Mom and the squirrels are fighting again. And I’m afraid this is not going to be a “bloodless” war this year like last year. I was first aware the lines had been drawn again on Saturday. I spend a fair amount of time in my bedroom since that’s where most of my life is stuffed, plus a chair I like to sit in, and my own facilities, and my cat, and a window. It’s not a prison, but it can feel like it, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I was reading while actively keeping my bed from floating away and was surprised to hear my mother speaking in a loud voice saying some rather rude things like, “Yeah, you better run,” and “Just get your cotton pickin’ hands out of there.” At first I thought perhaps my mother the family jock was yelling at the Tigers , but I didn’t hear the t.v. on, nor did the rest of the neighborhood since Grandma is going deaf but doesn’t feel she needs a hearing aid since she’s 100, for pete’s sake.
Then I thought maybe Mom was yelling at Grandma, but while Grandma can be a pain in the ears, Mom knows that if she upsets Grandma, the old woman will make Mom pay for it, big time, tears and everything, and guilt, and saying stuff about not wanting to live, and more guilt. Then I realized someone was slamming and rattling the flimsy screen door to the deck, and put two and two together to get the answer “my mother is insane.”
I thought perhaps the squirrels were just having fun with Mom, what with the recent rain and then the nice weather over the weekend, but again, I was incorrect. During the late hours on Saturday, something climbed one of the pines in the back yard and that something fell when the branch cracked, rather audibly, and fell to the ground. The ground didn’t shake, but it was a pretty good “whumph” that I heard. I would imagine if the “someone” could have spoken English, I would have heard a few curse words.
On Sunday, Mom did yell at the Tigers and she yelled at the squirrels. She did a lot of rattling again—the door, not her head. But, there was not BB gun action, so I was hoping that things were just going to stay low key, until I left the house on Monday, then everything went to hell.
I cover about two miles on a dirt road when I take the most direct route to Imlay. I also live near a public game hunting area, which means the deer move to our side of the road in September and move back to the other side when they’re pretty sure they’re safe again. Anyway, while driving to town, I happened to pass a raccoon who was taking a nap on the road, except he looked really, really tired and not very relaxed. He was still there when I came home, so I had to think very hard to decide that, alas, he was sleeping the sleep with Morpheus. Sigh.
This is the first casualty, you realize? Granted, the snoozing raccoon was almost two miles away from my house, but surely there can’t be too many raccoons out there. Okay, so there is a raccoon hunting club near where I live, ostensibly named something like “Coon Hunters Club” or something like that, and I’m pretty sure they really do hunt the furry, four-legged animals rather than using ugly language to describe a despicable thought pattern. Still, I’m pretty sure the squirrels have been pretty, pretty busy while we’ve been enjoying the “cease fire.” I’ll just bet you the squirrels recruited some of their more rare forest buddies and talked them into being the front line shock troops, and just look what’s happened. I just pray it wasn’t Ricky or Rocky who went “whumph” out of that tree.
I wonder if the squirrels are thinking of trying to recruit me or Grandma into their cause. Grandma couldn’t pull it off because she probably couldn’t hear then unless they stood on her shoulder and screamed bloody murder in their little tinny voices. I won’t do it because I like living here, on the safe side of the BB gun. Yep. They’ll just have to go this one alone, I guess.
In the late hours of Monday, I met another soldier in the squirrel army. I heard what I thought was Rocky and Ricky outside, but someone was royally pissed. At first I thought I heard a dog walking past the house. They like to hang out behind the barn next door and smoke corn silk. Disgusting habit. Anyway, I also heard a high-pitched chatter. I thought perhaps Flipper had come for a visit, but then I remembered we’re landlocked.
The chatter proceeded to north end of the house, so I turned on the light on the deck and didn’t see anything at first, but the chatter got closer and closer, until a small raccoon climbed up and introduced herself to me. Because she spoke in Juvenile, I didn’t quite catch all her words, but I think her name is Roxy and she’s a first cousin to Ricky and Rocky. I could be wrong. You know how confusing Juvenile is to adults.
Anyway, Rocky was having himself some supper and every time Roxy came near, he’d growl, which reminded me of how Amber growls at Kelly if Kelly has the nerve to try and make friends.
So, back to Roxy. She showed me how tall she is by stretching herself on her hind legs and grabbing at the flimsy screen door and then gave me a run down on the events as she understood them, or as I was able to grasp them. She’s a cute little thing, but I worry because she really should be more afraid of humans or at least pick better places to hang out besides my back yard.
Ah, youth. So moronic. So without brains.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Holy Smurtastic
I admit it. I watched the Smurfs on Saturday morning, BACK WHEN THEY STILL HAD REAL CARTOONS!. So, imagine my surprise, shock, and "whatha?" when I looked at this bit of news.
http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/movie-talk-the-smurfs-get-real-in-first-trailer.html
http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/movie-talk-the-smurfs-get-real-in-first-trailer.html
On the Job Duties
Sometimes the best laughter in my classroom, when I was once an employed college instructor, occurs during unplanned moments. My favorite story stems from an English class I taught about a dozen years ago. The class had been added at the last minute and since I was willing to work odd hours, I had about seven students on Tuesday and Thursdays for a couple hours each day. The class, business communications, required sections on writing resumes, a large report, and various business letters. Nothing too hard but in the middle of the afternoon it was hard to keep things going on occasion. It helped that I ran the class pretty informally since most of the students were used to me.
On this particular day, we had been discussing the types of jobs we’d had in the past. I talked about being a medical transcriptionist for three years and could type really fast. I also mentioned working for my father in his print shop and learned my way around Flint when I delivered printing to some of Dad’s older and very faithful customers.
When the conversation came around to one of my younger students, whom we shall call Lisa, she said she hadn’t been working very long, but she liked what she did. She said she was a clerk at a nationally known clothing store and said that one of her jobs was to make sure the shelves were neat and stocked.
I asked, “You mean you straighten shelves, that sort of thing?”
Lisa replied, “No. I put out.”
Dead silence.
The look on Lisa’s face when she realized her words was of shock and horror. I just looked at her and raised my eyebrows. She turned red and put her head on the desk, I think to start banging it to drive the embarrassment away.
The remaining students, well, they were trying so hard not to laugh. I don’t think I’ve seen so many faces contort from that much effort.
In a muffled voice Lisa said, “May I be excused, please?”
I said, “Sure,” as she bolted out of the room.
I must say I was proud of my class because no one laughed out loud until the door finished shutting. Then we started to giggle and wipe our eyes and giggle some more. After a couple minutes of this terribly rude behavior, I told the class that no one, and I meant NO ONE was allowed to tease Lisa about her choice of words—at least not in my classroom.
So, we sobered up and got back on track with the lesson. Lisa returned after about ten minutes and said she was sorry about leaving to abruptly. She was mortified by her words, but even more, she thought it was so funny she was afraid she’d have an if she didn't get out of the room fast enough. I told her she was forgiven. And although I really wanted to ask her about the putting out, I kept my mouth shut, for once.
On this particular day, we had been discussing the types of jobs we’d had in the past. I talked about being a medical transcriptionist for three years and could type really fast. I also mentioned working for my father in his print shop and learned my way around Flint when I delivered printing to some of Dad’s older and very faithful customers.
When the conversation came around to one of my younger students, whom we shall call Lisa, she said she hadn’t been working very long, but she liked what she did. She said she was a clerk at a nationally known clothing store and said that one of her jobs was to make sure the shelves were neat and stocked.
I asked, “You mean you straighten shelves, that sort of thing?”
Lisa replied, “No. I put out.”
Dead silence.
The look on Lisa’s face when she realized her words was of shock and horror. I just looked at her and raised my eyebrows. She turned red and put her head on the desk, I think to start banging it to drive the embarrassment away.
The remaining students, well, they were trying so hard not to laugh. I don’t think I’ve seen so many faces contort from that much effort.
In a muffled voice Lisa said, “May I be excused, please?”
I said, “Sure,” as she bolted out of the room.
I must say I was proud of my class because no one laughed out loud until the door finished shutting. Then we started to giggle and wipe our eyes and giggle some more. After a couple minutes of this terribly rude behavior, I told the class that no one, and I meant NO ONE was allowed to tease Lisa about her choice of words—at least not in my classroom.
So, we sobered up and got back on track with the lesson. Lisa returned after about ten minutes and said she was sorry about leaving to abruptly. She was mortified by her words, but even more, she thought it was so funny she was afraid she’d have an if she didn't get out of the room fast enough. I told her she was forgiven. And although I really wanted to ask her about the putting out, I kept my mouth shut, for once.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
How to Have a Memorable Tuesday Afternoon
1. Go to your local library and log onto one of their computers.
2. Do important stuff like surfing the Web and answering your email before moving on to Blackboard.
3. Finish your Blackboard surfing within an hour or two.
4. Log on to Blogger.com.
5. Read some of the blogs posted by your classmates.
6. Open the Word program so you can retrieve the blog you want to post. Next, realize your chest hurts a bit in the heart area, noting some discomfort in your back and left arm and that there is a slight amount of discomfort when trying to breathe.
7. Trying not to panic; decide you are having an angina problem and take out your nitro.
8. Take a nitro pill and carefully monitor your galloping heart as the nitro seems to take affect.
9. Note that the nitro worked a bit but now you’re feeling icky and you want to get off the computer.
10. Post your blog “Trekkers V. Trekkies,” hoping that when you paste the sucker in the spacing is accurate.
11. Log off the computer and go sit on a bench by the desk of the computer librarian.
12. Tell you’re fine, but would she mind if you lie on the floor. It’s harder to fall when you are already flat on your back.
13. Put your feet on the bench and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. When you are feeling better, you may get up.
14. Wander to the front desk and tell the librarian that if she hears you snoring over in the reading area, wake you up in ten minutes.
15. Sit in the nice, slouchy leather armchair and then decide to take another nitro pill.
16. Decide the nitro isn’t working all that great and you’re uncomfortable, so move the leather couch and lay down.
17. Take another nitro pill and hope to god this time stuff will stop being so uncomfortable.
18. After an hour of this, tell your librarian friend that you think you need to go to the hospital.
19. Wait for the ambulance, making small jokes to help with anxiety problem. Tell librarian friend to request no sirens, please.
20. Talk to really, really good looking police officer who arrives on the scene first and wish you were 25 years younger cause he ain’t married.
21. Let paramedics do their thing, get loaded in ambulance, travel over M53, which is incredibly bumpy and needs to be repaved.
22. Have paramedic person tell you your EKG isn’t showing a problem, but your BP is up. Duh! Listen to paramedic person tell you that perhaps your nitro is too old and is not working well. Try to decide if paramedic person is being condescending or you’re just hearing her talk that way.
23. Arrive at hospital. EKG is still okay. Get a stupid chest x-ray as a means for the hospital to make more money. Have ER doctor tell you the EKG looks fine. Have ER nurse say EKG looks fine.
24. Listen to mother bitch about not finding you right away. She listened to you when you said, “I’d rather die than be a patient at Lapeer Hospital ever again.” Listen to her story about how she drove to Lapeer, who said you weren’t there, and then she drove to McLaren, who said you weren’t there, and then McLaren called the other hospitals in Flint to find out you weren’t there either, then they call Lapeer and here you are.
25. Apologize to mother for going to Lapeer even after what you said.
26. Have ER doctor tell you you’re fine, again, but says if you want you can stay overnight and see the cardiologist in the morning. Decide you are not going to spend another five thousand dollars just to spend the night somewhere you don’t want to be.
26. Finally go home and start making jokes. “Boy, I spend $4,000 at the hospital and they didn’t even give me dinner. For that much money I should also have the chance for a roll in the hay.”
27. Feel like a total jerk because this is not the first time you’ve had a scare and since you have no money to speak of, how the hell are you going to pay this bill.
28. Go back to library to pick up your car and let the librarians know you’re fine.
29. Wait for librarian friend to leave a meeting so you can tell her you are fine.
30. Surprise librarian friend who gets flustered and rushes to give you a hug. Librarian friend weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet. Take note of this fact as you very gently give her a hug because she seems to breakable. Note irony that you’re a few times her weight.
