, that’s just wrong.” Gravity is my enemy, and my long boobs can attest to that. The cute little smile lines alongside my mouth that I started to get in my early forties now deeply parenthesize my confused frown. Important documents or illegal drugs can be safely tucked away in my Caesarean scar and the tops of my thighs haven’t seen the light of day since 1993. We won’t even discuss my ass.
Dimples are cute, but not when they are on one’s legs. Can you say “Wide-skirted bathing suits?” I noticed that my upper arms were kind of loose when I was shaking a can of whipped cream the other day. I heard this odd sound, like someone throwing a wad of Silly Putty against a wall. Imagine my despair when I realized that it was the flesh of my upper arms actually flapping, yes, flapping, against my sides. Even my feet have betrayed me by becoming wider and flatter. Walking barefoot across a tile floor, I sound like a duck-billed platypus.
The mental changes that I have gone through are profound. I find I can’t remember the name of the person who got me my first job when I was sixteen. Oh, wait. I just remembered. It was my father. My mind wanders a lot more than it ever did. I need an adding machine to add more than two numbers, including single-digit ones. I call my kids by every name besides their own, causing my youngest to introduce himself to me on an almost daily basis. “Hi, I’m Donnie. Have we met?”
I am skipping periods like a defective typewriter. I only get periods nowadays on special occasions, such as every summer holiday weekend, Christmas Eve, or our twenty-fifth anniversary cruise, and then they last for two weeks. I often have menstrual cramps similar to those I experienced when I was fifteen. Headaches are very common, including the ones I cause my family. My eyesight is changing, making the task of painting my toenails a challenge. I can only see to do the job properly if my nose is a half-inch away from my toenails. The physical contortions required for me to do a halfway neat job of applying the polish are enough to have my leg muscles screaming in protest and trembling for an hour afterwards.
The new trend in the United States is that women in their 50s or older are better and more beautiful than they were at age 20. This myth has been perpetuated by 50-something females who have money, have stayed the same one-digit size since their junior high school graduation, and think stretch marks are what happens to one’s high tech spandex workout gear after many washings. You know the ones I mean. Those chic broads who have beautifully cut silver hair and who dress in trim and classic clothes and never look messy or old; they’re the ones giving aging a bad name. The REAL women know that this “better after 50” theory is pure crap. The REAL women are the ones whose gunmetal gray hair is either thinning or frizzing and whose makeup disappears into oblivion around noon every day. They are the wonderfully rumpled and pleasantly rounded near-sighted females who burst into tears with no warning, put melted chocolate on almost everything they eat, or find themselves daydreaming about what it would feel like to randomly run people over with their car.
I normally love birthdays and anticipate them with all the eagerness of an eight year old. But this one coming up, the Big One, is a bit intimidating. The only way I’ll get through it successfully is if I am given a huge surprise party and everyone who attends gives me money or expensive gifts and tells me how good I look without including the phrase, “…for your age.”
I will turn 50 on my next birthday. 50. A half-century. Half of one hundred. Most likely ten years past middle age. The downward slope, the other side of the mountain, the slow skid. 50, for crying out loud. 5-freaking-zero.
When I was a kid in grade school, 50 meant old, decrepit, wrinkled and annoying. In my teens, 50 translated into, “Your life is over.” Raising my kids during my twenties and thirties, I barely had time to think about my own age, let alone an upcoming birthday like 50. When my family-rearing slowed down in my forties, 50 meant the Empty Nest, maybe finally having time and money to do cool things and go to cool places. Nowadays, I am amazed at how small the number 50 actually looks close-up.
The glaringly obvious and occasionally disheartening physical signs of near-50 are keeping me in a constant state of “You have GOT to be kidding me,” or “Well, that’s just wrong.” Gravity is my enemy, and my long boobs can attest to that. The cute little smile lines alongside my mouth that I started to get in my early forties now deeply parenthesize my confused frown. Important documents or illegal drugs can be safely tucked away in my Caesarean scar and the tops of my thighs haven’t seen the light of day since 1993. We won’t even discuss my ass.
Dimples are cute, but not when they are on one’s legs. Can you say “Wide-skirted bathing suits?” I noticed that my upper arms were kind of loose when I was shaking a can of whipped cream the other day. I heard this odd sound, like someone throwing a wad of Silly Putty against a wall. Imagine my despair when I realized that it was the flesh of my upper arms actually flapping, yes, flapping, against my sides. Even my feet have betrayed me by becoming wider and flatter. Walking barefoot across a tile floor, I sound like a duck-billed platypus.
The mental changes that I have gone through are profound. I find I can’t remember the name of the person who got me my first job when I was sixteen. Oh, wait. I just remembered. It was my father. My mind wanders a lot more than it ever did. I need an adding machine to add more than two numbers, including single-digit ones. I call my kids by every name besides their own, causing my youngest to introduce himself to me on an almost daily basis. “Hi, I’m Donnie. Have we met?”
