December 30, 2009

Stream Of Consciousness

You know how it is if you blog (ahem, Mary Ann), sometimes you just can't focus on one thing to write about, and therefore you have to do something like this.  A stream of consciousness.  Random thoughts as they come into your head.  If you're like me, there are many thoughts running around in that little cranium, and they just have to come out, even if you can't find an organized way to do it.

First of all I can't ignore the fact that there is a woman at my work, Teddy I call her because she looks like a cartoon teddy bear, who has taken to hating me.  See, there was this instance a week or two ago where she pissed me off and I told her so.  Now she won't speak to me and averts her eyes whenever we meet walking toward each other in the office.  It's just so damn childish I can't even get over it.  The thing is, in our despute she got her way and I was essentially scolded by our boss.  I can't understand why she's this upset with me.  And here's the funniest part about it - she unfriended me on Facebook.  And now she can't even bring herself to talk to me face-to-face.  She e-mails every little question she has.  Is she embarrassed or actually mad at me?  Who knows.  But it's making for a very uncomfortable situation.  I'm happy to say I'm big enough to have gotten over the initial "situation" and hold no grudge.  That just proves i > her.

There's also the thing of Boyfriend and me stepping into the 21st century and getting high-speed internet.  It took us a long time to get a computer in the first place, and then we just got dial-up service.  Just this week we made the leap to high-speed, and I also have wireless for my laptop, which isn't such a good thing for Boyfriend as every time he sees me sitting on the couch I'm connected to the computer.  Like right now.  Along with our high-speed we got a cable upgrade, and we're positively whirling with all the channels from which we can choose.  Boyfriend has been digging the Country Classics station.  Good thing I'm distracted by the computer.  Too much country music makes me barf.  We'll probably become one of those couples who never talks to each other.  Oh well, we'll have our technology too keep us warm at night.

One thing that's been heavy on my mind lately is the state of the world.  It may seem like a grandiose worry for someone with such a miniscule little brain, but really, in case you haven't noticed a lot of people are just as concerned as I am.  And I'm almost embarrassed to be part of a country that values crap over virtue, profit over pride, and boobs over wit.  Everything just seems wrong.  I'm surrounded by people who have either lost jobs or are in constant fear of losing the job they have.  Corporations do stupid things like lay off hundreds of people, which makes me wonder why they hired that many people to begin with - if they don't need them now, what did they need them for in the first place?  I've decided the only way someone can be gainfully employed is if they get a job with the military, because obviously this middle eastern shit isn't going away any time soon.  And would you all just stop trying to blow up planes?!  Oh, and back to the employment situation?  WTF is with outsourcing?  The country is struggling with a huge unemployment rate in order to support Chan Yang or Isrib Ysuf?  Global economy is starting to suck for the US, and how come no one is doing anything about it?

And I don't even want you to tell me how uninformed my opinions are.  I'm perfectly aware that I speak of much I know very little about.  It is that ignorance that makes the subject matters so maddening for me.  Getting all mad and worked up isn't such a bad thing once in a while.

What about those aging parents?  GA!  They make me mental.  I chose not to have children for a reason and I'm totally unprepared to take on the regressive nature of aging parental units.  The other day my mother informed me that as long as we can pick her up she will not move to an institution of any kind.  Pick her up?  So I go, "what, I'm going to have to pick you up and put you on the potty seat and in the bathtub?"  She gave an affirmative answer.  Then I said, "ew, I don't want to give you a bath."  To that my dad responded, "why not, it's fun!" 

Lastly, tomorrow is a blue moon.  It's also New Year's Eve.  If you think I'm going to be able to stay awake until midnight you are probably having a stroke right now.

December 29, 2009

The Homecoming


Rated PG for “brief mild language.” Speculations of culprit terminology: “prissy butt” “poop” “piss ants” “bosoms”

It’s become a tradition for Boyfriend and me, thanks to our friends Mary Ann and The Professor, to watch The Homecoming every Christmas season. You remember, the movie that inspired the series The Waltons. The mom and dad were different actors in the series, but we’re mighty grateful John Boy translated from the movie to the TV, big face mole and all. (For the record, John Boy Walton makes my skin crawl.)

The Homecoming was one of those recurring holiday movies back in the olden days of my childhood, like Elf and The Santa Clause are today, and was required viewing. It depicted good values, family togetherness and an accurate account of how things were in hillbilly country during the depression, which is something every city kid should know.

One of my favorite parts of the movie is how everyone is so suspicious of John Boy locking himself in his room. His mother suspects he’s smoking cigarettes. I’m sure she also suspected he was jerking off to girlie magazines when she demanded he reveal what he had hidden under his mattress. John Boy made a fool of her when he told her how he was merely writing down all of his private thoughts. He’s just so sensitive, having a diary and all.

And what about when John Boy is driving through the snowy woods to find his daddy who could very well be dead in a ditch from the bus accident? He starts having auditory hallucinations of his slave-driving daddy demanding his boy do manly things and John Boy responding to his father’s barks with “I’m trying daddy, I’m trying.” Didn’t John Man know his son was destined to be an effeminate author?

I tease, which is exactly what you’re supposed to do while watching The Homecoming. Let me just say in all my kidding about the fancy John Boy that there is definitely a hottie in the movie. Cleavon Little is just about as delicious as they come as the Reverend Hawthorne. And you know, it is true what they say about those guys. Oh it’s twue, it’s twue!

And what of the Frankenstein-headed daddy? Yikes. His head is huge! And plus he tells a dreadful story about “wrastling” with Santa after throwing a rock at him. Well, at least in the end he comes to terms with his namesake going into the business of writing instead of living out his life on Walton Mountain.

If you haven’t seen The Homecoming you really should for the reasons my parents made me watch it. If you’re one of those oldsters like me who have already watched it for the reverent reasons you should watch it again and poke fun. If nothing more you can pull quotes from the movie and use them in your everyday lives, such as Boyfriend and I, along with Mary Ann and The Professor have. Some favorites:

“You take it out yonder and pour it on the ground!”

“Old woman you’re not the boss of me.”

“I think it’s a doll!”

I’m really surprised this film hasn’t been made into a cult classic. Christmastime midnight showings at the theater would surely draw hundreds. Now what can I do to get that pesky theme song out of my head?

December 28, 2009

Christmas Cards

One thing I like to do every year is send out Christmas cards. I don’t send out too many, no more than a couple dozen. I know some who send out upwards to a hundred, but I’ve just never been popular enough to know that many people.