31. Write up experience, injecting humor where you can.
32. Remind yourself to change out your old nitro for the newer stuff you have on hand.
33. Over the next week, every time one of the librarians ask how you are feeling, place your hand on your heart and start doing your Fred Sanford imitation. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnfflRNpwKA&feature=related
2. Do important stuff like surfing the Web and answering your email before moving on to Blackboard.
3. Finish your Blackboard surfing within an hour or two.
4. Log on to Blogger.com.
5. Read some of the blogs posted by your classmates.
6. Open the Word program so you can retrieve the blog you want to post. Next, realize your chest hurts a bit in the heart area, noting some discomfort in your back and left arm and that there is a slight amount of discomfort when trying to breathe.
7. Trying not to panic; decide you are having an angina problem and take out your nitro.
8. Take a nitro pill and carefully monitor your galloping heart as the nitro seems to take affect.
9. Note that the nitro worked a bit but now you’re feeling icky and you want to get off the computer.
10. Post your blog “Trekkers V. Trekkies,” hoping that when you paste the sucker in the spacing is accurate.
11. Log off the computer and go sit on a bench by the desk of the computer librarian.
12. Tell you’re fine, but would she mind if you lie on the floor. It’s harder to fall when you are already flat on your back.
13. Put your feet on the bench and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. When you are feeling better, you may get up.
14. Wander to the front desk and tell the librarian that if she hears you snoring over in the reading area, wake you up in ten minutes.
15. Sit in the nice, slouchy leather armchair and then decide to take another nitro pill.
16. Decide the nitro isn’t working all that great and you’re uncomfortable, so move the leather couch and lay down.
17. Take another nitro pill and hope to god this time stuff will stop being so uncomfortable.
18. After an hour of this, tell your librarian friend that you think you need to go to the hospital.
19. Wait for the ambulance, making small jokes to help with anxiety problem. Tell librarian friend to request no sirens, please.
20. Talk to really, really good looking police officer who arrives on the scene first and wish you were 25 years younger cause he ain’t married.
21. Let paramedics do their thing, get loaded in ambulance, travel over M53, which is incredibly bumpy and needs to be repaved.
22. Have paramedic person tell you your EKG isn’t showing a problem, but your BP is up. Duh! Listen to paramedic person tell you that perhaps your nitro is too old and is not working well. Try to decide if paramedic person is being condescending or you’re just hearing her talk that way.
23. Arrive at hospital. EKG is still okay. Get a stupid chest x-ray as a means for the hospital to make more money. Have ER doctor tell you the EKG looks fine. Have ER nurse say EKG looks fine.
24. Listen to mother bitch about not finding you right away. She listened to you when you said, “I’d rather die than be a patient at Lapeer Hospital ever again.” Listen to her story about how she drove to Lapeer, who said you weren’t there, and then she drove to McLaren, who said you weren’t there, and then McLaren called the other hospitals in Flint to find out you weren’t there either, then they call Lapeer and here you are.
25. Apologize to mother for going to Lapeer even after what you said.
26. Have ER doctor tell you you’re fine, again, but says if you want you can stay overnight and see the cardiologist in the morning. Decide you are not going to spend another five thousand dollars just to spend the night somewhere you don’t want to be.
26. Finally go home and start making jokes. “Boy, I spend $4,000 at the hospital and they didn’t even give me dinner. For that much money I should also have the chance for a roll in the hay.”
27. Feel like a total jerk because this is not the first time you’ve had a scare and since you have no money to speak of, how the hell are you going to pay this bill.
28. Go back to library to pick up your car and let the librarians know you’re fine.
29. Wait for librarian friend to leave a meeting so you can tell her you are fine.
30. Surprise librarian friend who gets flustered and rushes to give you a hug. Librarian friend weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet. Take note of this fact as you very gently give her a hug because she seems to breakable. Note irony that you’re a few times her weight.
31. Write up experience, injecting humor where you can.
32. Remind yourself to change out your old nitro for the newer stuff you have on hand.
33. Over the next week, every time one of the librarians ask how you are feeling, place your hand on your heart and start doing your Fred Sanford imitation. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnfflRNpwKA&feature=related
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Fire and Brimstone
I opened up Yahoo.com and was immediately taken by the following news item. Having traveled upon that stretch of road many times, well...it will be different. Yes, the first thing I did was chuckle. I'm sure the Big Guy will get me for that. Then again, having grown up conservative Baptist, I can probably come up with enough guilt to last me the rest of my life.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_lightning_strikes_jesus_statue
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_lightning_strikes_jesus_statue
Monday, June 14, 2010
Printing the News
My father’s youngest sister, Janet, is about seven years younger than my dad. Such an age difference can be quite, oh, shall we say, influential or lonely. Okay, by the time my aunt was ready to have fun with her brothers and sisters out on the town, they were all married and having kids. So, Aunt Janet was practically an only child. I have an older brother, by five years, so I understand some of what Janet went through.
Anyway, Janet dated a bit and found her true love at an early age. She and Don got engaged when Janet was 16. I don’t know how my grandmother felt about this little event, but my grandfather? Well, let me continue the story.
At that time, Grandpa owned and operated the Linden Leader. As it was for my father when he owned the paper, the Leader consisted of a weekly newspaper and a commercial printing business. Grandpa and Dad used what is called letterpress. In other words, the paper had to make contact with the words to be printed. If you’ve been to Crossroads (?) Village or Greenfield Village and went into the old time printer’s building, that’s what my grandfather worked with, except he used electricity to run the machines.
Heck, the last time I was at Greenfield Village, Uncle Wyman, another brother and another printer, and my father spoke to the printer in the building, who was delighted to talk to someone who understood the lingo. Those two louts got to go behind the velvet rope. The Velvet Rope! They went someplace and kept us women waiting for at least 20 minutes. The jerks.
Anyway, Grandpa ran the paper and Aunt Janet was engaged.
Like all papers, Grandpa ran announcements of weddings, s, etc. So, he did that for Janet, too. On the front page. Above the fold. With a headline anyone could read from across the room. With her picture. The first story on the page. Got all that? Right under the masthead (title of the paper), Grandpa printed “Janet Stimer Gets Her Man!” It went across the entire page. Her picture was centered under the headline. A sensational story of her engagement and dating history were touched on. It was a really cool front page.
Janet was flabbergasted (Great word, huh?). She was mortified (Another great word.) She was embarrassed! But, she was a good sport and tried to laugh it off. She started looking through the pile of papers, figuring that Grandpa had just printed a few for souvenirs and then had switched to the real first page.
Mind you, changing the forms on a printing press is not hard, but it is time consuming. It takes even more time when the press is the paper printer because you had to fix the form, then go into the pit beneath the press to put the form in its place. Finding the correct place isn’t hard, but, again, it’s time consuming.
Janet was touched that Grandpa had gone to all this trouble for her, but really, changing the forms on the paper? She figured he had printed maybe ten copies and then switched to the “right” front page. She started getting worried as she got to paper number 20, then 30, then 40. She was near hysteria when she realized that all the papers in that bundle had that awful headline in it. Then she thought that ALL the papers had that awful headline.
By this time, I would have started crying because I’m a private person and I don’t mind a joke or two at my expense or looking like a fool in front of my students if it means they’ll learn something, but this was Janet’s father, the man I called “Grandpa.” He liked a good joke as much as I do, but really.
Well, about the time Janet was going to lose it, Grandpa told her that the bundle she had looked through was the only bundle that had that headline. He had printed that many papers to "convince" her he really had done what she feared he had done. (If you understood me in that last sentence, you've been reading too much of my crap.)
Fifty years later Janet can tell the story and laugh, but that laugh she gives is not genuine. She and I have a lot in common, and knowing how I would have felt if my father had done that to me, I can imagine she is still put out with her father. We are so abused, the two of us. Good thing I’m a goddess and can rise above it.
So, you see. This sense of humor I have is genetic. I have no control over what I’ve received, but I can control how I use it, which is why I do the goddess thing.
Anyway, Janet dated a bit and found her true love at an early age. She and Don got engaged when Janet was 16. I don’t know how my grandmother felt about this little event, but my grandfather? Well, let me continue the story.
At that time, Grandpa owned and operated the Linden Leader. As it was for my father when he owned the paper, the Leader consisted of a weekly newspaper and a commercial printing business. Grandpa and Dad used what is called letterpress. In other words, the paper had to make contact with the words to be printed. If you’ve been to Crossroads (?) Village or Greenfield Village and went into the old time printer’s building, that’s what my grandfather worked with, except he used electricity to run the machines.
Heck, the last time I was at Greenfield Village, Uncle Wyman, another brother and another printer, and my father spoke to the printer in the building, who was delighted to talk to someone who understood the lingo. Those two louts got to go behind the velvet rope. The Velvet Rope! They went someplace and kept us women waiting for at least 20 minutes. The jerks.
Anyway, Grandpa ran the paper and Aunt Janet was engaged.
Like all papers, Grandpa ran announcements of weddings, s, etc. So, he did that for Janet, too. On the front page. Above the fold. With a headline anyone could read from across the room. With her picture. The first story on the page. Got all that? Right under the masthead (title of the paper), Grandpa printed “Janet Stimer Gets Her Man!” It went across the entire page. Her picture was centered under the headline. A sensational story of her engagement and dating history were touched on. It was a really cool front page.
Janet was flabbergasted (Great word, huh?). She was mortified (Another great word.) She was embarrassed! But, she was a good sport and tried to laugh it off. She started looking through the pile of papers, figuring that Grandpa had just printed a few for souvenirs and then had switched to the real first page.
Mind you, changing the forms on a printing press is not hard, but it is time consuming. It takes even more time when the press is the paper printer because you had to fix the form, then go into the pit beneath the press to put the form in its place. Finding the correct place isn’t hard, but, again, it’s time consuming.
Janet was touched that Grandpa had gone to all this trouble for her, but really, changing the forms on the paper? She figured he had printed maybe ten copies and then switched to the “right” front page. She started getting worried as she got to paper number 20, then 30, then 40. She was near hysteria when she realized that all the papers in that bundle had that awful headline in it. Then she thought that ALL the papers had that awful headline.
By this time, I would have started crying because I’m a private person and I don’t mind a joke or two at my expense or looking like a fool in front of my students if it means they’ll learn something, but this was Janet’s father, the man I called “Grandpa.” He liked a good joke as much as I do, but really.
Well, about the time Janet was going to lose it, Grandpa told her that the bundle she had looked through was the only bundle that had that headline. He had printed that many papers to "convince" her he really had done what she feared he had done. (If you understood me in that last sentence, you've been reading too much of my crap.)
Fifty years later Janet can tell the story and laugh, but that laugh she gives is not genuine. She and I have a lot in common, and knowing how I would have felt if my father had done that to me, I can imagine she is still put out with her father. We are so abused, the two of us. Good thing I’m a goddess and can rise above it.
So, you see. This sense of humor I have is genetic. I have no control over what I’ve received, but I can control how I use it, which is why I do the goddess thing.
Friday, June 11, 2010
I am more than you think
I am a goddess. I am a publicly sanctioned goddess. I have met all the qualities and requirements of being a goddess. I am working on my second master’s degree. I did the MLS program, although I really wanted my masters in English. Still, the MLS allowed me to start teaching sociology, so I’m not too disappointed. So, here I am on the second degree, but it’s the first degree that qualified me for “goddesshood.”
I had, I think, Dr. West for a pre-Revolutionary War history class. On the first day, he went over the syllabus and the requirements of the class, just like any good instructor. He finally ended with something to the tune of “Don’t expect to get an A+ in this class. Such a grade means perfection and only God is perfect.” I didn’t have a hard time with that. An A or A- is just as good as an A+ in my world. I’m not that grade driven. (Please note the sarcasm dripping in that sentence.)
Of course we had to write a paper and it had to be about that time period. Now what is an English major going to write about in a history class? Dr. West suggested a few things that sounded okay but overworked. l cast about for a topic and finally got the idea of writing about Noah Webster, the dictionary guy. He lived in that era and that was when he first started work on his dictionary.
Researching Noah was pretty easy. I found part of a thesis a doctoral student had put online, hoping for comments from people like me. I even got a couple good sources to use from the student’s works cited page. Okay, fine. I admit that I let another person do some of the research, but if you think about it, it’s not an unusual occurrence.
My paper started with a brief biography of Webster and how he grew tired of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary that seemed pretty useless as far as Webster was concerned. I talked about the reason for Webster’s desire for a dictionary that was for Americans, rather than just anybody. He also included lessons pertaining to English and some of the grammar rules.
