The capacity for having a good time is all about attitude. The notion we all hold as gospel, that the homecoming queens and football captains of the world are having a better time than the rest of us by virtue of their dazzling looks, just doesn't seem to hold water.
Last night the dance hall was awash in celebrity sightings. We had Hoss Cartwright, Larry the Cable Guy, Grandma from the Golden Girls (who, I declare, could shake her thang), Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, several incarnations of Roseanne Barr, circa 1990, Festus, a high kicking Gandhi in a disco shirt, Ozzie, Harriet, and a tall, white Steve Urkel. Did I notice these people because of their famous faces (and hats)? Well... yes. But I also noticed them because they were out on the dance floor for every single song.
The table that surely won the Lousiest Time Award was occupied by four unsmiling women who watched, malevolently, through narrowed eyes as we danced by.
Incidental to this post, but remarkable in so many ways, was the woman doing a vigorous east coast swing in red 4 inch spike heeled pumps. How did she keep them on? How did she not break an ankle? To Red High Heels Woman goes the Evil Knievel award.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Crazy Neighbor
Crazy neighbors are fun. My all time favorite? The irascible elderly couple next door that came out on the porch and shook their fists and shouted invective at the turkey vultures circling over their house. Second favorite? The lady who peered over the fence the first day my (now ex) husband and I moved into our house and asked if he would mow her lawn.
No one aspires to Crazy Neighbor status, but I'm heading that way all because of one long night of poo.
I like cats. They're pretty and soft and make nice house pets. But I don't own one, so why do I have cat feces in my securely fenced yard and, more significantly, in (and out) of my dog? Night before last I was awakened at approximately 2 hour intervals by my dog vomiting and/or passing the most foul brew imaginable. It invaded my dreams, trashed my quilt, and despoiled my carpet. Delicious, nutritious, but apparently indigestible cat poo.
Every day I see them scale my fence. Why do they care about my yard? Why aren't they home using a nice litter box? My dog doesn't defecate in their yard. Why should they be using mine?
On today's shopping list: mousetraps. Baited with cat food.
No one aspires to Crazy Neighbor status, but I'm heading that way all because of one long night of poo.
I like cats. They're pretty and soft and make nice house pets. But I don't own one, so why do I have cat feces in my securely fenced yard and, more significantly, in (and out) of my dog? Night before last I was awakened at approximately 2 hour intervals by my dog vomiting and/or passing the most foul brew imaginable. It invaded my dreams, trashed my quilt, and despoiled my carpet. Delicious, nutritious, but apparently indigestible cat poo.
Every day I see them scale my fence. Why do they care about my yard? Why aren't they home using a nice litter box? My dog doesn't defecate in their yard. Why should they be using mine?
On today's shopping list: mousetraps. Baited with cat food.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Good Advice
Last weekend I went to a dance where out on the floor was a woman whose skirt was tucked into the back of her waistband. A woman sitting at my table said she had tried to tell her about it, but the skirt woman said, no, that was how it was supposed to be (it was a wrap-around model). A goodly time passed in which she danced many dances until, presumably, she journeyed into the restroom and got a good look at what the rest of us had been trying not to look at for about an hour.
The moral of the story: Do not dismiss the advice of well meaning people without full consideration. They may, after all, be trying to cover your ass.
The moral of the story: Do not dismiss the advice of well meaning people without full consideration. They may, after all, be trying to cover your ass.
Save a Dollar, Kill a Tree
Amazon.com isn't just a great place to shop because of their vast product selection, great prices, and speedy service. No! They also have entertaining packaging, providing you're not a tree.
I ordered two Almay eyeliner pencils (because it was cheaper than buying them one at a time in the store and I'll use them eventually). (See previous post.) My pencils, two, arrived today in a box 19" x 13" x 5.75". But wait, there's more! Inside that box, surrounded by bubble wrap, was a second box 12" x 9" x 4". And inside that box was a third box 6" x 2" x 1.25". And inside that, my two little pencils - in blister packs. It was the Russian Doll of packaging.
I ordered two Almay eyeliner pencils (because it was cheaper than buying them one at a time in the store and I'll use them eventually). (See previous post.) My pencils, two, arrived today in a box 19" x 13" x 5.75". But wait, there's more! Inside that box, surrounded by bubble wrap, was a second box 12" x 9" x 4". And inside that box was a third box 6" x 2" x 1.25". And inside that, my two little pencils - in blister packs. It was the Russian Doll of packaging.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Grow Your Own
Lately the news is full of heartrending stories of people fallen on hard times as well as inspiring tales of resourcefulness that would do veterans of 1930 proud. There are articles telling us 10 Ways to Trim Your Budget! and How to Grow Your Own Vegetables!
I grew up in a thrifty family and am pleased to have produced two exceptionally thrifty children. We were cheap, and proud of it, before the current economy forced everyone to be cheap(er). This was brought home to me today as I wandered through Macy's with a $20 gift certificate in hand. First, I was in the Oregon Macy's to save sales tax. Second, I decided to spend my certificate after I saw the huge ad in the paper - 50% Off Already Reduced Prices! Third, I have three birthdays coming up in the next month and thought, "Whoa! I can buy someone a present without spending very much money." Alas, not even free money is easy for a truly cheap person to spend. I made my way from Jewelry, through Men's, Juniors, Shoes, Handbags and Kitchenware, and didn't find a single thing I thought was worth what Macy's thought it was worth.