For some reason I'm compelled to tell you this is not a card I would send out, but merely an example of a Christmas card chosen solely for the purpose of illustrating "Christmas Card."  It's a blogger thing - having a picture in your post.  Not that I think this is a horrible card or anything, but I probably would never send it myself.  Let's say it's an example of the cards other people send me.  Okay, read on...

It doesn’t matter how many Christmas cards you send out, or if you send any at all. What matters is the motivation behind your actions.  My motivation for sending cards to anyone: an acknowledgement at the end of the year that I’m thinking about you, I’m glad to know you, I want you to have a wonderful season, whether you celebrate Christmas or not.

Then there are those people who have completely different motivations than I. I especially love Faux Ma’s approach to the card-giving practice. Every year she keeps the cards she received and only sends cards the following year to those who gave her a card the previous year. It doesn’t matter if the card sender is suffering from a major illness and is unable to send a card, or if the card got lost in the mail, or even if they just decided to not send cards to anyone they are deemed unworthy to receive one of her precious Christmas cards the following year.

Others send “the letter” under the guise of a year-end update when really they just want to brag about their fabulous vacation, their smart children, or even better write them in the voice of their pets. Personally I love getting “the letter” because when I read it I just assume everything is the complete opposite of what is written.

The best  worst  stupidest cards I receive are the ones sent merely as a reflex to receiving one from me. I’m not on their list to begin with, but because I sent them one, they frantically send one out to me, thinking they owe me one. It’s especially wonderful when I get my cards out just before Christmas and those lame people who feel they need to reciprocate send one out to me after the holiday. Geez.

I send cards because I want to. Not because I think I have to. Not because you gave one to me. If you don’t send one to me I’m not going to snub you next year. I don’t expect anything in return. To that Faux Ma says, “I guess you know the real meaning of giving.”

December 18, 2009

lieTunes

Music is a huge part of the Christmas experience. There are all sorts of offerings, everything from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to Steve and Eydie, Silent Night to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Everyone, including famous Jews like Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, has put out a Christmas cut, if not a whole Christmas album (CDs to you youngsters).

I was talking with Charlotte the other day and she told me her husband just adores the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack, and she’s about ready to snap that CD in two because it just drives her nuts. I can totally relate, as Boyfriend also loves that CD. It’s a guy thing. That annoying jazz piano is probably the last thing a girl would want to listen to while trimming the tree or wrapping presents.

And then ask any guy what his favorite Christmas song is. Eighty percent of the time they’ll answer Little Drummer Boy.

See a pattern?

Over the years I’ve known a lot of guys and by now in my ripe mid-age I have it all figured out. Here’s the deal – the guys are trying to brainwash the girls and are subversively trying to inflict guilt upon us.

You see, they want you to think they’re all sensitive, but the truth is, they want to create the illusion that they’re identifying with the losers. Charlie Brown? Loser. The music on that CD doesn’t move them, it’s all about Charlie Brown. Jazz? Jazz is not Christmas. And I’ll bet you the guy who says he likes the Charlie Brown soundtrack doesn’t listen to jazz at all throughout the rest of the year. What the guys assume is that girls like to take care of the loser, the pitiful Charlie Brown figure. The hope is that the girl’s nurturing instincts will kick in and the guy will never want for a thing, because the girl will pity the loser, pamper him, and give him never-ending validation so he doesn’t feel like the Charlie Brown loser he is convincing you he is. It’s all very Jungian and archetypal.



What about that Little Drummer Boy? Well here’s the thing on that - “I have no gift to bring…” Another loser. That the little drummer boy merely offered baby Jesus his drumming talent and himself, is exactly what your guy wants you to expect from him this Christmas. Okay? 1) Tell me what girl wants to hear a drum solo, and 2) giving of himself? Give me a break. He’s only trying to get out of buying you diamonds and furs, things you totally deserve. Don’t let him send subliminal messages that you should feel guilty for wanting the fine things in life.



So girls, don’t fall for it. It’s not sensitivity or vulnerability these guys are revealing with their Christmas “favorites.” It’s trickery. I’ve been around the block and have it all figured out. They’re secretly loving the song Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer, and you can go ahead and let them know you’re on to them with their Charlie Brown and Drummer Boy fa├žade.

December 04, 2009

Holidays, Phase II

Well, I’ve finally gotten over the Thanksgiving blues set off by the Fauxs. Things aren’t good, but they’re as good as they’re going to be, so I’ve decided to just suck it up and be a good little Faux DIL. I’ve taken on the project of making Faux Ma’s remaining days tolerable, if not thought-provoking. I mean, I can’t imagine the absence of some self-examination when you’re looking straight into the light at the face of Jesus. I’m just helping that self-examination along, for better or worse.

So next comes Christmas. Who isn’t jolly at Christmastime? I’ll tell you who. Those fools who went shopping at 3:00 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving. They’re as pathetic as the retailers are greedy. While I was snug in my bed wrapped in a cozy quilt sinking into the downy goodness of my featherbed the mental, sleep deprived, still-stuffed-with-turkey-and-gravy fans of the –Marts were clawing each other to get the best deal on toys designed to keep their kids sedentary and hypnotized. The obnoxious TV ads for the obscene door-buster sales positively ruin the week before Thanksgiving. Thank God the stores are now advertising door-buster sales at a much more reasonable hour, 7:00 a.m. Still way too early for me on a Saturday morning. It’s a good thing though, because I wouldn’t want those kinds of people getting in my way when I’m doing my leisurely albeit more expensive shopping at reasonable hours of the day.


This weekend I undertake the decorating project. The tree is up unfurling its branches to receive hundreds of lights, ornaments, and tinsel. The entire cluttered house is crying to be declutterfied in preparation of the Nativities, Santas, angels, snowmen, and elves anticipating their freedom from the myriad of Rubbermaid tubs in which they have been stored for the past eleven months. A friend of mine once said my holiday house looks as though someone puked Christmas all over it. In my defense I would not say my house looks puked upon so much as being aggressively festive, and not in a bad way.

There will also be some Christmas baking done this weekend. I’ll be baking for two this year as Faux Ma most likely won’t be able to find the energy to do much cookie mixing. In my quest to become the Faux DIL they never had I’m going to cast aside my culinary principals and make a batch of Faux Ma’s fudge for her and Faux Pa. I’m morally opposed to making fudge with graham crackers, but that’s her recipe and I’m going to bite the bullet for a sick old lady. Damn I’m nice.


As judgmental as I may seem, I truly hope everyone can celebrate the season in whatever way makes them happy. I may be all shrimp cocktail and champagne when others are pickled pigs’ feet and Ripple but in the end we’re all thinking the same thing – who the hell invented fruitcake and eggnog? And what’s with graham crackers in fudge? (OK, that last one is just me.)