Anyway, I covered a lot of that stuff, and then explained how it is that we say some of the words as we do. Saying “aks” for “ask” is not a new phenomenon. According to Webster, “aks” is a perfectly acceptable pronunciation. Webster also tried to make spelling more consistent. I used to say “centra” when I saw “centre.” I talked about that too. Webster also had people who attacked him, saying his dictionary wasn’t that great. Seems to me if someone objects like that, they must be narrow minded.
So, I handed in about 12 pages of Webster. A week later I got the paper back, and it had an A+ on it. Now, Dr. West said that only God is perfect and I shouldn’t expect such a grade. It was a good paper, but it wasn’t that good. However, who am I to argue with an instructor? I figured either Dr. West was tired when he read my paper or drunk or both. Again, who am I to argue with this kind of a grade?
If my paper was perfect, then I must be perfect. Therefore, I am like God. I can’t be THE God because that’s blasphemy, and I take the God seriously. Since I can’t be God, then I must be a goddess. And since Dr. West was full time and probably tenured, I had official backing in my claim to “goddessdom.”
This business of being a goddess can be a burden, but it’s worth the effort. When I tell my students of my status, they know right away they have a nut for a teacher. Plus, when they invoke my name saying things like "Oh, god," I try to answer quickly lest they think I am denying what I have previously told them. It really is a tough job. Try it some time.
I had, I think, Dr. West for a pre-Revolutionary War history class. On the first day, he went over the syllabus and the requirements of the class, just like any good instructor. He finally ended with something to the tune of “Don’t expect to get an A+ in this class. Such a grade means perfection and only God is perfect.” I didn’t have a hard time with that. An A or A- is just as good as an A+ in my world. I’m not that grade driven. (Please note the sarcasm dripping in that sentence.)
Of course we had to write a paper and it had to be about that time period. Now what is an English major going to write about in a history class? Dr. West suggested a few things that sounded okay but overworked. l cast about for a topic and finally got the idea of writing about Noah Webster, the dictionary guy. He lived in that era and that was when he first started work on his dictionary.
Researching Noah was pretty easy. I found part of a thesis a doctoral student had put online, hoping for comments from people like me. I even got a couple good sources to use from the student’s works cited page. Okay, fine. I admit that I let another person do some of the research, but if you think about it, it’s not an unusual occurrence.
My paper started with a brief biography of Webster and how he grew tired of Samuel Johnson’s dictionary that seemed pretty useless as far as Webster was concerned. I talked about the reason for Webster’s desire for a dictionary that was for Americans, rather than just anybody. He also included lessons pertaining to English and some of the grammar rules.
Anyway, I covered a lot of that stuff, and then explained how it is that we say some of the words as we do. Saying “aks” for “ask” is not a new phenomenon. According to Webster, “aks” is a perfectly acceptable pronunciation. Webster also tried to make spelling more consistent. I used to say “centra” when I saw “centre.” I talked about that too. Webster also had people who attacked him, saying his dictionary wasn’t that great. Seems to me if someone objects like that, they must be narrow minded.
So, I handed in about 12 pages of Webster. A week later I got the paper back, and it had an A+ on it. Now, Dr. West said that only God is perfect and I shouldn’t expect such a grade. It was a good paper, but it wasn’t that good. However, who am I to argue with an instructor? I figured either Dr. West was tired when he read my paper or drunk or both. Again, who am I to argue with this kind of a grade?
If my paper was perfect, then I must be perfect. Therefore, I am like God. I can’t be THE God because that’s blasphemy, and I take the God seriously. Since I can’t be God, then I must be a goddess. And since Dr. West was full time and probably tenured, I had official backing in my claim to “goddessdom.”
This business of being a goddess can be a burden, but it’s worth the effort. When I tell my students of my status, they know right away they have a nut for a teacher. Plus, when they invoke my name saying things like "Oh, god," I try to answer quickly lest they think I am denying what I have previously told them. It really is a tough job. Try it some time.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Neighborly Visits
Rocky and Ricky came calling again last night. I knew only because I heard someone on the deck looking for leftovers. I'm pretty sure the conversation went along these lines.
Ricky: "Shit. Where are the seeds? They were here last time."
Rocky: "Ma said you wasn't supposed ta swear no more."
Ricky: "Who the hell is gonna tell her? Hmmmm?"
Rocky: "If Ma asks, I gotta tell her da truth."
Ricky: "Why are you talking like you have a cold"
Rocky: "Duh, I doan know. Bu' da longer I dalk, da more I soun' kine-ah stooopid."
Ricky: "Shit."
Ollie the Owl: "I heard that. I'm telling your mother."
Rocky: "Ohhhhhh, da-nooooooooooo."
It got quiet after that point.
This, of course, is when my brave cat Amber will come out of semi-hiding and look out the window to see if the coast is clear. If so, she'll go into her, "I know I can catch them if you'll just let me out, Shonda" routine. I know better. Amber couldn't catch a cold even if she was in a room filled with nothing but many, many strains of the cold viruses. She'd get out, run around like she was crazy for a couple minutes, then hightail it next door to hang out with the barn cats and smoke some alfalfa seed behind said barn.
Thankfully, Susie never asks to go out, although he seems to think he does. The last time he did get out, he waddled around for a half hour and then when I called to see if he wanted in now, he waddled as fast as his big old butt could propel him. Kelly was an outdoor stray, so she could take care of herself. But, she has yet to even make signs she wants to go out. Here is a cat who knows what a hard life is like and is thankful the food supply is now steady and reliable.
The war with the squirrel neighbors seems to be at a standstill right now. Mom's been too busy cleaning the carpets to worry about them. Grandma's not been feeling well, so she hasn't been watching them as much, either. Actually, Grandma can't see well anyway, but she can enjoy hearing the birds. We have a hummingbird feeder attached to a window, so she can see that. She also sees the bees that like the feeder. I'm waiting for the ants to show up like they sometimes do.
Anyway, I know the squirrels are active before the raccoons because the squirrels can climb to the feeders without making the posts or trees creak from their lack of weight, unlike the raccoons. The squirrels are also more skittish in the evening. Once in awhile, Ollie will give a hoot, which is apparently the unwritten general alarm for squirrels to go home and enjoy some serious story telling about how so-and-so barely dodged the BB pellet from ol' lady Stimer. Right. This coming from animals that end up killing themselves when they fall out of the trees from laughing so hard at Mom.
I'm having difficulty with these web sites and getting them to take you directly to the proper place. A "copy and paste" manuever works. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to fix this problem.
This web site shows a squirrel going through an obstacle course to finally be rewarded with some food.
http://www.maniacworld.com/squirrel-obstacle-course.html
This site has more squirrel videos. I didn't see any of my mother shooting at them, but who knows when it might show up. If you wait until the end of the ad, you have access to even more squirrel videos.
http://www.buzznet.com/tags/squirrels/video/3226661/thieving-squirrel-steals-bird-food/
So, we say good evening to the squirrels and raccoons and wish them a good day tomorrow, when the battle lines are drawn fresh in the sand and when the last one standing is clearly the one who dodges the pellets the best.
Ricky: "Shit. Where are the seeds? They were here last time."
Rocky: "Ma said you wasn't supposed ta swear no more."
Ricky: "Who the hell is gonna tell her? Hmmmm?"
Rocky: "If Ma asks, I gotta tell her da truth."
Ricky: "Why are you talking like you have a cold"
Rocky: "Duh, I doan know. Bu' da longer I dalk, da more I soun' kine-ah stooopid."
Ricky: "Shit."
Ollie the Owl: "I heard that. I'm telling your mother."
Rocky: "Ohhhhhh, da-nooooooooooo."
It got quiet after that point.
This, of course, is when my brave cat Amber will come out of semi-hiding and look out the window to see if the coast is clear. If so, she'll go into her, "I know I can catch them if you'll just let me out, Shonda" routine. I know better. Amber couldn't catch a cold even if she was in a room filled with nothing but many, many strains of the cold viruses. She'd get out, run around like she was crazy for a couple minutes, then hightail it next door to hang out with the barn cats and smoke some alfalfa seed behind said barn.
Thankfully, Susie never asks to go out, although he seems to think he does. The last time he did get out, he waddled around for a half hour and then when I called to see if he wanted in now, he waddled as fast as his big old butt could propel him. Kelly was an outdoor stray, so she could take care of herself. But, she has yet to even make signs she wants to go out. Here is a cat who knows what a hard life is like and is thankful the food supply is now steady and reliable.
The war with the squirrel neighbors seems to be at a standstill right now. Mom's been too busy cleaning the carpets to worry about them. Grandma's not been feeling well, so she hasn't been watching them as much, either. Actually, Grandma can't see well anyway, but she can enjoy hearing the birds. We have a hummingbird feeder attached to a window, so she can see that. She also sees the bees that like the feeder. I'm waiting for the ants to show up like they sometimes do.
Anyway, I know the squirrels are active before the raccoons because the squirrels can climb to the feeders without making the posts or trees creak from their lack of weight, unlike the raccoons. The squirrels are also more skittish in the evening. Once in awhile, Ollie will give a hoot, which is apparently the unwritten general alarm for squirrels to go home and enjoy some serious story telling about how so-and-so barely dodged the BB pellet from ol' lady Stimer. Right. This coming from animals that end up killing themselves when they fall out of the trees from laughing so hard at Mom.
I'm having difficulty with these web sites and getting them to take you directly to the proper place. A "copy and paste" manuever works. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to fix this problem.
This web site shows a squirrel going through an obstacle course to finally be rewarded with some food.
http://www.maniacworld.com/squirrel-obstacle-course.html
This site has more squirrel videos. I didn't see any of my mother shooting at them, but who knows when it might show up. If you wait until the end of the ad, you have access to even more squirrel videos.
http://www.buzznet.com/tags/squirrels/video/3226661/thieving-squirrel-steals-bird-food/
So, we say good evening to the squirrels and raccoons and wish them a good day tomorrow, when the battle lines are drawn fresh in the sand and when the last one standing is clearly the one who dodges the pellets the best.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Trekkers V. Trekkies
Last fall I had an English class which required writing a blog at least twice a week. I wrote a blog on this topic for that class. Since I chose to write about humor, I decided to resurrect that piece; but I couldn’t remember my sign-in name or password.
So I rewrote the piece. During the middle of the night, I remembered what I had forgotten! (Yeah, I thought so, too.) I thought it was fair that since I rewrote the piece and then got to the other one, I could merge the two.
My brother liked watching the original Star Trek series. Being the little sister and having little say over what we watched, except for the Brady Bunch of course, I watched a lot of Star Trek. I actually learned to like Star Trek. I even went to the original Star Trek movie all by.
As the years passed, I started collecting and reading the many Star Trek books. When ST: The Next Generation (stupidest title in the world, right behind AfterMash) was broadcasted, I watched that as well. ST:TNG got better as the seasons past, and I liked the last one a lot, but it got so sentimental and stupid at the very end. The last episode, I needed lots of water to dilute all that sugar.
Of course, I watched Voyager, which I liked a lot, except for the last episode because it was soooooooooooooooooooooo predictable and about 110 minutes too long. I especially liked the theme music. I liked Deep Space 9 until they started getting into the Cardassian War and the shape shifters, and it just got really, really stupid. I liked the last episode of that. Again, I liked the theme music. I watched Enterprise the first season and thought it was okay, but then they got into the Zindi thing and knowing that “history” couldn’t change, I decided the whole thing was too stupid to watch and quit. I liked the theme music for about three weeks and then it really grated on my nerves. The second recording for the series sucked.
“I,” she said pausing dramatically, “am a Trekker. I am NOT a Trekkie. Please do not EVER call me a Trekkie. I am a Trekker.”
The Difference Between a Trekkie (Ies) and a Trekker (Ers)
Ies will not, positively will not, not ever, ever, ever, miss a first-run episode of any of the Star Trek shows.
Ers realize they can catch the missed episodes during reruns.
Ies are so intrigued by the shows that they lose themselves in the moment and have withdrawal symptoms when the show is over. Watching reruns of Happy Days helps.
Ers know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies are convinced that the scientific advances shown on the shows will benefit mankind once they are installed within the next five years.
Ers know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies can’t wait to finally get to see Vulcan, where Mr. Spock is from.
Ers know it’s not real and if Vulcan exists, the inhabitants are too smart to come to this planet while we’re still trying to blow each other up.