So, still burdened with my dog eared $20 certificate, I went home and turned over my compost heaps. And in a couple of months I will Grow My Own Vegetables! like I always do.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Would you like some rubber bands with that?
Every so often I toy briefly with vegetarianism, such as when I hear the chef on the cable tv cooking show describing the short, tragic life of the veal calf or when undercooked burgers kill a few people with e coli. Laziness always wins and I keep on eating whatever is easiest.
However, if you have the intestinal fortitude to be a vegetarian, I say embrace it whole hog. Tofurkey, Chik'n®, Gardenburgers®, and smoked-flavored textured vegetable protein corned beef are just sops to those who can't entirely divorce themselves from their carnivorous pasts, and I'm here to tell you at least one of those tastes really really really bad. That would be, sorry, Grandma Rose, the corned beef.
Portland Adventist Hospital, where I recently took my friend for knee surgery, is, as the name implies, run by vegetarians. You can't get a tuna sandwich in the cafeteria, yet they do have a "grill". It's the first thing you come to inside the cafeteria door, and if there is any pattern to my eating, it usually fits the first-thing-you-see method of menu choice. They were out of Chik'n® so I opted for a Reuben sandwich, not giving any real thought to what might constitute corned beef in a vegetarian restaurant. Now I know what happens to old surgical gloves. They steep them for three weeks in smoke flavoring and make sandwiches out of them.
Which brings me to my second, obliquely hospital-related, subject: Cable rates are going up! Six percent! Bring on the television interviews, the opinion polls, stories of hardship and woe. Now pan over to my health insurance bill, the one from Regence Blue Cross that raised the premium on my individual health plan with the gargantuan deductible by over 33% in a single jump (and, no, I didn't change age groups). Now pan over to the masses of people with no bill to complain about because they don't have any insurance. Cable rates. Pffft. Big deal.
However, if you have the intestinal fortitude to be a vegetarian, I say embrace it whole hog. Tofurkey, Chik'n®, Gardenburgers®, and smoked-flavored textured vegetable protein corned beef are just sops to those who can't entirely divorce themselves from their carnivorous pasts, and I'm here to tell you at least one of those tastes really really really bad. That would be, sorry, Grandma Rose, the corned beef.
Portland Adventist Hospital, where I recently took my friend for knee surgery, is, as the name implies, run by vegetarians. You can't get a tuna sandwich in the cafeteria, yet they do have a "grill". It's the first thing you come to inside the cafeteria door, and if there is any pattern to my eating, it usually fits the first-thing-you-see method of menu choice. They were out of Chik'n® so I opted for a Reuben sandwich, not giving any real thought to what might constitute corned beef in a vegetarian restaurant. Now I know what happens to old surgical gloves. They steep them for three weeks in smoke flavoring and make sandwiches out of them.
Which brings me to my second, obliquely hospital-related, subject: Cable rates are going up! Six percent! Bring on the television interviews, the opinion polls, stories of hardship and woe. Now pan over to my health insurance bill, the one from Regence Blue Cross that raised the premium on my individual health plan with the gargantuan deductible by over 33% in a single jump (and, no, I didn't change age groups). Now pan over to the masses of people with no bill to complain about because they don't have any insurance. Cable rates. Pffft. Big deal.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Making the World a Better Place. In One Act.
Some things are particularly wonderful because they're rare - things like enormous diamonds and four leaf clovers. Some things are rare, yet not wonderful, like two-headed calves and tsunamis. And then there are the rare things that are wonderful, but would be even more wonderful even if they were commonplace. And those things, if they were commonplace, would have a hand in ending war, bigotry, and hip fractures, not necessarily in that order.
Yesterday I was eating lunch with a kind man when I noticed that his focus had moved from our conversation to the sidewalk outside the restaurant where an exceptionally frail and ancient woman was inching her way into a huge SUV, having been relieved of her walker by her briskly efficient middle-aged (grand?)daughter. With the walker folded and stowed, said daughter skipped into the driver's seat leaving grandma, barely perched in the passenger seat, waving ineffectually at the car door in a vain attempt to close it behind her. The next thing I knew, my lunch companion had beamed himself up, reappeared on the sidewalk, and was unfurling the seatbelt for said old lady and closing her door. Everyone else, myself included, just sat and watched because, after all, she wasn't OUR old lady. Right? And that's too bad.
What ever happened to those "Practice Random Kindness" bumper stickers? (My theory is, because they actually read, "Practice Random Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty", they were just too saccharin to survive.) Nonetheless people, get out there and Practice some gol dern Random Kindness. Your waitress will say nice things about you. Ours did. And so will I.