November 30, 2009

It Is Later Than You Think

I had big fantasies about spending the Thanksgiving weekend writing blog posts galore.  In fact, in my planner I wrote, "Blog Posts Galore!"  It didn't happen.  I got too depressed.

My dinner was a fabulous success, at least in my opinion.  The turkey was moist and golden brown.  The gravy was rich and delicious.  The stuffing was flavorful and moist.  The potatoes were moist.  All right, I know, I'm using the word moist too much, but it is an adjective I haven't been able to use to describe a Thanksgiving meal in many years.  Grandma's buns turned out well, as did Other Grandma's pumpkin pie.  And the lemon tart was to die for. 

But I don't want to talk about dying, because poor Faux Ma is doing just that.  Not to make light of the situation, I'm just trying to make sense of my feelings about it all.  You know the saying, If you can't be a good example, be a horrible warning?  Faux Ma is turning out to be the latter for me.  I have compassion for her and all, but really, is being terminal any reason to ruin a perfectly good holiday?

The entire day, all three hours of it, was centered around watching Faux Ma writhe in pain.  A shoulder/neck pain.  Bursitis, I think, nothing related to her cancer.  Anyway, she brought along her heating pad for comfort, but it obviously gave her none.  Boyfriend and Faux Pa would just watch her moan, sigh, and shift positions.  No one spoke.  I grew so terribly uncomfortable with the situation I asked her if she'd like to take one of my Vicodin, it would work a miracle.  She said she had already taken one.  Then I said, well then, maybe you'd like a glass of wine with that.  The humor was not appreciated. 

Faux Ma has an expiration date now.  I'm sure that circumstance is a difficult one to deal with.  The trouble I'm having relates to figuring out where I fit in.  On one hand I want to do everything I can to help make this stage of her life comfortable.  On the other hand I want her to quit her whining and resistance.  I want her to be gracious.  I want her to see the fucking light already.  Not that one people see when they're stepping over to the other side, but, you know, "the light."  I want to just tell her get a clue, tick-tock, your life is nearly over and you're still choosing to be the bitter passive-aggressive you've always been?  Doesn't really matter either way as this is a private family matter and I'm basically shut out. 

I guess being on the brink of death doesn't have the same effect on Faux Ma as it had on Scrooge.  Maybe Faux Ma doesn't care that she has indeed become a burden to deal with rather than a dying parent to nurture and soothe. 

Boyfriend has similar feelings to mine, although his feelings don't freak him out as much as mine freak me out.  I'm not used to this sort of thing.  I've seen people close to me die with dignity and grace.  I've seen people with terminal illnesses live their lives with vigor and determination and hope until the very end.  To watch this woman resist help yet complain about not being able to do the things she normally does is annoying to me.  To see she still holds grudges against other family members is perplexing to me.  To know the little voice inside her head is just begging people to pamper her and fall all over her in their grief over her imminent demise pisses me off because the voice I hear coming from her mouth tells me not to bother.

I want to do something even though I'm not truly welcome to.  I want to stay away because, well, frankly being around her is just a downer.  She's that terrible warning, an example of what I don't want to be when I'm dying.  I guess, even in her pitiful physical state and twisted emotional state, Faux Ma is an inspiration to me.  A reminder that just because I'm dying doesn't guarantee love and affection.  A sign that truly as we sow, so shall we reap.

Boyfriend took his parents home after our delicious meal.  When he came back he found me in my comfy chair with a glass of wine beside me as I watched The Brady Bunch reruns on TV.  I spent a good part of the weekend in a state of shock and awe over what happened this Thanksgiving.  I realize I'm thankful for the good people in my life, the ones who support me and love me no matter how big an asshat I can be.  I'm also thankful for those who don't love me so much, for they are the ones who inspire me to be a better person to myself and all those who matter to me.

November 25, 2009

Gobble Gobble

Do you like Thanksgiving?

For a long time I did, then for a long time I didn't. The concept of a holiday centered around nothing but huge quantities of food appeals to me. Growing up Thanksgiving was indeed a feast put on by my grandma. When the Thanksgiving torch was passed to her daughters, my mother and Her Sister, things didn’t seem as grandiose. To spare you the details of how things went horribly wrong, let me just say Thanksgiving went from a well-orchestrated and perfectly executed meal put on by my grandmother to a disjointed pot-luck attempt at a feast between four cooks. The food was plentiful, but it just didn’t seem right coming from so many different cooks. Some may think a variety of cooks would make for a diverse and delicious meal. I thought it was a mishmash of culinary styles that led to a relatively unremarkable, albeit large meal.

As disenchanted as I was over the fact that my grandma had to die and end all of that Thanksgiving wonderfulness, I have to say the pot-luck thing we had going was much better than what I was in for when I began having Thanksgiving dinner with Boyfriend’s parents, Faux Ma and Faux Pa.

Faux Ma always pleased the men in her life with her cooking. As an outsider I didn’t know stuffing was supposed to be so dry it crumbled off the table spoon from which it was served. I didn’t know green beans were to be served with relish tongs. I didn’t know there was such a thing as tomato jello, otherwise known as aspic. Ass pick. Opaque red jello-like salad containing brown flecks of something served on a bed of lettuce, which also had to be eaten up because one must not waste food even though it’s really meant to be a garnish. I didn’t know mashed potatoes were supposed to crack when you put your fork into them. I didn’t know a Thanksgiving meal could be served without pumpkin pie with pumpkin fluff as a substitute - a pumpkin-flavored Cool Whip dessert so vile it made the dusty turkey seem delicious. I didn’t know the saving grace to Thanksgiving dinner was gravy, the only form of moisture in the entire meal.

Suffice it to say I grew to miss the pot-luck meal my family made tradition.

It’s easy to criticize another’s attempt to put on a holiday meal, even though I don’t exaggerate in the least in my description of Faux Ma’s meal. Now I must put my money where my mouth is. This year Faux Ma is too sick and feeble to put on the meal, so the burden of delectable lies with me. Of course I’m nervous. It’s not that I feel pressure to please my guests because obviously they’re perfectly happy with ass pick and pumpkin fluff. What makes me nervous is measuring up to my own expectations.

So I’ve decided to channel my dead grandma. Thursday morning I’ll meditate and concentrate and do all those other things people do to channel the dead. She’ll inhabit my body and guide me to cooking the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve had in years. There will be real pumpkin pie and no fleck-laden gelatined tomato soup. The potatoes, stuffing, and turkey will be moist and delicious. For a good measure I’ll channel my other dead grandma and make her sweet, buttery dinner rolls. Being so possessed by these grandmothers I’ll dance around the kitchen singing Everything Is Beautiful and end every sentence with the question “and-so?” I can’t go wrong with my two grandmas in the kitchen with me, inhabiting my very essence.