Ies will watch the same episode every single time it’s broadcasted, even though they already own all the episodes of every Start Trek spin-off on video and DVD.
Ers may have the same collection, but they watch other stuff on t.v. for variety’s sake.
Ies whip out their homemade communicators to warn the captain about impending disaster.
Ers aren’t quite that…um…dedicated.
Ies who believe they have warned the captain in time are surprised to see the episode end the same way it did the last time he saw it.
Ers, well…uh…the opportunity usually doesn’t present itself, plus they know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies will debate if Kirk or Picard was the better captain, even if it means a fistfight and somebody’s glasses get broke.
Ers laugh at the Ies during their fights.
Ies are particularly sensitive about Kirk’s line deliveries, feeling that he emotes quite clearly and authentically.
Ers continue laughing at the Ies.
Ies believe that Kirk needs a “Bimbo of the Week” in order to be Manly.
Ers realize that a “Bimbo of the Week” to make an officer look Manly is an overused cliché in any television program.
Ies are a lot of fun to tease and torture by calling Kirk a wimp and Spock is all human.
Ers often have black eyes from teasing the Trekkies.
Ies watch the episodes frame by frame and then nitpick about the actions of the characters as they walk in and out of the shot.
Ers are aware that these people are actors.
Ies debate who was badder: the original Klingons who looked like they had a bad day in the makeup chair or the original Romulans who spent only half a day in the bad makeup chair.
Ers will debate, but there are better things to do after five minutes of intense snickering.
Ies will hold a seminar, as many as necessary, to discuss and decide if Data was supposed to be the ST:TNG’s version of Mr. Spock.
Ers will probably attend the seminars, but will make rude noises during the entire thing.
Ies love conventions and often plan their entire vacation/employment possibilities/entire life around going to Star Trek conventions. These are the same Trekkies who wrote to the developers and producers of the show, asking for a prop that really worked like a phaser and then was disappointed when they couldn't have one.
Ers like, and may love, conventions, and may schedule their vacations around one, and maybe not. Trekkers outgrew that phaser fantasy (just barely) when someone wrote back and said that shooting your little sister was a bad thing only Klingons did.
Ies like to dress up in their official Star Trek uniform, homemade or otherwise, and go about their daily business, and it's not Halloween.
Ers like to dress up, too, but they keep it in the realm of "I don't want to embarrass my children today." If the Trekkers' children are over 5, the children are embarrassed simply because they have parents. http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/2010/01/20/the-final-frontier/
Ies MUST dress up for the conventions and then stay in character during the entire convention period.
Ers may dress up, but they won’t be slitting their wrists when they realize they can’t speak fluent Klingon and that the Klingon language has no “to be” verb in its lexicon.
Ies like to go to conventions and ask the stars very intense questions that require a lot of brain power on the actors' parts, not realizing that some of those actors have very little fluff upstairs these days and cannot answer the question because they are anticipating leaving these nuts soon.
Ers like to go to conventions and ask the starts interesting and perhaps intense questions, but takes the actors' ability to lie through their teeth as authentic, even if the actors may be anticipating leaving these nuts soon.
Ies like to ask the actors questions about motivation for a certain scene in a certain episode and what were they feeling and how did it make them feel and did they think they would ever feel that way again and if not how did that make them feel and what was it they were feeling while they were contemplating . . .
Ers like to ask the actors questions about their roles on the show and was there anything special they did to help them to "get into character."(If you ever saw William Shatner on SNL doing a Star Trek convention skit where he yelled at all the geeks, those sorts of moments really do happen at the conventions. I also have it on VERY good authority that Mr. Shatner should be named Mr. Full-of-Himself.) (Hey. I had a friend who went to a couple conventions and he said the skit was spot on.)
Ies like to talk like Mr. Scott, but they don't do well because they seem to have the impression they need to be inebriated at the same time, especially if they're teenagers.
Ers like to talk like Mr. Scott, but they don't do well because they seem to have the impression they need to be inebriated at the same time, especially if they're teenagers.(Some things are common to both groups, you know)
Ies like to go to convention and meet their heroes, without realizing their "heroes" are a lot older in person than on television.
Ers realize that their "heroes" are also actors who have bills to pay like ordinary people, and that's why Captain Picard can be in the X-Men movies.
Ies find it difficult to comprehend that the actors who attend the conventions are not as young as their characters in the programs.
Ers mourned the death of DeForrest Kelly, Dr. Leonard McCoy, and James Doohan, Mr. Scott, from the original series, and will continue to mourn the loss of the rest of the actors.
Ies like to wear the fake Spock ears, but often cannot explain what makes a Vulcan's ears superior to a human's.
Ers like to wear the fake Spock ears, assuming they have them in the first place, and maybe cannot explain what makes a Vulcan's ears superior to a human's, but then they ask someone and learn it has to do with the ala part of the ear and the ability to catch more sounds that way. (Ala? Look it up.)
Ies are hopeful that someday our world and perhaps the universe will be a place of peace and harmony.
Ers agree with the Ies sentiment.
So I rewrote the piece. During the middle of the night, I remembered what I had forgotten! (Yeah, I thought so, too.) I thought it was fair that since I rewrote the piece and then got to the other one, I could merge the two.
My brother liked watching the original Star Trek series. Being the little sister and having little say over what we watched, except for the Brady Bunch of course, I watched a lot of Star Trek. I actually learned to like Star Trek. I even went to the original Star Trek movie all by.
As the years passed, I started collecting and reading the many Star Trek books. When ST: The Next Generation (stupidest title in the world, right behind AfterMash) was broadcasted, I watched that as well. ST:TNG got better as the seasons past, and I liked the last one a lot, but it got so sentimental and stupid at the very end. The last episode, I needed lots of water to dilute all that sugar.
Of course, I watched Voyager, which I liked a lot, except for the last episode because it was soooooooooooooooooooooo predictable and about 110 minutes too long. I especially liked the theme music. I liked Deep Space 9 until they started getting into the Cardassian War and the shape shifters, and it just got really, really stupid. I liked the last episode of that. Again, I liked the theme music. I watched Enterprise the first season and thought it was okay, but then they got into the Zindi thing and knowing that “history” couldn’t change, I decided the whole thing was too stupid to watch and quit. I liked the theme music for about three weeks and then it really grated on my nerves. The second recording for the series sucked.
“I,” she said pausing dramatically, “am a Trekker. I am NOT a Trekkie. Please do not EVER call me a Trekkie. I am a Trekker.”
The Difference Between a Trekkie (Ies) and a Trekker (Ers)
Ies will not, positively will not, not ever, ever, ever, miss a first-run episode of any of the Star Trek shows.
Ers realize they can catch the missed episodes during reruns.
Ies are so intrigued by the shows that they lose themselves in the moment and have withdrawal symptoms when the show is over. Watching reruns of Happy Days helps.
Ers know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies are convinced that the scientific advances shown on the shows will benefit mankind once they are installed within the next five years.
Ers know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies can’t wait to finally get to see Vulcan, where Mr. Spock is from.
Ers know it’s not real and if Vulcan exists, the inhabitants are too smart to come to this planet while we’re still trying to blow each other up.
Ies will watch the same episode every single time it’s broadcasted, even though they already own all the episodes of every Start Trek spin-off on video and DVD.
Ers may have the same collection, but they watch other stuff on t.v. for variety’s sake.
Ies whip out their homemade communicators to warn the captain about impending disaster.
Ers aren’t quite that…um…dedicated.
Ies who believe they have warned the captain in time are surprised to see the episode end the same way it did the last time he saw it.
Ers, well…uh…the opportunity usually doesn’t present itself, plus they know it’s just a t.v. show.
Ies will debate if Kirk or Picard was the better captain, even if it means a fistfight and somebody’s glasses get broke.
Ers laugh at the Ies during their fights.
Ies are particularly sensitive about Kirk’s line deliveries, feeling that he emotes quite clearly and authentically.
Ers continue laughing at the Ies.
Ies believe that Kirk needs a “Bimbo of the Week” in order to be Manly.
Ers realize that a “Bimbo of the Week” to make an officer look Manly is an overused cliché in any television program.
Ies are a lot of fun to tease and torture by calling Kirk a wimp and Spock is all human.
Ers often have black eyes from teasing the Trekkies.
Ies watch the episodes frame by frame and then nitpick about the actions of the characters as they walk in and out of the shot.
Ers are aware that these people are actors.
Ies debate who was badder: the original Klingons who looked like they had a bad day in the makeup chair or the original Romulans who spent only half a day in the bad makeup chair.
Ers will debate, but there are better things to do after five minutes of intense snickering.
Ies will hold a seminar, as many as necessary, to discuss and decide if Data was supposed to be the ST:TNG’s version of Mr. Spock.
Ers will probably attend the seminars, but will make rude noises during the entire thing.
Ies love conventions and often plan their entire vacation/employment possibilities/entire life around going to Star Trek conventions. These are the same Trekkies who wrote to the developers and producers of the show, asking for a prop that really worked like a phaser and then was disappointed when they couldn't have one.
Ers like, and may love, conventions, and may schedule their vacations around one, and maybe not. Trekkers outgrew that phaser fantasy (just barely) when someone wrote back and said that shooting your little sister was a bad thing only Klingons did.
Ies like to dress up in their official Star Trek uniform, homemade or otherwise, and go about their daily business, and it's not Halloween.
Ers like to dress up, too, but they keep it in the realm of "I don't want to embarrass my children today." If the Trekkers' children are over 5, the children are embarrassed simply because they have parents. http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/2010/01/20/the-final-frontier/
Ies MUST dress up for the conventions and then stay in character during the entire convention period.
Ers may dress up, but they won’t be slitting their wrists when they realize they can’t speak fluent Klingon and that the Klingon language has no “to be” verb in its lexicon.
Ies like to go to conventions and ask the stars very intense questions that require a lot of brain power on the actors' parts, not realizing that some of those actors have very little fluff upstairs these days and cannot answer the question because they are anticipating leaving these nuts soon.
Ers like to go to conventions and ask the starts interesting and perhaps intense questions, but takes the actors' ability to lie through their teeth as authentic, even if the actors may be anticipating leaving these nuts soon.
Ies like to ask the actors questions about motivation for a certain scene in a certain episode and what were they feeling and how did it make them feel and did they think they would ever feel that way again and if not how did that make them feel and what was it they were feeling while they were contemplating . . .
Ers like to ask the actors questions about their roles on the show and was there anything special they did to help them to "get into character."(If you ever saw William Shatner on SNL doing a Star Trek convention skit where he yelled at all the geeks, those sorts of moments really do happen at the conventions. I also have it on VERY good authority that Mr. Shatner should be named Mr. Full-of-Himself.) (Hey. I had a friend who went to a couple conventions and he said the skit was spot on.)
Ies like to talk like Mr. Scott, but they don't do well because they seem to have the impression they need to be inebriated at the same time, especially if they're teenagers.
Ers like to talk like Mr. Scott, but they don't do well because they seem to have the impression they need to be inebriated at the same time, especially if they're teenagers.(Some things are common to both groups, you know)
Ies like to go to convention and meet their heroes, without realizing their "heroes" are a lot older in person than on television.
Ers realize that their "heroes" are also actors who have bills to pay like ordinary people, and that's why Captain Picard can be in the X-Men movies.
Ies find it difficult to comprehend that the actors who attend the conventions are not as young as their characters in the programs.
Ers mourned the death of DeForrest Kelly, Dr. Leonard McCoy, and James Doohan, Mr. Scott, from the original series, and will continue to mourn the loss of the rest of the actors.
Ies like to wear the fake Spock ears, but often cannot explain what makes a Vulcan's ears superior to a human's.
Ers like to wear the fake Spock ears, assuming they have them in the first place, and maybe cannot explain what makes a Vulcan's ears superior to a human's, but then they ask someone and learn it has to do with the ala part of the ear and the ability to catch more sounds that way. (Ala? Look it up.)
Ies are hopeful that someday our world and perhaps the universe will be a place of peace and harmony.
Ers agree with the Ies sentiment.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The New Neighbors
I really had no intention to write a blog today since it sorta looks like I'm being an overachiever. But, what the hell.