Yesterday I was eating lunch with a kind man when I noticed that his focus had moved from our conversation to the sidewalk outside the restaurant where an exceptionally frail and ancient woman was inching her way into a huge SUV, having been relieved of her walker by her briskly efficient middle-aged (grand?)daughter. With the walker folded and stowed, said daughter skipped into the driver's seat leaving grandma, barely perched in the passenger seat, waving ineffectually at the car door in a vain attempt to close it behind her. The next thing I knew, my lunch companion had beamed himself up, reappeared on the sidewalk, and was unfurling the seatbelt for said old lady and closing her door. Everyone else, myself included, just sat and watched because, after all, she wasn't OUR old lady. Right? And that's too bad.
What ever happened to those "Practice Random Kindness" bumper stickers? (My theory is, because they actually read, "Practice Random Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty", they were just too saccharin to survive.) Nonetheless people, get out there and Practice some gol dern Random Kindness. Your waitress will say nice things about you. Ours did. And so will I.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Family Ties
My town is a friendly place. Unpretentious, a little short on urban planning, replete with strip malls, but also populated with nice parks, a cute downtown, and a bike path along a pretty riverfront. All in all a good place to raise a family. That's why my heart was warmed a few nights ago when I overheard a young woman, enjoying an evening out with her middle-aged mother, "Are you hammered, Mom?"
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Circle of Life
When you're looking for a receptacle for a bucket of dog feces that you've scooped up from the yard, how appropriate is it to find a nice big empty dog food bag on top of the garbage can? That, my friends, is the circle of life.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Hello? It's me again.
The last couple of days have given me reason to ponder the presence of guardian angels in my life (or angles according to the misprint on the postcard sent to me by my dear friend and guardian angel). These celestial beings don't come clad in silver lamé with fluffy wings and a backup band, uhh, choir. More often than not, they need a haircut and they show up in yesterday's shirt because they know you need them now, not later.
Here's how it works. You tell them you're fine, just fine thanks, ok?, fine, and you don't need them.
And then they show up. Sometimes in person, sometimes on the phone, and these days, sometimes in your email. The effect is much the same.
A few years ago a friend's niece went through an annoying, new-age, guardian angel phase that I heard about in passing. As best I recall, the concept involved an invisible being that hovered somewhere in the neighborhood of your ear and kept you from being set upon by ravening beasts and/or being crushed by falling pianos. It's possible they might also have kept you from embarrassing yourself at parties. I'm not sure. Nice, but not practical.
I'm talking about the honest to gawd, three dimensional kind that shows up when your dog dies and doesn't care about the snot on their jacket. The kind that is there at the hospital when you wake up at 11 pm when they should have gone home hours ago. The kind that shows up on a 97 degree day to move your stuff and never asks where the pizza is. The kind that calls you after dinner because you sounded blue in the afternoon. The kind that finds a new guinea pig on Easter Sunday to replace the one the dog ate. (No, not that dog. A different dog.) Even the kind that tells you to suck it up get a life. That's what I'm talkin' about, Willis.
"Evangelical atheist" is the absolutely enchanting phrase I read on a recent blog commenting on the current "Imagine No Religion" campaign. Now, I'm not particularly political, seeing as how I'm far too lazy to stay current, much less analyze the material I have(n't) read. However, I have to hand it to the gang whose purpose seems to be to alert the general public to the notion of attending to creating heaven here on earth, especially if that includes caring for your fellow time travelers.
Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I make a mental list of the people I could, without hesitation, call at 2 a.m. on Christmas eve in the middle of a hurricane. It's an embarrassment of riches. Thanks.
Here's how it works. You tell them you're fine, just fine thanks, ok?, fine, and you don't need them.
And then they show up. Sometimes in person, sometimes on the phone, and these days, sometimes in your email. The effect is much the same.
A few years ago a friend's niece went through an annoying, new-age, guardian angel phase that I heard about in passing. As best I recall, the concept involved an invisible being that hovered somewhere in the neighborhood of your ear and kept you from being set upon by ravening beasts and/or being crushed by falling pianos. It's possible they might also have kept you from embarrassing yourself at parties. I'm not sure. Nice, but not practical.
I'm talking about the honest to gawd, three dimensional kind that shows up when your dog dies and doesn't care about the snot on their jacket. The kind that is there at the hospital when you wake up at 11 pm when they should have gone home hours ago. The kind that shows up on a 97 degree day to move your stuff and never asks where the pizza is. The kind that calls you after dinner because you sounded blue in the afternoon. The kind that finds a new guinea pig on Easter Sunday to replace the one the dog ate. (No, not that dog. A different dog.) Even the kind that tells you to suck it up get a life. That's what I'm talkin' about, Willis.
"Evangelical atheist" is the absolutely enchanting phrase I read on a recent blog commenting on the current "Imagine No Religion" campaign. Now, I'm not particularly political, seeing as how I'm far too lazy to stay current, much less analyze the material I have(n't) read. However, I have to hand it to the gang whose purpose seems to be to alert the general public to the notion of attending to creating heaven here on earth, especially if that includes caring for your fellow time travelers.
Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I make a mental list of the people I could, without hesitation, call at 2 a.m. on Christmas eve in the middle of a hurricane. It's an embarrassment of riches. Thanks.
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