Wish me luck. With my channeling skills I’ll probably come up with Colonel Sanders and Orville Redenbacher and serve nothing but extra crispy popcorn.

Oh well, better than ass pick.

November 20, 2009

Do-Si-Do

Help!  I'm having a flashback to junior high gym class, and yet, this is so unlike that.  When did square dancing trade do-si-do with "arrow?"  What's with the weird holding-the-face-and-rocking-back-and-forth thing?  Is it that 7th graders can alamande left better than 70-year-olds?  Since when do we square dance to The Black Eyed Peas?  It's all just so wrong.  I think it's an evil plot to make old people look foolish under the guise of dance and exercise.  When I'm old, I'm just going to sit in a chair and look out the window like I'm supposed to.

November 17, 2009

Bite Me Barnabas

Coming soon is a new movie in the Twilight series. New Moon, I think it’s called. People are going mental over this whole vampire thing. I’m laughing, because I’ve had a vampire thing for, well, decades. What I don’t understand is, what took everyone else so long? Another thing, this Twilight vampire guy is totally not the one.

I started having the hots for vampires way back in grade school. I didn’t realize then what I was experiencing was “the hots,” but looking back I clearly had romantic feelings. It was back in the '60s, and I would run home from school to watch the horror soap opera, Dark Shadows. Barnabas Collins was the beginning of what would turn out to be a life-long love for the blood-sucking undead. He wasn’t attractive to look at by any means, but he had a certain je nais c'est quoi. In fact a couple of years ago Boyfriend bought for me, from the estate section of Bockstruck’s Jewelers, a Barnabas Collins ring. It’s an oval black onyx stone and fits perfectly on my right pointer finger, just like Barnabas wore his. Next on the list is the walking stick with a sterling silver wolf head handle, but that’s almost too much to hope for.



The story of Dracula is, of course, the ultimate in vampire stories, as Dracula is, of course, the ultimate vampire. I loved Bela Lugosi in Dracula. He made an insect-eating lunatic out of Renfield, and who could resist that “Transylvanian” accent? Plus, I always loved that band of lighting across Dracula’s eyes.



As I grew older Dracula and vampires in general became more of a fantasy than mere fascination. Anne Rice wrote the vampire trilogy (which of course grew into more than a trilogy, but then she found God and things got kind of boring and all about her). Casting Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt in the movie version of Interview With A Vampire was a tragic mistake.  While somewhat attractive, these guys lack character. I disregarded the film versions of her books, but the books themselves, delicious.

One of the most intriguing portrayals of Dracula was by Gary Oldman in Dracula. Yow. And yum. I mean, really, what’s better, the skinny boy with the pasty skin or the suave European with the top hat and ever-so-cool blue glasses? There’s no contest.



To go full circle and to arouse my fantasies even further is the upcoming remake of Dark Shadows on the big screen. And who could play the alluring vampire better than anyone in the entire universe, especially for those of us with definite submission-to-the-undead tendencies? Oh…my…God.



Twilight guy, you’re an amateur. And all you young girls out there, grow up. You can do a lot better.

November 11, 2009

Just Peachy, That's Me

Boyfriend read my last post and got all disgusted with me for being so hard on myself.  So to cancel out any negative feelings I expressed/have about myself I'm making a list of positive things about me.  This will place me in the neutral range regarding my self esteem.  Neutral is better than loathing.

1.  I know good food and eat it well.

2.  My hair is very curly with lots of character.

3.  I've never been more than five pounds overweight, except for that time I went on antidepressants which compelled me to eat M&Ms by the truckload.

4.  I'm unafraid to laugh out loud at really stupid things, blowing milk out of my nose if necessary.

5.  When I get an idea in my head I execute it immediately, despite the fact that I could fail miserably.  This could be construed as a negative trait, but I choose to believe it is a good quality, because I'm a positive person.

6.  I know what the word homomorphism means - it has nothing to do with turning gay.

7.  I'm a good liar.  Again, this could be construed as a negative trait, but it's really good when you lie to spare someone hurt feelings.  Like if someone asks how I like their new outfit and I think it looks like something my great-grandmother would wear while she was picking potatoes in the Old Country.  I would never actually say that.  OK, maybe I should rephrase the positive statement to say, I can twist my words to project good feelings onto someone rather than saying what I really think.  I guess that's still lying, but whatever.

8.  I'm a very considerate and humble roulette player.  And I tip the croupier.

9.  I respond to e-mails promptly, except for those Viagra ones. 

10.  I don't smell like pee...yet.

So there you have it.  Boyfriend has been quite bored with all my negative talk these past few weeks, so I hope he's happy that yes, I do think I have some good qualities.  I'm not a loser, I'm a winner!

November 10, 2009

I'm A Loser Baby, So Why Don't You Kill Me*

OK, you two people out there who are reading this blog, I’m back at it, at least for one boring post. Boring because I have absolutely nothing to offer. Nothing. I’m an empty vessel. I’m a shell. I’m a big, fat loser.

I found out today that one of my best friends made it to the top. Her life has been one miraculous happening after another. She married the man of her dreams. She bore four children who are about the cutest things alive. She’s smart enough to home school these kids. She’s a wonderful cook. She’s a fabulous photographer. And to top all that off, she blogs every single day. More than once. Her blog has different tabs! Big deal, you say. OK, the blogging thing isn’t really the top of the success list. She wrote a cookbook that is now on the New York Times best seller list at…#1.

Now you two people who are reading this know I don’t actually have a best friend who achieved all this. But that’s what  religiously reading blogs has done to me. I’ve been reading this chick’s blog for a long time now, and I feel like I know her. Never mind how blogs aren’t necessarily a true reflection on one’s real life, she’s telling a story and sticking to it, so as far as I’m concerned I know this girl as well as if I had grown up with her.

She’s traveling around the country on a big book signing tour, getting all sorts of praise and worship from her thousands of fans. I also found out she’ll be in my town for a signing. I thought about seeing her at that venue but then I realized the truth of the matter. I would buy her book and stand in line for hours waiting for her signature. Not only would she ask my name, when I tell it to her she wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t recognize it from all the comments I’ve left on her blog. She’d be better off identifying one cow in a heard of eleventy thousand than she would me. What a crushing blow that would be.