My bedroom faces the backyard, so I get to hear the nightly visitors at the bird feeders. What I've been hearing lately, I thought perhaps the squirrels were becoming nocturnal since their war with Mom can get on their nerves. But last night, the visitors were really noisy, and then I heard the grill moving a little on the deck. I thought perhaps it was opossums. Nah. Ricky and Rocky Raccoon came a-calling.
I turned on the hall light, which usually scares away the backyard critters, but no such luck last night. The cats escorted me to the sliding glass door, as if to project me from the trespassers. I turned on the outside light, which again usually scares off the critters, and not this time either.
What a sight. The deck is pretty small, maybe eight by eight. It's big enough for a medium-sized grill and a table. The table is plastic crap and the most it's used for is holding up the bird seed Mom puts in a small plate. When the birds (and squirrels) come to call, two of my cats don't seem to understand that the glass between them and the table does not magically disappear when the cats want to catch their prey. Amber is the most hard to convince. I've seen her clunk her head on that glass at least once a day.
So, there was Rocky Raccoon on the table, eating the leftover bird seed. He looked at me like, "Hi. Howyadoin? Mind if I sit in with the band?" He didn't even flinch when I rapped on the glass to scare them away. The look was "I ain't goin' till the eatin's done." Then I noticed Ricky Raccoon under the table. His look said, "Hey, we're tryin' to have some supper here. Do ya mind?" I did mind. I minded a lot, especially when Ricky sauntered over to the grill to see if any of that food we cooked last Monday just happened to have been left on the grill for someone else to eat.
I'd had enough of the boys, so I opened up the door, which got them moving, ever so slowly. They looked like dancers in a music video who wanted to get as much time on the screen as possible so they moved away as slow as possible without the director yelling at them to get moving. Rocky moved quicker than Ricky, but I still had to rattle the flimsy screen door to get them moving more.
I'm sure the boys came back after they thought it was safe. By then, though, you'd have thought I would have secured the area so that no food was left. Nope. If they want to enter the Mom-squirrel-bird seed war, that's their decision.
My bedroom faces the backyard, so I get to hear the nightly visitors at the bird feeders. What I've been hearing lately, I thought perhaps the squirrels were becoming nocturnal since their war with Mom can get on their nerves. But last night, the visitors were really noisy, and then I heard the grill moving a little on the deck. I thought perhaps it was opossums. Nah. Ricky and Rocky Raccoon came a-calling.
I turned on the hall light, which usually scares away the backyard critters, but no such luck last night. The cats escorted me to the sliding glass door, as if to project me from the trespassers. I turned on the outside light, which again usually scares off the critters, and not this time either.
What a sight. The deck is pretty small, maybe eight by eight. It's big enough for a medium-sized grill and a table. The table is plastic crap and the most it's used for is holding up the bird seed Mom puts in a small plate. When the birds (and squirrels) come to call, two of my cats don't seem to understand that the glass between them and the table does not magically disappear when the cats want to catch their prey. Amber is the most hard to convince. I've seen her clunk her head on that glass at least once a day.
So, there was Rocky Raccoon on the table, eating the leftover bird seed. He looked at me like, "Hi. Howyadoin? Mind if I sit in with the band?" He didn't even flinch when I rapped on the glass to scare them away. The look was "I ain't goin' till the eatin's done." Then I noticed Ricky Raccoon under the table. His look said, "Hey, we're tryin' to have some supper here. Do ya mind?" I did mind. I minded a lot, especially when Ricky sauntered over to the grill to see if any of that food we cooked last Monday just happened to have been left on the grill for someone else to eat.
I'd had enough of the boys, so I opened up the door, which got them moving, ever so slowly. They looked like dancers in a music video who wanted to get as much time on the screen as possible so they moved away as slow as possible without the director yelling at them to get moving. Rocky moved quicker than Ricky, but I still had to rattle the flimsy screen door to get them moving more.
I'm sure the boys came back after they thought it was safe. By then, though, you'd have thought I would have secured the area so that no food was left. Nope. If they want to enter the Mom-squirrel-bird seed war, that's their decision.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Poetry Can Be Fun
I took the poetry creative writing class with Jan Worth last semester and had a lot of fun. I had to "audition" to get in the class, so I spent time in her office explaining how I like poetry. I'm more of a prose writer, but I'm not afraid to try poetry. I managed to convince I'd be a good student in her class. I had done it again, whatever "it" was.
At the end of the conversation, I quoted the first four, and only lines, I had about the over the counter medicine Imodium. Jan said I should develop the poem, which I did and I now have 16 lines in my tribute.
As part of the class, we were fortunate enough to participate in a poetry reading at Buckham Gallery. The poetry we read was our own, hopefully inspired by the art. So, of course, I read my Imodium poem. Below is the link to that reading. You have to suffer through a couple other poems first, though.
If you're not in the mood to watch me read, here's the poem for you now. I hope you enjoy it.
My Best Friend
Imodium is my best friend
and why, I’ll tell you true.
It helps keep me from running
when I have to pooh.
Another spot within my life.
Imodium plays a part
is when my gut gets gassy
and I have to fart.
Imodium, the precious,
those little greenish pills.
It stops the runs and farts
and cuts the stench that kills.
I’ll take the little pills for
those stinky times I pass.
It’s a better solution than
shoving a cork up my ass.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mmCIU9sl5E
At the end of the conversation, I quoted the first four, and only lines, I had about the over the counter medicine Imodium. Jan said I should develop the poem, which I did and I now have 16 lines in my tribute.
As part of the class, we were fortunate enough to participate in a poetry reading at Buckham Gallery. The poetry we read was our own, hopefully inspired by the art. So, of course, I read my Imodium poem. Below is the link to that reading. You have to suffer through a couple other poems first, though.
If you're not in the mood to watch me read, here's the poem for you now. I hope you enjoy it.
My Best Friend
Imodium is my best friend
and why, I’ll tell you true.
It helps keep me from running
when I have to pooh.
Another spot within my life.
Imodium plays a part
is when my gut gets gassy
and I have to fart.
Imodium, the precious,
those little greenish pills.
It stops the runs and farts
and cuts the stench that kills.
I’ll take the little pills for
those stinky times I pass.
It’s a better solution than
shoving a cork up my ass.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mmCIU9sl5E
I am soooooooo Rude
Well, I just did it again. I was rude and I’m not sorry. I would do it again in an instant if the moment presented itself. And I wouldn’t be sorry then, either.
I am sitting in the library at the moment, about 3:45 p.m. and yet another student in a study carrel is on the phone, having some stupid conversation that everyone can hear. Only this time, I can hear the speaker at the other end of the line. Normally I can take these conversations for about three minutes, long enough to say hello, get the news, and hang up. After that, it’s just rude behavior.
So what did I do that was so rude? After listening to yet another round of “yes, let’s do that, what do you think?” I asserted my voice over my carrel and said, “Tell her goodbye and shut up.” I got a couple of giggles from other hostages and Miss Yak-yak moved away from the computer and finished her phone call away from us. When she returned, I did say “thank you,” hoping to be anonymous. But, after this posting, probably not.
Most of the time I am not this rude, but I’m getting there. I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between polite and just plain stupid. I’m sure we’ve all heard the same arguments about people who have no thought about conducting a private call in public. Then these same idiots, the ones complaining, often do the same thing they just complained about. I fixed the problem for me by not carrying a cell phone. Yes, I heard you all gasp.
I drove to and from Port Huron for sixteen years and never, not EVER, had a problem with my car. One flat tire, yes, but no problems with the car. I always got to where I wanted to go since the goal was to get there, it didn’t matter how long it took. The only time I didn’t get to Port Huron was because it was snowing so bad the roads were getting worse. By the time I got to Capac, I was having problems driving and having angina pain. I went home and called in sick.
My students often asked me what would I do if I did have a problem. “I’d get out and walk,” was my answer. Even in the middle of the night? Yep. I know it’s a stereotype, but not a lot of fat women get mugged or molested in my neck of the woods.
So, I was rude today. I’m sick and tired of listening to others’ phone conversations. I especially hated it this past winter semester at finals time. It seemed like everyone and anyone who couldn’t read a sign about not having a phone conversation at the carrels was a stupid idiot. How many times do you have to read the sign before you understand that you are not exempt?
I was just as rude last semester, and believe me, it was wonderful. I think I stopped three phone calls and a couple people who were in the stacks moved away, just in case I was going to bound over the carrels and take down a few cell phones. I also got a few giggles and couple of sighs of relieve when my rude mouth took over. So, if you’re in the library and hear a voice telling someone to shut up, you know who it is.
I am sitting in the library at the moment, about 3:45 p.m. and yet another student in a study carrel is on the phone, having some stupid conversation that everyone can hear. Only this time, I can hear the speaker at the other end of the line. Normally I can take these conversations for about three minutes, long enough to say hello, get the news, and hang up. After that, it’s just rude behavior.
So what did I do that was so rude? After listening to yet another round of “yes, let’s do that, what do you think?” I asserted my voice over my carrel and said, “Tell her goodbye and shut up.” I got a couple of giggles from other hostages and Miss Yak-yak moved away from the computer and finished her phone call away from us. When she returned, I did say “thank you,” hoping to be anonymous. But, after this posting, probably not.
Most of the time I am not this rude, but I’m getting there. I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between polite and just plain stupid. I’m sure we’ve all heard the same arguments about people who have no thought about conducting a private call in public. Then these same idiots, the ones complaining, often do the same thing they just complained about. I fixed the problem for me by not carrying a cell phone. Yes, I heard you all gasp.
I drove to and from Port Huron for sixteen years and never, not EVER, had a problem with my car. One flat tire, yes, but no problems with the car. I always got to where I wanted to go since the goal was to get there, it didn’t matter how long it took. The only time I didn’t get to Port Huron was because it was snowing so bad the roads were getting worse. By the time I got to Capac, I was having problems driving and having angina pain. I went home and called in sick.
My students often asked me what would I do if I did have a problem. “I’d get out and walk,” was my answer. Even in the middle of the night? Yep. I know it’s a stereotype, but not a lot of fat women get mugged or molested in my neck of the woods.
So, I was rude today. I’m sick and tired of listening to others’ phone conversations. I especially hated it this past winter semester at finals time. It seemed like everyone and anyone who couldn’t read a sign about not having a phone conversation at the carrels was a stupid idiot. How many times do you have to read the sign before you understand that you are not exempt?
I was just as rude last semester, and believe me, it was wonderful. I think I stopped three phone calls and a couple people who were in the stacks moved away, just in case I was going to bound over the carrels and take down a few cell phones. I also got a few giggles and couple of sighs of relieve when my rude mouth took over. So, if you’re in the library and hear a voice telling someone to shut up, you know who it is.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A Name Does Matter
My dad’s sister, Anna Mae Vickroy, was a fifth grade teacher way back in the 60s and 70s. She and Uncle Mel had three boys and a girl, Cindy, who was my closest living female cousin on the father’s side and the closest thing I had to a sister you saw only every couple of weeks. They lived in Byron but went to church in Linden. We lived in Linden, right across the street from their church, but we attended church in Byron, which was about three blocks from Aunt Ann’s home. The geography really doesn’t have much to do with the gist of this blog, but I thought somebody would want to know.
Anyway, the Vickroys had their run of pets, like any families, but naming them? I know coming up with names wasn’t that hard since they had four kids, but still. In no particular order:
Type of Pet/Name
French poodle /Frenchie
Black cat /Midnight
White dog/ Whitie
Rabbit /Peter
Interesting Pet Names
Another black cat/ Inky
Mutt /Tiger (looked like the dog on the Brady Bunch)
Cat with white paws /Boots
The best name they EVER came up with was for a white cat with three small black spots around its nose. They called it Boogers.
Of course, the Stimer clan was just as bad.
Black and white rabbit (mine)/ Violet (after a character from Charlie Brown)
Black and white long-haired cat /Fluffy
Fluffy’s kids: Sleek black kitten /Fred
Fluffy black kitten /Barney
White cat, offspring of Boogers /Miffy (Milk, Ice cream, Flour)
Another white cat/ Fphawggue (Fog)
Current cats: brown-gray cat named Amber (for her eyes) aka Dork, Little Girl;
white/tiger patches named Dr. Sues aka Susie, Sushi, SueSue, Doofus, and Little Boy;
orange-black-white calico (originally called Calie, a name I hate) now called Kelly
I am just dying to have a chance to have a cat really named Doofus, although I’ve heard calling a cat Whoopie can make you sound interesting when calling for it at odd hours of the night.