I am skipping periods like a defective typewriter. I only get periods nowadays on special occasions, such as every summer holiday weekend, Christmas Eve, or our twenty-fifth anniversary cruise, and then they last for two weeks. I often have menstrual cramps similar to those I experienced when I was fifteen. Headaches are very common, including the ones I cause my family. My eyesight is changing, making the task of painting my toenails a challenge. I can only see to do the job properly if my nose is a half-inch away from my toenails. The physical contortions required for me to do a halfway neat job of applying the polish are enough to have my leg muscles screaming in protest and trembling for an hour afterwards.
The new trend in the United States is that women in their 50s or older are better and more beautiful than they were at age 20. This myth has been perpetuated by 50-something females who have money, have stayed the same one-digit size since their junior high school graduation, and think stretch marks are what happens to one’s high tech spandex workout gear after many washings. You know the ones I mean. Those chic broads who have beautifully cut silver hair and who dress in trim and classic clothes and never look messy or old; they’re the ones giving aging a bad name. The REAL women know that this “better after 50” theory is pure crap. The REAL women are the ones whose gunmetal gray hair is either thinning or frizzing and whose makeup disappears into oblivion around noon every day. They are the wonderfully rumpled and pleasantly rounded near-sighted females who burst into tears with no warning, put melted chocolate on almost everything they eat, or find themselves daydreaming about what it would feel like to randomly run people over with their car.
I normally love birthdays and anticipate them with all the eagerness of an eight year old. But this one coming up, the Big One, is a bit intimidating. The only way I’ll get through it successfully is if I am given a huge surprise party and everyone who attends gives me money or expensive gifts and tells me how good I look without including the phrase, “…for your age.”
Bumper Stickers
They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. I don’t need eyes to tell me almost everything I need to know about a person. All I have to do is look at their car, or more specifically, what they put on their car. These days, people plaster their cars with every imaginable kind of bumper sticker, sign and license plate. These decorated cars make for interesting reading when stuck in a traffic jam. They also provide vital information about the person so that when you yell insults at them, chances are you’ll hit their Achilles Heel.
The stickers range from where they vacation, who their favorite politician is, where their kids go to school and what grades they get, professional, college, high school and travel sports teams affiliations, their place of employment, their hobbies, their military branch, and their marital status. They also proclaim how the car owner feels about the current government, human sexuality, their pets, the opposite sex, children, their favorite food and drink, their religious affiliation, their nationality, the environment, and the way they drive.
Some of the stickers give actual advice or warnings to any driver behind them, such as “Are you as close to Jesus as you are to my bumper?” “Am I driving too slow? To report me, Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT,” or “I Swerve to Hit Random Pedestrians.” Others ask vital questions, such as “If someone was addicted to therapy, how would you cure them?” “Why is bra singular and panties plural?” and “Are you trying to sniff my butt?”
The honor student ones are the most obnoxious, if you ask me. The “Proud Parent of an Honor Student at Haughty High” is sickening. I always wanted to put “My kid is more popular and better-looking than your homely honor student” on my car. Or “My kid had sex with your honor student.” Or “My kid doesn’t have time to be on the honor roll. He’s too busy taking nude photographs of your honor roll daughter.”
I would like to go to a mall with an armload of the following bumper stickers: “Your kid may be an honor roll student, but you’re ugly,” “Your kid is on the honor roll because she slept with the principal,” or “My daughter turned down your honor roll student.”
The stickers range from where they vacation, who their favorite politician is, where their kids go to school and what grades they get, professional, college, high school and travel sports teams affiliations, their place of employment, their hobbies, their military branch, and their marital status. They also proclaim how the car owner feels about the current government, human sexuality, their pets, the opposite sex, children, their favorite food and drink, their religious affiliation, their nationality, the environment, and the way they drive.
Some of the stickers give actual advice or warnings to any driver behind them, such as “Are you as close to Jesus as you are to my bumper?” “Am I driving too slow? To report me, Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT,” or “I Swerve to Hit Random Pedestrians.” Others ask vital questions, such as “If someone was addicted to therapy, how would you cure them?” “Why is bra singular and panties plural?” and “Are you trying to sniff my butt?”
The honor student ones are the most obnoxious, if you ask me. The “Proud Parent of an Honor Student at Haughty High” is sickening. I always wanted to put “My kid is more popular and better-looking than your homely honor student” on my car. Or “My kid had sex with your honor student.” Or “My kid doesn’t have time to be on the honor roll. He’s too busy taking nude photographs of your honor roll daughter.”
I would like to go to a mall with an armload of the following bumper stickers: “Your kid may be an honor roll student, but you’re ugly,” “Your kid is on the honor roll because she slept with the principal,” or “My daughter turned down your honor roll student.”
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Elastic Waistband Society
There is an official club that women of a certain age can join. It's called The Red Hat Society. Their website states, "The Red Hat Society calls itself a "dis-organization," and we are proud of our lack of rules and by-laws. We are all helping to develop an enormous nurturing network or women over 50 (and under), by joining red-gloved hands and spreading the joy and companionship we are finding within and among the chapters. We have also discovered a "mission" of sorts: to gain higher visibility for women in our age group and to reshape the way we are viewed by today's culture " (http://www.redhatsociety.com/). These ladies wear red or purple hats and they get together for various chapter meetings and events to celebrate being a middle-aged woman. What an awesome idea!