Before you go thinking how I’m being all selfish about this, and petty and jealous, let me just say that yes, I am small enough to be jealous about this and it is indeed all about me. I mean, there is no one in the world more worthy of fame and fortune than I am. I want it more than anyone and yet I have to sit back and watch little miss I-Didn’t-Even-Have-To-Try get it all.**

So I sit here with nothing to say except that I’ll never measure up to the blogging queen my best friend has become. I’ll never be able to capture the hearts of millions with pictures of my cute little offspring because, well, as you know I’m barren. I’ll never write a book that will make it to the New York Times best seller list, much less the number one spot because I’m so consumed with envy I’m left with a writer’s block worthy of a case of scotch, meaningless, tawdry sex with cabana boys in Key West, and a pistol with one bullet meant only to put me out of my misery. ***

Except that part about drunken sex with cabana boys isn't all bad, is it? 

* These are actual song lyrics; I don’t really want you to kill me.

** Upon a reread of this post I realize this sounds really snarky and mean. I don’t really hate her, I hate myself, and anyone who’s ever had a shred of psychology training would know that.

*** Again, I have no intention of harming myself or others, so call off the men in the white coats.

November 03, 2009

It Was So Good It Could Only Get Worse

I got up on Monday morning and freshened myself up for the day ahead of me. Mornings are a really bad time for me because, well, I have to stop sleeping. But I managed fairly well for a Monday, and as I approached the glass doors of the office building I noticed I was having an incredibly wonderful hair day.

After working for about ten minutes I had this horrible feeling. An urge. I couldn’t avoid it, even though it is the thing I loathe most to do in public. I had to poop. Ugh! So I went to the bathroom and took care of the situation as quickly as I could. As I washed my hands afterwards I looked in the mirror and admired my cute hair.

I had a meeting with my boss about an hour and a half into my day. It didn’t go so badly, I suppose, except for her way of looking at me as though I’m a freak of nature for wanting to actually serve the public ethically and legally like I’m supposed to. She continued her look at me for about forty-five minutes and our meeting was over.  I know she was envying my fabulous hair. She also pities me somewhat because it’s becoming clearer with every day my job will eventually be eliminated. When? No one knows. But it is inevitable.

Around 8:00 the construction workers came and started their work in our office space. They were tearing out a wall. Drills and saws and punching things. Loud power tools. Screeching dentist-office-like sounds. Pounding and pounding. And the dust. Oh the dust. This continued until noon when the workers took off for lunch, and of course resumed at 1:00 and nagged at me for the rest of the day.

There was also a point in the day when I dropped a gigantic case file because of a pain my elbow that has been bothering me slightly for about a week. That joint now remains in a constant state of ache and the case file needs to be reassembled…some day.

As the day wore on I started to feel agitated over all of the things I had to accomplish in the next couple of weeks in my personal life. The tasks and chores began whirling around in my head and suddenly I found my presence at the workplace to be a complete waste of time and why do I even bother to do a good job when A) I have too much to do outside of this loud, stinking rat hole and B) what’s the point of spending so much time out of my life to be rewarded with nothing more than the inevitable elimination of my job in the fairly near future?

The anxiety rose in me, and with that also came a second need to poop. Twice in one day? At work?! WTF?  When nature calls...at the mirror in the bathroom I caught a glimpse of that great hair, which put a shadow of a smile on my face.

Back at my desk I started thinking about my dead brother and actually began to cry. I hate crying at work more than anything, except pooping at work, but I couldn’t even help myself. I sat in my chair with that achy throat you get from trying to choke back sobs while dabbing the tears that forced their way down my cheeks and blowing gallons of snot out of my nasal passages.

I tried to cheer myself by reading one of my favorite blogs and was disheartened to see my comment of a previous post had been mocked by the author of the blog.

Finally it was time to go home. I crossed the windy street to the parking ramp and breathed a sigh of relief as my day in hell was nearing its end. As I merged onto the freeway I noticed an unbelievable number of cars. Could there have been more traffic? And they were all traveling at an ungodly slow speed. I forgot to tinkle before I left the office. At least I didn’t have to poop.

When I made it to the house I kicked off my shoes and saw I had pierced a hole in the toe of one of my good socks. Don’t go thinking I have talons at the end of my legs; a hole in the sock was just par for the course of the day. I went upstairs to change clothes and looked into the mirror. There it was. That hair. That wonderful hair had been blown by the wind on my way from the office to the parking ramp and turned into a mop of scraggly fur on the top of my head. The one bright spot in my day had been ruined by nothing more than a gust of wind.

What began as a perfectly wonderful hair day turned out to be one of the most miserable eighteen hours I’ve spent in a long time. I can only hope for the rest of the week I’ll be plagued with cowlicks and frizzies to spare me the emotional turmoil that comes with a good hair day.


November 01, 2009

I Remembered

Happy Birthyday Bob.  Wherever you are.

October 29, 2009

Royal Clones

How many of us get to see pictures of our ancestors?  I've seen pictures and have even known a few from three generations back.  But what about centuries back?  Wouldn't that be interesting?  Finding pictures of your ancestors from centuries ago is pretty much impossible, unless of course you're royalty and you can just go to the nearest museum and check the portrait painted of your great great great great great grandmother.  Or maybe that portrait is hanging in the grand stairway of the castle in which you live.  The point is, we have no idea how well these genes are passed down and practically cloned throughout the ages.  Until now. 

Check this out:


This is Queen Victoria (1819-1901) and Princess Beatrice, her great, great, great, great, granddaughter.

What about this:


Uncanny is the resemblance between King Edward I (1239-1307) and Prince William, Edward's great grandson twenty-one times over.

I wonder what the women and men in my family looked like in the 13th century.  I kind of shutter to think.

For more fascinating pictures of royal clones, check out Damn Cool Pics.  They really are damn cool.

Addendum:  OK, the point was brought up in the comments section of Damn Cool Pics that these people have such a resemblance because there's so much inbreeding going on in royal families.  But really, if the inbreeding were so intense wouldn't these people be like dwarfy retards by now? 

October 28, 2009

Made For TV

A friend of mine just started a blog. Last time I checked she had three posts, which is pretty good for someone who’s never even read a blog before three weeks ago. We had lunch the other day and she was teasing that I hadn’t posted as much as she thought I should. I explained to her how I’m writing for four blogs as opposed to her one, and she should just shut up. I told her if she’s so into the blogging scene now she should be posting every day. And then the truth came out.

She’s afraid.