Anyway, the Vickroys had their run of pets, like any families, but naming them? I know coming up with names wasn’t that hard since they had four kids, but still. In no particular order:
Type of Pet/Name
French poodle /Frenchie
Black cat /Midnight
White dog/ Whitie
Rabbit /Peter
Interesting Pet Names
Another black cat/ Inky
Mutt /Tiger (looked like the dog on the Brady Bunch)
Cat with white paws /Boots
The best name they EVER came up with was for a white cat with three small black spots around its nose. They called it Boogers.
Of course, the Stimer clan was just as bad.
Black and white rabbit (mine)/ Violet (after a character from Charlie Brown)
Black and white long-haired cat /Fluffy
Fluffy’s kids: Sleek black kitten /Fred
Fluffy black kitten /Barney
White cat, offspring of Boogers /Miffy (Milk, Ice cream, Flour)
Another white cat/ Fphawggue (Fog)
Current cats: brown-gray cat named Amber (for her eyes) aka Dork, Little Girl;
white/tiger patches named Dr. Sues aka Susie, Sushi, SueSue, Doofus, and Little Boy;
orange-black-white calico (originally called Calie, a name I hate) now called Kelly
I am just dying to have a chance to have a cat really named Doofus, although I’ve heard calling a cat Whoopie can make you sound interesting when calling for it at odd hours of the night.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Spring and Mom's Voice is in the Air
Be verwy, verwy cwy-et, we’re hunting skwurrul, heheheheheheheheheheheh!
It is officially spring at my house when I hear first thing in the morning my mother shouting at the squirrels to get out of the bird feeders. Yes! The battle has begun, and the squirrels will win—again!
We live on about two acres of wooded land, mostly pine with just a few maples and oaks. We think the pines may have been one of the many projects supported by the FDR years because of the approximate age and the fact they grow in pretty straight rows. Our house and “tamed” yard make up about half an acre, while the rest in back remains “wild” for the birds and deer. Of course it’s the birds that Mom tries to draw to the feeders. She was content with just a couple feeders, but when Grandma moved in, more were added for entertainment purposes—just not the kind Mom had expected.
The spring battles started about six years ago, and now moves through a specific sequence.
Step one: Mom yells out the window to scare the hell out of the trespassing squirrels, and then struts around the house as the world’s “champeen squirrel scarer-offer.”
Step two: Mom yells out the window and the squirrels take notice. But instead of running off they flip her the finger or their tails or both and go back to eating.
Step three: Mom hauls open the sliding glass door, which is heavy. She then rattles the sliding screen door, which is flimsy. The squirrels scurry away, laughing at her poor attempt at keeping them out of the food.
Step four: The glass door is kept open but not the screen door. Mom opens the screen door and yells at the squirrels, who snicker and amble away for a nap.
Step five: Mom opens the screen door and steps out onto the deck, yelling as she moves from inside to outside. The squirrels still snicker but scurry away because you never can tell if the crazy human is actually going to run after them.
Step six: Mom hunts for the BB gun and puts it near the sliding doors for the rest of the warring season.
At the start of the new day during June and part of July, steps one through five must occur before moving on to the next step.
Step seven: Mom picks up the BB gun and starts the pumping action, all the while shouting at the squirrels. She opens the screen door, takes aim, squeezes off the shot, and misses by a mile. The squirrels scurry away from the crazy human.
Starting about the middle of July until the squirrels settle in for the winter, Mom may or may not follow steps one through five. It mostly depends upon how tired she is, how badly the Tigers played the day before, and how crazy she feels after interacting with Grandma.
Step eight: Mom pumps the BB gun even more, yells, opens the screen door, shoots, and misses by yet another mile. The squirrels fall over from laughing so hard.
Step nine: Mom starts to talk to herself and wonders if any BBs are actually being shot out of the gun. She pumps a few times, takes careful aim at the tree two feet in front of her, and realizes no BBs have left the gun since the battle started.
Step ten: Mom fixes the gun problem, repeats steps seven and eight, then finally throws herself into her chair when it is too dark to see to shoot.
Who needs a dog that barks at squirrels when you have more entertainment watching your own mother?
It is officially spring at my house when I hear first thing in the morning my mother shouting at the squirrels to get out of the bird feeders. Yes! The battle has begun, and the squirrels will win—again!
We live on about two acres of wooded land, mostly pine with just a few maples and oaks. We think the pines may have been one of the many projects supported by the FDR years because of the approximate age and the fact they grow in pretty straight rows. Our house and “tamed” yard make up about half an acre, while the rest in back remains “wild” for the birds and deer. Of course it’s the birds that Mom tries to draw to the feeders. She was content with just a couple feeders, but when Grandma moved in, more were added for entertainment purposes—just not the kind Mom had expected.
The spring battles started about six years ago, and now moves through a specific sequence.
Step one: Mom yells out the window to scare the hell out of the trespassing squirrels, and then struts around the house as the world’s “champeen squirrel scarer-offer.”
Step two: Mom yells out the window and the squirrels take notice. But instead of running off they flip her the finger or their tails or both and go back to eating.
Step three: Mom hauls open the sliding glass door, which is heavy. She then rattles the sliding screen door, which is flimsy. The squirrels scurry away, laughing at her poor attempt at keeping them out of the food.
Step four: The glass door is kept open but not the screen door. Mom opens the screen door and yells at the squirrels, who snicker and amble away for a nap.
Step five: Mom opens the screen door and steps out onto the deck, yelling as she moves from inside to outside. The squirrels still snicker but scurry away because you never can tell if the crazy human is actually going to run after them.
Step six: Mom hunts for the BB gun and puts it near the sliding doors for the rest of the warring season.
At the start of the new day during June and part of July, steps one through five must occur before moving on to the next step.
Step seven: Mom picks up the BB gun and starts the pumping action, all the while shouting at the squirrels. She opens the screen door, takes aim, squeezes off the shot, and misses by a mile. The squirrels scurry away from the crazy human.
Starting about the middle of July until the squirrels settle in for the winter, Mom may or may not follow steps one through five. It mostly depends upon how tired she is, how badly the Tigers played the day before, and how crazy she feels after interacting with Grandma.
Step eight: Mom pumps the BB gun even more, yells, opens the screen door, shoots, and misses by yet another mile. The squirrels fall over from laughing so hard.
Step nine: Mom starts to talk to herself and wonders if any BBs are actually being shot out of the gun. She pumps a few times, takes careful aim at the tree two feet in front of her, and realizes no BBs have left the gun since the battle started.
Step ten: Mom fixes the gun problem, repeats steps seven and eight, then finally throws herself into her chair when it is too dark to see to shoot.
Who needs a dog that barks at squirrels when you have more entertainment watching your own mother?
Friday, May 28, 2010
AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com
AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com
This happens to be one of my favorite sites. This picture Bunny Ears
May 27th, 2010, kind of says it all.
This happens to be one of my favorite sites. This picture Bunny Ears
May 27th, 2010, kind of says it all.
That Damn Dream of Mine
There are those nights when I wish I didn’t have dreams or at least not remember them so well. I don’t like dreams that fool me into thinking I’m really awake and that for just a few fleeting seconds, my life is happy, the happiest it’s been in almost ten years. I hate being reminded of what my life used to be like before my best friend, Joan, died in my arms. I hate those nightly reminders that she’s gone and my life will never be the same nor as happy nor as satisfying as I would like.
I had one of those dreams last night. I dreamt that I was at a friend’s house. I knew it was a female friend, but I couldn’t recall her name. She was someone I liked a great deal, but her identity eluded me—up to a certain point. I never know when that moment comes, but suddenly I know I am with Joan again. Everything that I’m missing from this life is suddenly all there in my dream. Nothing is lacking. I am at peace with the world because that horrible death scene with Joan is gone and she’s whole again. She’s my fiend, my confidante. I have someone to talk to again. My loneliness and despair are gone.
This time I was at her house. I had slept over for some reason and when I woke up she was gone, but I knew she was coming back. I knew it to the depths of my soul. She was not leaving me again. I knew I was someplace safe and warm and accepting. I looked around her house, for this was someplace new to me. I knew that it was newly built and was close to work and her sons. It was a simple house, a condo, really, with the usual amenities of a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. Nothing more, but when you live alone, how much do you need?
It was in the bathroom when I realized something was wrong. A feature that has creeped into many of my dreams was present. This bathroom was setup like any other. You walk in and on the left was the sink, then the toilet and then the bathtub/shower. Except, this time, there was no tub. There was perhaps a two-inch lip on the floor to retain water, but you couldn’t take a sit-down bath. You could only take a shower. I looked back at the sink and realized there was a shower nozzle above the medicine cabinet. Looking at the door of the room, I noticed it was supposed to seal itself so that if you cared to, you could take a shower while you stood in front of the sink. In fact, you could take two showers at the same time, or turn the entire room into a giant shower.
Seeing that bathroom, I knew for sure I was dreaming. I hadn’t really slept over. I hadn’t really gotten up to look around. I wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be. I was still just plain old Shonda, plain old lonely Shonda, who missed her friend so desperately, yet again she let herself be fooled by a damn dream.
This is what I face when I’m at my lowest. I take medicine to help with the depression and I do try to get on with life. Still, it’s hard to be something I am not but I feel I should be. I go home and I wonder how much longer I have to be like this. When will the loneliness end. When will the agony stop. When will I be happy again.
Despite being fat, I’ve learned to live my life. I can ignore the morons who think I need to be reminded yet again of what I look like on the outside. I’ve learned to live with those who insist they know what I’m like on the inside. I‘ve learned to live my life without my best friend and to accept that her death was not my fault. But how do you continue to do all this when your subconscious keeps replaying all that you’ve learned to accept and ignore, to remind you time after time that life is not perfect?
I realize this isn’t a funny blog entry. But you can see the irony and some of the small “ha ha” moments. If you take anything away from this blog, let it be the idea that life goes on, even if our dreams keep trying to drag us back. I may bitch about the bathroom dreams, but they are just dreams. And I’d rather dream about an entire bathroom that can become a giant shower than to relive those moments when Joan died. A shower versus death? Water is symbolic of birth and new life. Death is the end. As I said, dreaming about water isn’t so bad.
I had one of those dreams last night. I dreamt that I was at a friend’s house. I knew it was a female friend, but I couldn’t recall her name. She was someone I liked a great deal, but her identity eluded me—up to a certain point. I never know when that moment comes, but suddenly I know I am with Joan again. Everything that I’m missing from this life is suddenly all there in my dream. Nothing is lacking. I am at peace with the world because that horrible death scene with Joan is gone and she’s whole again. She’s my fiend, my confidante. I have someone to talk to again. My loneliness and despair are gone.
This time I was at her house. I had slept over for some reason and when I woke up she was gone, but I knew she was coming back. I knew it to the depths of my soul. She was not leaving me again. I knew I was someplace safe and warm and accepting. I looked around her house, for this was someplace new to me. I knew that it was newly built and was close to work and her sons. It was a simple house, a condo, really, with the usual amenities of a kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. Nothing more, but when you live alone, how much do you need?
It was in the bathroom when I realized something was wrong. A feature that has creeped into many of my dreams was present. This bathroom was setup like any other. You walk in and on the left was the sink, then the toilet and then the bathtub/shower. Except, this time, there was no tub. There was perhaps a two-inch lip on the floor to retain water, but you couldn’t take a sit-down bath. You could only take a shower. I looked back at the sink and realized there was a shower nozzle above the medicine cabinet. Looking at the door of the room, I noticed it was supposed to seal itself so that if you cared to, you could take a shower while you stood in front of the sink. In fact, you could take two showers at the same time, or turn the entire room into a giant shower.
Seeing that bathroom, I knew for sure I was dreaming. I hadn’t really slept over. I hadn’t really gotten up to look around. I wasn’t somewhere I wanted to be. I was still just plain old Shonda, plain old lonely Shonda, who missed her friend so desperately, yet again she let herself be fooled by a damn dream.
This is what I face when I’m at my lowest. I take medicine to help with the depression and I do try to get on with life. Still, it’s hard to be something I am not but I feel I should be. I go home and I wonder how much longer I have to be like this. When will the loneliness end. When will the agony stop. When will I be happy again.