There is a slight problem, though. I look really terrible in hats. No matter what kind of hat it is, it makes me look like a furtive hound dog, a bank robber, or a drunk. I don't have the face for a hat. Some women look jaunty, cute and stylish wearing a hat. Not me. I look stiff-necked and uncomfortable. So, armed with that knowledge, I am going to start my own society. The Elastic Waistband Society.
In order to become a member of the Elastic Waistband Society (EWS for short), you must be a woman age 50 or over. You have to be one of two things: at least two sizes larger than you were when you were in your twenties, or your waistline must be at least three inches bigger. You can join the EWS if you cannot recall the last time you tucked a shirt in, if you can rest a book on your stomach while reclining in the tub, or if you get out of breath leaning over trying to paint your toenails. If you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and you are shocked at your silhouette, if you resemble a Buddha statue from the side, or if you get dizzy trying to suck your gut in, then you can sign up for the EWS.
And if you're like me, waging a constant battle with bulge, constantly power-walking, working out with weights, doing situps and crunches and twists and lunges and lifts, and denying yourself all your favorite foods, then you qualify to be President of a chapter. I myself plan to assume the title "Grand Wizardess of the Entire Universe."
One of the first events that my EWS chapter will sponsor is an ice-cream eating contest. At our monthly meeting every month, we'll get guest speakers, maybe someone like Richard Simmons, and we'll hand out Oreos to throw at him if he tries to make us exercise. We'll take shopping excursions to Lane Bryant, and immediately following we'll have an Apple-tini Drink-Off. We will picket the "5-7-9" (referring to size) clothing shops and we'll have contests to see whose waistline sports the deepest red marks from too-tight clothing. It'll be fun!
There is a slight problem, though. I look really terrible in hats. No matter what kind of hat it is, it makes me look like a furtive hound dog, a bank robber, or a drunk. I don't have the face for a hat. Some women look jaunty, cute and stylish wearing a hat. Not me. I look stiff-necked and uncomfortable. So, armed with that knowledge, I am going to start my own society. The Elastic Waistband Society.
In order to become a member of the Elastic Waistband Society (EWS for short), you must be a woman age 50 or over. You have to be one of two things: at least two sizes larger than you were when you were in your twenties, or your waistline must be at least three inches bigger. You can join the EWS if you cannot recall the last time you tucked a shirt in, if you can rest a book on your stomach while reclining in the tub, or if you get out of breath leaning over trying to paint your toenails. If you catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and you are shocked at your silhouette, if you resemble a Buddha statue from the side, or if you get dizzy trying to suck your gut in, then you can sign up for the EWS.
And if you're like me, waging a constant battle with bulge, constantly power-walking, working out with weights, doing situps and crunches and twists and lunges and lifts, and denying yourself all your favorite foods, then you qualify to be President of a chapter. I myself plan to assume the title "Grand Wizardess of the Entire Universe."
One of the first events that my EWS chapter will sponsor is an ice-cream eating contest. At our monthly meeting every month, we'll get guest speakers, maybe someone like Richard Simmons, and we'll hand out Oreos to throw at him if he tries to make us exercise. We'll take shopping excursions to Lane Bryant, and immediately following we'll have an Apple-tini Drink-Off. We will picket the "5-7-9" (referring to size) clothing shops and we'll have contests to see whose waistline sports the deepest red marks from too-tight clothing. It'll be fun!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
For Whom Will You Vote?
Have you made up your mind yet? Are you one of those die-hard party people who vote strictly with your party and never deviate, no matter what smacked ass happens to be representing it? Or are you like me, unsure of which of the two evils is lesser?
Here's what I want from a Presidential candidate:
Here's what I want from a Presidential candidate:
- someone who will bring my son's best friend and his younger brother (both Army National Guard), and all of our military for that matter, home for good and not deploy them overseas in the fall
- someone who will lower the freaking gas prices!
- someone who will lower the price of everything under the sun so that we can shop for groceries without taking out a home equity loan
- someone who will work for peace in the world and erase our country's rep of being the bully in the playground
- someone who will take care of our military vets and their families
- someone who will pass realistic gun laws that actually get guns out of the hands of lunatics, or better yet....
- ...someone who sends the gun-wielding lunatics overseas in place of our beloved military, so they can shoot to their hearts' content. They can even bring their own guns.
- someone who cares about our environment and its future
- someone who believes in "one nation under GOD"
- someone who gives a shit about the "little people" and not lobbyists, special interest groups, mistresses, or personal bank accounts.
I am not asking for much. Just some honesty, integrity, compassion, flexibility, honor and respect.
Good Lord. I guess I AM asking for alot.
The only person I can think of who meets these criteria is...wait, give me a minute. I'm thinking. It's on the tip of my tongue....ahhhhh, I got it......
No one.
We're screwed.
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