She’s afraid if she sits down to write that’s all she’ll do and will get nothing else done. I asked her, what else are you going to do? You see, she has this thing where if the TV is on her head automatically turns toward it and her eyes get all spinney like on cartoons and she can’t turn away no matter what kind of crap is on. She has another thing where if she sits down to the computer she starts out with a game of solitaire, which turns into twenty-seven games of solitaire. It’s not like spending some time writing on a blog will take her away from feeding the poor or giving blood. If she was really doing things like that I’d cut her some slack.

But seriously, this woman says she wants to write, become the most sought-after screen writer for Lifetime Television For Women made-for-TV movies and/or become a novelist. The problem is society has etched into our minds that keeping our clothes clean and feeding our children are more important than writing the Great American Novel. Writers like my friend are victims I tell you.

I mean, who’s to say what is productive and what is a waste of time? Granted, we do have to keep our clothes clean and feed our children, but aside from that, how we spend our leisure time is really no one’s business but our own. I have a small crafting business, and I go out and sell my wares at various art and craft shows throughout the year. People frequently ask, “do you make all of this?” When I reply yes, many times they say, “you sure have a lot of time on your hands.” Well, see, no I don’t, because I’m busy making all this stuff. Because I choose to spend my time creatively doesn’t make me less productive than the person who chooses to spend time taking community ed classes or going to church.

So I tell my friend, don’t be afraid to spend too much time doing what you want to do. And don’t tell me that watching Dancing With The Stars is really what you want to do. I know better. I’ll have to delve more deeply into her psyche and determine what she's really afraid of. My guess is she fears success most of all. Anyone who knows her would say she couldn’t stand being rich and famous. That’s just too dreadful.

October 27, 2009

There's No Easy Way




Taking a "field trip" during my lunch break the other day I heard a discussion on the radio.  The topic: What's this new trend with women wanting to be a princess?  The gist of the conversation was about how women today want to be treated as a princess, not having to work, letting a man take care of them. 

I've always been an independent person, earning my keep and being responsible for things like car maintenance.  I've paid my own bills and have been able to  keep a job.  I grew up with Women's Lib and was proud to be able to live a full and happy life without needing a man to provide for me.  Interestingly enough, most of the men I've dated were deadbeats less financially sound than I.  My apartment was the place we could go for privacy as they usually lived with their parents.  If I wanted to go on a date, I was the one who picked up the tab.  I felt superior and in control.  I could totally see why men didn't want their wives to work.  Being employed and having financial resources is power. 

The people calling in to the radio show, mostly women, were aghast at the fact that there are women out there who don't want to work.  They felt it is a woman's responsibility to honor those who paved the way, making it possible for us to have jobs in fields other than nursing or teaching.  (Not that those aren't valuable careers, but if you didn't want to see guts, or deal with other people's brats you pretty much didn't work.)  We are now allowed to get an education and obtain employment and it is our duty to do so as women, because damn it, we're just as good as men.

And then were spoken words from one of the hosts of the radio show, a man.  Words that rang kind of true for me.  "We all want to be princesses (including men) because we're lazy!"  Hallaluja! 

Now before you get all up  in my face about how bad it is to encourage laziness, I have to qualify my position.  You see, I've been holding my own for almost thirty years.  I carryied the load of responsibilities without a man for thirty-five years and have shared the load with Boyfriend for the last thirteen.  (By the way, Boyfriend isn't one of those deadbeats less financially sound men I referred to earlier.  When I met him he was actually doing better than I was, owning a house and a car, which was a step and a half above me.)  I've sucked up to the government big shots I work for in order to keep a job.  I've cut coupons to save money at the grocery store.  I've tried to adhere to my mother's rule Never Pay Retail.  Okay?  I've paid my dues.  I want out.  I want to be lazy. 

Shows like The Bachelor set a bad example to young women.  It encourages women to look for a rich man and expect everything to be handed to them simply because they ask.  It also encourages women to snag that man by means of sex.  Listen girls, it's easier to get up in the morning and go to work and provide for yourself than it is to play the sex kitten twenty-four hours a day just to get some guy to buy you nice things.  I mean, you have to shave your legs every day, look alluring - it's just too much trouble.  So basically, I'm being the lazy one having had a job all these years as I'm just not willing to put in the effort to keep my weight down or submit to unspeakable sex acts, which of course is mandatory when you are a kept woman.

So maybe "lazy" is the wrong word.  Perhaps it's just that I'm old and tired and want to have a life sans a boss and a schedule.  It's not that I'm trying to get out of doing the work, as was implied by the term "princess" so much as I just want to be done now.  I would totally get into someone taking over and steering the ship while I sit back and enjoy all the perks.  I have one problem.  Boyfriend feels the same way. 

Together we trudge on.  It makes no difference what our gender is.  We're both tired of it, but the world has tied us both to the wheel and we have to share the steering duties until we're dead.  All right, hopefully not until we're dead, but for a while, at least. 

As for being a princess I can only say this:  Even Cinderella paid her dues with the evil stepmother and all that back-breaking work she did cleaning the hearth.  In short, you can become a princess once you've put in your time.  Otherwise your prince charming will know you're just a whore.

October 26, 2009

Eat Me

With Halloween coming up there are so many new parents out there just itching to get their cute little babies out there for Tricks or Treats.  Our friend, Martha Stewart, is always coming up with creative ideas and this Halloween is no exception.

I present to you, the Roast Turkey costume:





I'm totally not lying.  If you're sick enough you can find the details here.  The costume pattern includes all the roasted vegetables and platter.  Your little darling will be so cute you'll want to eat her up!  And it's a twofer.  Lay little customed Tiffany on the Thanksgiving table and watch Aunt Edna stroke right out.  It's all around holiday fun!

Addendum: Taking a small infant out Trick-or-Treating is not cool as we all know you're hogging the candy for yourself.  Babies can't eat a Snickers Bar and you know it.  Note to self: stock up on Melba Toast hand-outs for lame infant-wielding Trick-or-Treaters.

October 25, 2009

Insomnia

I've been awake since 2:30 a.m.  It's now 6:30 a.m.  It's true what they say, it really is darkest before the dawn. 

October 16, 2009

High Maintenance

I was walking down the street one day and coming toward me walking in the other direction was a woman.  A perfect woman.  Her clothes fit her perfectly.  Her hair was perfect.  Her purse hung perfectly from her perfectly square shoulders.  Her make-up was perfect.  Her teeth were perfect.  All right, you get the idea.  This woman was perfect. 

I was a little surprised at my response to this vision of perfection.  Envy?  No.  Resentment?  No.  I let out a sigh of relief that I do not have the pressure on me to be that perfect.  Realizing I didn't feel that pressure took me aback because I grew up around several women who placed a great emphasis on appearances, and for many years I also felt appearance was of the utmost importance.  Like that Billy Crystal character who claims "It doesn't matter how you feel darling, you look marvelous" I emphasized the surface.