Despite being fat, I’ve learned to live my life. I can ignore the morons who think I need to be reminded yet again of what I look like on the outside. I’ve learned to live with those who insist they know what I’m like on the inside. I‘ve learned to live my life without my best friend and to accept that her death was not my fault. But how do you continue to do all this when your subconscious keeps replaying all that you’ve learned to accept and ignore, to remind you time after time that life is not perfect?
I realize this isn’t a funny blog entry. But you can see the irony and some of the small “ha ha” moments. If you take anything away from this blog, let it be the idea that life goes on, even if our dreams keep trying to drag us back. I may bitch about the bathroom dreams, but they are just dreams. And I’d rather dream about an entire bathroom that can become a giant shower than to relive those moments when Joan died. A shower versus death? Water is symbolic of birth and new life. Death is the end. As I said, dreaming about water isn’t so bad.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
There Went Another One
Mr. Linkletter was one of those people my parents didn't mind if I stayed up late to watch his program. I always wondered why I couldn't be on one of them. I'm funny and say awful things.
TV's 'People Are Funny' host Art Linkletter dies
AP – FILE - In this Oct. 4, 2009 file photo, television host Art Linkletter poses on the press line at the …
By LYNN ELBER, AP Entertainment Writer Lynn Elber, Ap Entertainment Writer – 45 mins ago
LOS ANGELES – Art Linkletter, whose "People Are Funny" and "House Party" shows entertained millions of TV viewers in the 1950s and '60s with the funny side of ordinary folks and who remained active as a writer and speaker through his ninth decade, died Wednesday. He was 97.
Linkletter died at his home in the Bel-Air section of Los Angeles, said his son-in-law, Art Hershey, the husband of Sharon Linkletter.
"He lived a long, full, pure life, and the Lord had need for him," Hershey said.
Linkletter had been ill "in the last few weeks time, but bear in mind he was 97 years old. He wasn't eating well, and the aging process took him," Hershey said.
Linkletter hadn't been diagnosed with any life-threatening disease, he said.
Linkletter was known on TV for his funny interviews with children and ordinary folks. He also collected their comments in a number of best-selling books.
"Art Linkletter's House Party," one of television's longest-running variety shows, debuted on radio in 1944 and was seen on CBS-TV from 1952 to 1969.
Though it had many features, the best known was the daily interviews with schoolchildren.
"On `House Party' I would talk to you and bring out the fact that you had been letting your boss beat you at golf over a period of months as part of your campaign to get a raise," Linkletter wrote.
"All the while, without your knowledge, your boss would be sitting a few feet away listening, and at the appropriate moment, I would bring you together," he said. "Now, that's funny, because the laugh arises out of a real situation."
Linkletter collected quotes from children into "Kids Say The Darndest Things," and it sold in the millions. The book "70 Years of Best Sellers 1895-1965" ranked "Kids Say the Darndest Things" as the 15th top seller among nonfiction books in that period.
The prime time "People Are Funny," which began on radio in 1942 and ran on TV from 1954 to 1961, emphasized slapstick humor and audience participation — things like throwing a pie in the face of a contestant who couldn't tell his Social Security number in five seconds, or asking him to go out and cash a check written on the side of a watermelon.
The down-to-earth charm of Linkletter's broadcast persona seemed to be mirrored by his private life with his wife of more than a half-century, Lois. They had five children, whom he wrote about in his books and called the "Links."
But in 1969, his 20-year-old daughter Diane jumped to her death from her sixth-floor Hollywood apartment. He blamed her death on LSD use, but toxicology tests found no LSD in her body after she died.
Still, the tragedy prompted Linkletter to become a crusader against drugs. A son, Robert, died in a car accident in 1980. Another son, Jack Linkletter, was 70 when he died of lymphoma in 2007.
Art Linkletter got his first taste of broadcasting with a part-time job while attending San Diego State College in the early 1930s. He graduated in 1934.
"I was studying to be an English professor," Linkletter once said. "But as they say, life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
He held a series of radio and promotion jobs in California and Texas, experimenting with audience participation and remote broadcasts, before forming his own production company in the 1940s and striking it big with "People Are Funny" and "House Party."
Linkletter was born Arthur Gordon Kelly on July 17, 1912, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. His unwed mother put him up for adoption when he was a baby; when he was about 7, he and his adoptive parents moved to the U.S., eventually settling in San Diego.
He recalled his preacher-father forced him to take odd jobs to help the family. So Linkletter left and became a hobo, hopping trains across the West, working where he could. He recalled later that he felt the religious faith instilled by his father had been a great gift.
After leaving daily broadcasting in 1969, Linkletter continued to write, lecture and appear in television commercials.
Among his other books, were "Old Age is Not for Sissies," "How To Be a Supersalesman," "Confessions of a Happy Man," "Hobo on the Way to Heaven" and his autobiography, '`I Didn't Do It Alone."
A recording Linkletter made with his daughter Diane not long before she died, "We Love You, Call Collect," was issued after her death and won a Grammy award for best spoken word recording.
"Life is not fair ... not easy," Linkletter said in a 1990 interview by The Associated Press. "Outside, peer pressure can wreak havoc with the nicest families. So that's the part that's a gamble.
"But I'm an optimist. Even though I've had tragedies in my life, and I've seen a lot of difficult things, I still am an optimist," he said.
Linkletter had extensive business interests. He headed a company involved in real estate development and management and operation of cattle ranches in Montana, New Mexico and California. He held interests in oil and gas wells, owned livestock in Australia and was involved in a solar energy firm.
He is survived by his wife, Lois, whom he married in 1935, and daughters Dawn Griffin and Sharon Linkletter, as well as seven grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren.
I'd say he's getting the little angels in line for his newest program on heavenly television.
TV's 'People Are Funny' host Art Linkletter dies
AP – FILE - In this Oct. 4, 2009 file photo, television host Art Linkletter poses on the press line at the …
By LYNN ELBER, AP Entertainment Writer Lynn Elber, Ap Entertainment Writer – 45 mins ago
LOS ANGELES – Art Linkletter, whose "People Are Funny" and "House Party" shows entertained millions of TV viewers in the 1950s and '60s with the funny side of ordinary folks and who remained active as a writer and speaker through his ninth decade, died Wednesday. He was 97.
Linkletter died at his home in the Bel-Air section of Los Angeles, said his son-in-law, Art Hershey, the husband of Sharon Linkletter.
"He lived a long, full, pure life, and the Lord had need for him," Hershey said.
Linkletter had been ill "in the last few weeks time, but bear in mind he was 97 years old. He wasn't eating well, and the aging process took him," Hershey said.
Linkletter hadn't been diagnosed with any life-threatening disease, he said.
Linkletter was known on TV for his funny interviews with children and ordinary folks. He also collected their comments in a number of best-selling books.
"Art Linkletter's House Party," one of television's longest-running variety shows, debuted on radio in 1944 and was seen on CBS-TV from 1952 to 1969.
Though it had many features, the best known was the daily interviews with schoolchildren.
"On `House Party' I would talk to you and bring out the fact that you had been letting your boss beat you at golf over a period of months as part of your campaign to get a raise," Linkletter wrote.
"All the while, without your knowledge, your boss would be sitting a few feet away listening, and at the appropriate moment, I would bring you together," he said. "Now, that's funny, because the laugh arises out of a real situation."
Linkletter collected quotes from children into "Kids Say The Darndest Things," and it sold in the millions. The book "70 Years of Best Sellers 1895-1965" ranked "Kids Say the Darndest Things" as the 15th top seller among nonfiction books in that period.
The prime time "People Are Funny," which began on radio in 1942 and ran on TV from 1954 to 1961, emphasized slapstick humor and audience participation — things like throwing a pie in the face of a contestant who couldn't tell his Social Security number in five seconds, or asking him to go out and cash a check written on the side of a watermelon.
The down-to-earth charm of Linkletter's broadcast persona seemed to be mirrored by his private life with his wife of more than a half-century, Lois. They had five children, whom he wrote about in his books and called the "Links."
But in 1969, his 20-year-old daughter Diane jumped to her death from her sixth-floor Hollywood apartment. He blamed her death on LSD use, but toxicology tests found no LSD in her body after she died.
Still, the tragedy prompted Linkletter to become a crusader against drugs. A son, Robert, died in a car accident in 1980. Another son, Jack Linkletter, was 70 when he died of lymphoma in 2007.
Art Linkletter got his first taste of broadcasting with a part-time job while attending San Diego State College in the early 1930s. He graduated in 1934.
"I was studying to be an English professor," Linkletter once said. "But as they say, life is what happens to you while you're making other plans."
He held a series of radio and promotion jobs in California and Texas, experimenting with audience participation and remote broadcasts, before forming his own production company in the 1940s and striking it big with "People Are Funny" and "House Party."
Linkletter was born Arthur Gordon Kelly on July 17, 1912, in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. His unwed mother put him up for adoption when he was a baby; when he was about 7, he and his adoptive parents moved to the U.S., eventually settling in San Diego.
He recalled his preacher-father forced him to take odd jobs to help the family. So Linkletter left and became a hobo, hopping trains across the West, working where he could. He recalled later that he felt the religious faith instilled by his father had been a great gift.
After leaving daily broadcasting in 1969, Linkletter continued to write, lecture and appear in television commercials.
Among his other books, were "Old Age is Not for Sissies," "How To Be a Supersalesman," "Confessions of a Happy Man," "Hobo on the Way to Heaven" and his autobiography, '`I Didn't Do It Alone."
A recording Linkletter made with his daughter Diane not long before she died, "We Love You, Call Collect," was issued after her death and won a Grammy award for best spoken word recording.
"Life is not fair ... not easy," Linkletter said in a 1990 interview by The Associated Press. "Outside, peer pressure can wreak havoc with the nicest families. So that's the part that's a gamble.
"But I'm an optimist. Even though I've had tragedies in my life, and I've seen a lot of difficult things, I still am an optimist," he said.
Linkletter had extensive business interests. He headed a company involved in real estate development and management and operation of cattle ranches in Montana, New Mexico and California. He held interests in oil and gas wells, owned livestock in Australia and was involved in a solar energy firm.
He is survived by his wife, Lois, whom he married in 1935, and daughters Dawn Griffin and Sharon Linkletter, as well as seven grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren.
I'd say he's getting the little angels in line for his newest program on heavenly television.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My Mother's Influence
My mother’s contribution to my sense of humor is definitely her fault. I couldn’t help it if I got those genes. I even know why I’m so warped. My dad, who never finished high school, suddenly got the calling to be a pastor long before I was gleam in their eyes. They moved to Springfield, MO, for Dad to attend college. While there, my next oldest brother, Randy, was born and my father came down with a nasty case of hepatitis. http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/hepatitis.html
He was bad enough he had to be put in quarantine, which lasted about 24 hours before he got dressed and started walking down the hall toward home. The doctors, in their wisdom, saw things Dad’s way and sent him home with the promise not to go out in public. So, with Dad home, Doug was barely three, and a new one was coming, Mom threw up her hands (to stop trying to do something because it is too difficult.) and insisted they return to Michigcan. Moving back home was good because Doug had all kinds of family to play with. It was good for Mom because she could get more sleep. It was bad for Randy because he died from pneumonia. http://www.mychildhealth.net/all-about-pneumonia-in-children.html I came along less than a year later, which was good for me.
And how does that affect my sense of humor? I was warped from the very start. Someone was fooling around with someone else when I was conceived, and since I look like my father, sound like my mother, and have the worst of both their senses of humor, yous knows whats thats means. I’m okay with telling stories because of Dad. If you didn’t know him, you didn’t always know if he was joking or not. Mom can do that too, but not as convincingly as Dad could. Actually, I’m not good, I can be downright convincing. And the more I dislike a person, the better I can be, assuming those in the know can keep their faces straight. I remember I had one poor girl thinking that my youngest brother was having trouble but I wasn’t about to help him because I was tired of him. Just to let you know, I am the youngest child in my family.
One of the games that I like to play with Mom is based on words and how stupid but plausible definition we can give them. To wit: When I turned 40, Mom took me and a few of my colleagues out for lunch. While waiting for our meal, I turned to Mom and asked, “Mom, what’s sex?” The table went silent. Remember, these are all women I have worked with and they all know my sense of humor. Mom looked around the table and the faces my colleagues were making, then she looked at my grinning face and answered, “Shonda, I’ve told you a hundred times. Sex is the number after five.” We giggled, then looked at my colleagues who still looked a bit stunned, and then a couple giggled, and then they lost it. I had finally put to rest that “Yes, this really is how she talks to me.”