Now before you go thinking how I'm going to stress inner beauty and how what's inside is more important than what's outside, let me just assure you, I'm not that deep.  Plus I'm just not in that touchy-feeling, share-your-feelings, I'm-OK-You're-OK kind of mood.  Yeah, yeah, inner beauty is good and everything, but that's not the point.  The point is, appearance perfection requires high maintenance.  Even mere good appearances requires medium-high maintenace.  Here's what I have to say about that: if you want to spend your time maintaining an appearance, go for it.  Put on your foundation and your powder, your eyeliner and mascara, your ruby red lipstick.  Then take out the curling iron, the straitening iron, the curlers, the conditioner, the gel, the hairspray.  Spend your thousands on custom clothing and tailoring.  Submit to the dentist for a bleached smile.  You go girl.  You look marvelous! 

But what happens on the day(s) when you just don't feel like it?  There have got to be days when that just seems like too much work.  What happens then? 

Here's the thing.  I was one of those people who does their hair every day and puts on make-up and wears clothes that have been ironed.  Then one Saturday I was at Target.  I had on my cargo pants and a baggy sweatshirt.  I had applied no make-up.  My hair was so bad I wore a dorky hat.  I'm at Target for crying out loud, picking up toothpaste and tampons.  In and out and back home again.  Oh, except for there's a woman who works in my office.  She sees me, and doesn't really know if she recognizes me or not.  Her expression is kind of squinty, like if she focuses more she'll see the make-up that supposed to be on my face.  I felt so embarrassed, not because of how I looked, but because that's not how I look to most people most of the time. 

It's all still about appearances, but when someone can't recognize you on Saturday after they've been working in the office with you week in and week out for years, perhaps your daily appearance is a little less than genuine.  No? 

Another embarrassing case of presenting a false image:  A long time ago Boyfriend and I went on a date.  We had just started dating but knew we were destined for something big, and we totally had the hots for each other.  There we were, making out on my couch.  His hand was on my back, sort of assessing the situation with the bra.  You know how they do that.  They try to be all nonchalant but you can tell they're totally counting how many hooks they have to negotiate.  Then I thought OMGhe's going to find out!  Thing was, I was wearing pretty substantially padded bra.  Because I had deep feelings and respect for Boyfriend, I felt obligated to tell him before he went one step further that once the bra came off he might be surprised at what he finds.  I just don't want you to be too disappointed, I said.  Well, how could he not be disappointed?  Luckily it turned out the Boyfriend is more of a leg man and my little mosquito bites didn't bother him in the least.

All I'm saying is, I'd rather have people try to recognize me when I present myself as stunning rather than when I'm just myself.  I'd rather put huge effort into my appearance once or twice a month rather than every day.  If I'm going to surprise someone with my appearance I'd rather have them be astonished at how well I clean up rather than back away in horror when they realize I actually look like Quasimodo. 

As the perfect woman passed me on the sidewalk all I could wonder was, what do you look like when you're cleaning the toilet?  Cuz that's the real you.

October 15, 2009

The Opportunity's On

So, you know that song on the cell phone commercial. Or is it an iPhone? Blackberry? Blue Tooth? Whatever. The song says, “If you want to sing out sing out, if you want to be free be free, cuz there’s a million things to be you know that there are…” I’ll give a big hug to anyone who knows who sings that song. I’ll give a big kiss with tongue to anyone who knows the movie in which it was featured.

The artist: Cat Stevens. The movie: Harold and Maude

No hugs or tongue kisses now as I told you the answers. Hearing that commercial as many times as I have gave me the hankering to see the movie again for the 249th time. It is, hands down, my favorite movie of all time.

I remember the first time I saw it. I went with a date to the theater to see it (about ten years after its original release – how dare you think I’m that old) as a double feature with The King of Hearts, which is, by the way, another fabulous movie. The guy I went with was quite an influence. I won’t get into too much detail as Boyfriend tunes into this blog once in a while and I don’t want him to feel all threatened or anything. Of course he knows I dated guys before him, but he’s convinced himself they were all eunuchs with hairy ears and skinny legs. Anyway, the guy who took me to this double feature impressed me with his unconventional choice, although I’m sure he had no idea the movie would have such an impact on me.

If you haven’t seen it I highly recommend that you do. But only if you’re cool and have enough intellect and insight to get the message it gives. One time I introduced the movie to a friend of mine and she critiqued it as a knee-slapping comedy. I dumped her immediately.

The quotes in the movie are classics. “Do you enjoy knives?” “Dinner at eight Harold, and do try to be a little more vivacious.” “Don’t get officious. You’re not yourself when you’re officious. That’s the curse of a government job.” “What gives you that special…satisfaction?” OK, so if you haven’t seen the movie these mean nothing, but trust me, they’re perfect and every time I turn around someone is saying something that holds deep philosophical meaning for me.



One of the best things about the movie is the music. Every single song is Cat Stevens. Every single song is so appropriate for the scene in which it is played. In fact this last time I thought perhaps the movie was actually written around the songs. See what I mean? Every viewing brings a different way of looking at things. And it’s a real treat to hear that old Ruth Gordon singing the iPhone commercial song.

And for a special treat that completely unrelated to Harold and Maude but totally related to Cat Stevens and a little tribute to Charlotte. She loves Harold and Maude too, as well as Cat. I guess you'd say we're a peach of a pair. Here's to you, Charlotte!

October 12, 2009

Reality TV - A Conflict In Terms

Remember the days when TV was for entertainment purposes?  Of course there was the news at 6:00 and 10:00, but for the most part TV existed purely for our enjoyment and was valued for being an escape into fictional circumstances.  People were hired to write scripts and actors were hired to play out what was written.  Cameras shot straight at a scene or glided along smoothly when movement was required. 

There isn't a day in the week that doesn't hold in the schedule a show, or more accurately many shows, that is "reality-based."  First there were shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover Home Edition.  Then came the competition shows like Survivor and Amazing Race.  I thought we hit the bottom of the TV viewing barrel when shows like Big Brother and The Bachelor(ette) came out, but alas I was wrong again.

For example, Tila Taquila?  WTF?  Who is she and why can't she get a date (with either men or women - she isn't picky) without holding a contest, the prize being her precious little la-la?  Got news for you, that la-la probably isn't so precious when you get right down to it.  And what's the big deal about Jon and Kate?  They have eight kids.  Oh my!  I predict future reality shows featuring the kids and their woes about how their parents screwed them up by putting them on a reality show as they were growing up.  I can't forget to mention shows like Celebrity Rehab.  I'm sure I would want a camera documenting my most private and personal journey to becoming clean and sober.  Not.  Unless of course I was starving for attention and was so delusional I believed the entire universe actually cared.

Why does this crap fill the airwaves?  Because people actually watch these shows.  They watch them and talk about them at the water cooler the next day.  Radio shows discuss them.  There are shows on TV created especially to recap the crappy shows, filling our leisure time with not only crap, but crap about crap.

I just don't get it.  First of all why are these shows on?  Second of all why do we feel compelled to watch The Girls Next Door paw the 150-year-old Hugh Hefner?  Why is anyone remotely interested in the personal lives of grown up Peter Brady or Danny Partridge?  Am I the only person who isn't watching this stuff?  Most probably.  When I hear who is competing on Dancing With The Stars I have no idea who the "stars" are.  They're all has-beens or never-weres.  And yet people eat it up like buttermilk pancakes at the Methodist fellowship hall on a fundraiser Sunday morning.

As I write this I realize I'm certainly adding to the problem.  These shows have gotten my attention and have inspired outrage.  They have succeeded in making some kind of impression in my life.  That makes me even more mad, because now I have to admit I'm powerless over the effects of reality TV.  Not only do I hate the shows, I hate myself for hating them. 

I'm off to read a book.  One with big words.

October 10, 2009

Insights And Anticipation



Well, she did it.  MaryAnn is alive and well and sailing the great seas of literary expression.  My consistent prodding introduced her to a world she has never known before, but one which will prove to be very satisfying if she does it right. 

I'm very well known for telling people what to do, because of course I know what's best for everyone.  I encourage people to take the road that requires guts and determination because the outcome will be that much more rewarding.  Bossy and pushy, I realize I've lived vicariously through those who have taken my advice and leaped into the abyss of the unknown to find their happiness and satisfaction.  Today I realize that I too must search for my bliss the hard way.  Living vicariously through someone else is no life at all. 

I've also realized that pushing MaryAnn to start her blog was my own subconscious screaming out it should be me taking to the quill.  I don't fancy myself a prolific writer, but I like to do it and I believe people should partake in activities that bring them joy no matter what their skill level. 

My excitement over MaryAnn's new beginning is genuine, but is also a giddy anticipation of my renewed insights taking flight into the tangible world.  Back to the blog, says Meredith.  (That's Mrs. Sparrow to you, MaryAnn.)  And so she shall once again attempt to incorporate writing into her daily life.

As for MaryAnn, I hope she can continue to provide inspiration for me.  Good luck to her, and to me.

October 08, 2009

Starting [Over]

A friend of mine has been talking about writing a book for decades. I’m not sure if she has a definite story in mind or if she’s just like me with a vague fantasy about being an author. Doesn’t matter. The thing is, this girl doesn’t write. Ever. At least not that I know of.

She was telling me the other day about how excited she was, anticipating a viewing of the Lord of the Rings movies. I’ve never been a fan of the movies or even the books, so when she was telling me about elves and other species of creatures whose labels my mind has no way of recollecting I kind of ignored it. You Lord fans know what she means. As she went through the list of names, species, settings, etc., I had to interrupt her and say, “you could totally write a story like that.” I mean, how hard could it be? It’s all gibberish and the kids just eat it up. Anyone with any imagination at all can make stuff like that up, right?

Now before you go and slam my minimalist views on things, the key word in my argument is “imagination.” Triology of the Rings. Harry Potter. Hell, I’ll even throw in Harlequin Romances. These works took a lot of imagination. There’s nothing I respect more than an active and vivid imagination. And if you can capture the images of that imagination and put them into words, well, in my book you’re a genius.

So back to my friend. I’ve been bugging her for years to get going on the writing. A journal even. She always had an excuse, but it was obvious her desire to write never ceased. Finally, I think I convinced her to start a blog. A dumb old blog. “You can write in it every day and it doesn’t even have to be public,” I said. “But if you did publish it publicly I’d be your most loyal reader.” She actually asked me how to get started.

With that I decided to set a good example and get back to my own blog. I’ve neglected it for so long I’m hardly one to criticize. And to make things easy for me I’ve decided to look upon this new beginning as an example to my friend. To show her she can write all she wants to and it can be the most lame thing ever and it just doesn’t matter because she’s writing and that’s what she wants to do.

And who knows? She may turn out to be another Anne Rice or Emily Bronte. And when she writes in her blog every day and publishes all of her books she can dedicate everything to me because I was the one who got her started.

How many of you out there are blogging for pleasure? Not for the ad money. Not to be discovered. Just for the pure joy of it? Not many, I’m sure. Well, join us, won’t you? Do it just for fun. I think you’ll be amused at what ends up on the screen and across the internets.

April 21, 2009

Wunder Boner

I've never been an outdoors person, but I'll get in a boat and hook a leech if it will get me a Wunder Boner.

March 30, 2009

Doesn't Play Well With Others

In junior high I was a runner in track. In high school I was a singles tennis player. I never liked going to Girl Scout meetings. I hate breaking into small groups. I love being anonymous in a sea of people. When I socialize I do so with one person at a time. I don’t like going out to lunch with my group at work. I would never, ever have group sex.

Recurring theme: I’m solo. I don’t do groups. I’m not a team player.

Nevertheless, I belong to a team. A team of crafts people. I thought it would be a good way to network, solely for my own benefit. I’ve tried hard to contribute to the team. I’ve shown compassion to those struggling and congratulated those with success. And now the team members have decided to change the rules.

Basically each team member is required, in several realms, to participate to a greater extent in an attempt to promote the team as a whole. Social and business networking is much different than promoting the competition. I don’t think they realize that. If someone has information and shares it with the group that’s one thing. If I have to participate, work, research, and report back to the group with my findings? Totally something else. I’m not in business to share my information, especially if I had to go out of my way to obtain that information.

Above that, the team leaders are turning out to be a bunch of control freaks, treating the rest of the team members like children. I’ll be the first to admit that many of the team members have the business savvy of a child and are completely unworthy of associating with those who have worked hard to make names for ourselves. But there are others of us who have functioning brains and common sense. We have experience in business and in trial and error. We have information. We are valuable.

As much as I dislike how the team is developing and don’t like the methods of the leaders, the bottom line is: I’m looking out for me. I’m not in business to show others the ropes. I’m playing singles tennis. I’m running the race in my own lane. I want all the success and will accept all of the failure. I don’t want to expend energy promoting other people when I could be using that energy to promote me. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so. Does it make me selfish? No, not that either. Do you want me on your team? I think not.