Just the other day I asked Mom the meaning of porn. She said it was the first two letters of “pop” and the last two of “corn.” It made sense to me. This is what some word play is like with my mother. We’ll use perfectly good words, but bend them to fit our need. If we saw a tiger, I would ask why it wasn’t a lion. Mom would say only if it was asleep would it be a lion. I would say that a lion is a falsehood while resting on your back. Mom might say that was a recline-on. It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Another word game we’ve used is when we’re struck in traffic and desperate for something to do. We’ll start making anagrams from license plates, signs, anything that’s hand. Given the sign “We Luv to Serv” I’d make the anagram “uv”; Mom, “vuw”; me, “swell”; Mom, “vesul”; me, “luser”; and so on. (In case you weren’t paying attention, I did use the semicolons correctly here.)
Do I blame my parents for my warped sense of humor? Damn right, I do. Do I wish I had something more sedate? Hell no.
You must understand a couple things. 1. I was born fat. It’s just a word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.
IT. JUST. A. WORD. But, the more you look at it as a way of life, the more miserable you become. I have lived long enough being miserable, and I refuse to live that way anymore.
2. Because your society is soooooooooooooooooooo hung up by the word FAT, we forget to see the person below the flab. And, like most people with problems, we don’t forgive them their faults until they accept themselves for what they are.
Case in point: In August of 2002, I was lying in my motel bed, which on vacation, thinking about why my left shoulder and arm hurt like they were on fire. When I finally admitted I need to go to the hospital, I told my companion (Joyce) and also my colleague, that we need to go to a hospital, she said fine. I stood up to get dressed and found I couldn’t breathe, so I laid down and said we needed an ambulance. To cut it short, I went in early Friday morning and got out Tuesday morning after having had angioplasty, and with a lot of drugs including something for angina, depression, high blood pressure, and hi triglycerides. I was 41. Talk about a messed up life.
This is why I laugh. This is why I must laugh. I cannot let something simple like a bum ticker and diabetes rule my life. I refuse. Therefore, I laugh. Relapses? Not yet. Although Dr. Brill, the cardiologist, says it’s nice to see me in the office at least once a year since I refuse to go twice a year and hear him say I’m fine and come back in six months. I am not made of money, thank you. Anyone have a legal recipe for a money tree?
He was bad enough he had to be put in quarantine, which lasted about 24 hours before he got dressed and started walking down the hall toward home. The doctors, in their wisdom, saw things Dad’s way and sent him home with the promise not to go out in public. So, with Dad home, Doug was barely three, and a new one was coming, Mom threw up her hands (to stop trying to do something because it is too difficult.) and insisted they return to Michigcan. Moving back home was good because Doug had all kinds of family to play with. It was good for Mom because she could get more sleep. It was bad for Randy because he died from pneumonia. http://www.mychildhealth.net/all-about-pneumonia-in-children.html I came along less than a year later, which was good for me.
And how does that affect my sense of humor? I was warped from the very start. Someone was fooling around with someone else when I was conceived, and since I look like my father, sound like my mother, and have the worst of both their senses of humor, yous knows whats thats means. I’m okay with telling stories because of Dad. If you didn’t know him, you didn’t always know if he was joking or not. Mom can do that too, but not as convincingly as Dad could. Actually, I’m not good, I can be downright convincing. And the more I dislike a person, the better I can be, assuming those in the know can keep their faces straight. I remember I had one poor girl thinking that my youngest brother was having trouble but I wasn’t about to help him because I was tired of him. Just to let you know, I am the youngest child in my family.
One of the games that I like to play with Mom is based on words and how stupid but plausible definition we can give them. To wit: When I turned 40, Mom took me and a few of my colleagues out for lunch. While waiting for our meal, I turned to Mom and asked, “Mom, what’s sex?” The table went silent. Remember, these are all women I have worked with and they all know my sense of humor. Mom looked around the table and the faces my colleagues were making, then she looked at my grinning face and answered, “Shonda, I’ve told you a hundred times. Sex is the number after five.” We giggled, then looked at my colleagues who still looked a bit stunned, and then a couple giggled, and then they lost it. I had finally put to rest that “Yes, this really is how she talks to me.”
Just the other day I asked Mom the meaning of porn. She said it was the first two letters of “pop” and the last two of “corn.” It made sense to me. This is what some word play is like with my mother. We’ll use perfectly good words, but bend them to fit our need. If we saw a tiger, I would ask why it wasn’t a lion. Mom would say only if it was asleep would it be a lion. I would say that a lion is a falsehood while resting on your back. Mom might say that was a recline-on. It pretty much goes downhill from there.
Another word game we’ve used is when we’re struck in traffic and desperate for something to do. We’ll start making anagrams from license plates, signs, anything that’s hand. Given the sign “We Luv to Serv” I’d make the anagram “uv”; Mom, “vuw”; me, “swell”; Mom, “vesul”; me, “luser”; and so on. (In case you weren’t paying attention, I did use the semicolons correctly here.)
Do I blame my parents for my warped sense of humor? Damn right, I do. Do I wish I had something more sedate? Hell no.
You must understand a couple things. 1. I was born fat. It’s just a word. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.
IT. JUST. A. WORD. But, the more you look at it as a way of life, the more miserable you become. I have lived long enough being miserable, and I refuse to live that way anymore.
2. Because your society is soooooooooooooooooooo hung up by the word FAT, we forget to see the person below the flab. And, like most people with problems, we don’t forgive them their faults until they accept themselves for what they are.
Case in point: In August of 2002, I was lying in my motel bed, which on vacation, thinking about why my left shoulder and arm hurt like they were on fire. When I finally admitted I need to go to the hospital, I told my companion (Joyce) and also my colleague, that we need to go to a hospital, she said fine. I stood up to get dressed and found I couldn’t breathe, so I laid down and said we needed an ambulance. To cut it short, I went in early Friday morning and got out Tuesday morning after having had angioplasty, and with a lot of drugs including something for angina, depression, high blood pressure, and hi triglycerides. I was 41. Talk about a messed up life.
This is why I laugh. This is why I must laugh. I cannot let something simple like a bum ticker and diabetes rule my life. I refuse. Therefore, I laugh. Relapses? Not yet. Although Dr. Brill, the cardiologist, says it’s nice to see me in the office at least once a year since I refuse to go twice a year and hear him say I’m fine and come back in six months. I am not made of money, thank you. Anyone have a legal recipe for a money tree?
Friday, May 21, 2010
I Was A Television Remote Control
I was born near the tail end of the era of the “Baby Boomers.” Life was practically idyllic then. There were only three networks; four, if you lived close to Canada; five, if you were close enough to the Channel 50 broadcast tower. We could go outside and play, confident that we would be safe roaming the streets all hours of the day and night. American Graffiti was a way of life, not a movie. It was also a time for new wonders. The greatest, of course, was the invention of the television remote control. (www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/remotectl.htm).
What made the remote so great? The freedom it represented. No more did Dad or the kids have get out of their chairs to change channels or turn up the volume or turn the damn thing on or off. If he was comfortable, having a remote meant he didn’t have to endanger his peaceful existence of pizza on his lap, a beer on the side table, chips at his left elbow, and his right arm and hand free to wallop any child who would dare to interrupt Dad while he spent quality time with his favorite sports team.
Not everyone could afford a remote control television, or were too cheap to buy something you didn’t need, not when you had kids: thus, my place in life. I was one of “those” kids. Being the youngest of two children, it was my job to let my brother tell me what to do with the television controls. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Doug does all the talking.
Change it.
Change it.
Wait.
Change it.
Go back.
Change it.
Turn it up a little.
Go back one more.
Seen it.
Change it.
Change it.
WAIT!
Seen it.
Change it.
Etc.
Sometimes just to be mean or rude or both, Doug would make me stand there by the t.v. for eons—maybe ten minutes or until Mom got tired of listening to me whine about wanting to watch t.v. too. Worse yet, if I complained too much, Mom would punish both of us for “fighting.” I was not “fighting,” thank you. I was whining. There’s a big difference. When we were both punished, sent to our rooms for a couple hours, Doug would administer his own form of justice, a punch in the arm for being such a baby and wouldn’t shut up like he said.( http://www.preventchildabuse.org/index.shtml We get along a whole lot better now.)
For some reason, I didn’t mind being a human remote control for my father—probably because I worshiped the ground he walked on. My father. Oh, my father. Dad was 6’6” tall and was covered with fur (hair). When Mom trimmed his hair, she had to trim his eyebrows too. He had to shave twice a day, sometimes three. He wore a size 15 shoe. My father was also one of the most gentle men I have had the privilege of knowing. I was also fortunate because my father was a commercial printer and worked at home in his print shop. Dad worked long and hard at his caft. Thus, when it was the end of the day and he was tired, changing the channel for him was th elast I could do t make him happy.
(www.printingmuseum.org.au/Equipment.htm). [FYI: I know how to run about half the machinary found at the Web site. Running a linotype is not easy, even if you are just hitting the correct letters in order to cast a line in lead. Of all the machinary shown, I was never allowed to use the smelter when it came time to make new pegs.)
Okay. Fine. I whined about changing the channel for him, too, but as long or as annoying as I did with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Dad did most of the talking, but sometimes he asked what I thought about a program.
What channel is that?
Turn it, please.
Shonda.
Shoooooooooon-duhhhhhhhhhh!
Hey! I’m talking to you.
Yes, I can see it’s Barbie.
Now change the channel.
Shonda.
Shonda!
SHONDA!
Will you please change the channel?
Thank you.
Turn it down now.
No. We are not going to watch the Brady Bunch.
Why are you crying?
You want to see Marcia get hit by the football? (http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/)
Fine.
Whatever.
Bev! (my mother) Where’s the Journal?
Not all sessions went like that with Dad. There were some days I didn’t mind rotating the channel selector time after time after time after time after time. At least when I whined with my dad and my mother couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d let Dad handle the punishment. Most of the time he made me change the channel and tell me to “shut up.” And don’t think that he said “shut up” in a mean and nasty way. It came out more as a mild rebuke, like we were both in the secret that Dad had done as Mom the Shrew had insisted. (Even I knew my father loved me more than my mother because my mother was always bossing him around and he hated that kind of thing. But that's another soon-to-come blog entry.)
Besides changing the channel, I also learned the secrets of the vertical and horizontal holds. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, get back into your time machine and check out the late 60s at any store that sells televisions. I can’t say that I was the best “keeper of the holds,” but I got to do the job a lot, especially with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Doug did all the talking.
It’s skipping now.
I can’t see it very good.
You must have changed the resolution thingy again.
Go back to what you had a minute ago.
Can’t you do anything right?
Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Dad did the talking.
Shonda, Go fix the t.v.
Put your Barbies down and come help Daddy.
No, Barbie doesn’t want to live in the television.
No, Francie doesn’t want to be on t.v.
Shonda, please fix the television for Daddy.
Yes, that’s better.
Shonda, if you put Barbie (http://www.barbiecollector.com/) down you won’t get another shock like that again.
Sweetheart, if Barbie gets too close to some parts of the t.v., she’s going to melt and then Ken won’t have a date for the wedding.
Thank you, Shonda.
Now go play.
Take Barbie with you.
No. I don’t think Ken would really like to wear Barbie’s wedding gown. Because it won’t fit him.
Honey, Ken is a boy and boys don’t wear dresses.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Breeching_(boys))
(http://www.manbehindthedoll.com/)
What?
Yes, Jesus wore what looks like a dress, but it’s not really a dress.
You’ll understand when you get older.
Now go play.
Did we ever switch to a real remote control for the t.v? We sure did—about the time I started taking classes at Mott.
What made the remote so great? The freedom it represented. No more did Dad or the kids have get out of their chairs to change channels or turn up the volume or turn the damn thing on or off. If he was comfortable, having a remote meant he didn’t have to endanger his peaceful existence of pizza on his lap, a beer on the side table, chips at his left elbow, and his right arm and hand free to wallop any child who would dare to interrupt Dad while he spent quality time with his favorite sports team.
Not everyone could afford a remote control television, or were too cheap to buy something you didn’t need, not when you had kids: thus, my place in life. I was one of “those” kids. Being the youngest of two children, it was my job to let my brother tell me what to do with the television controls. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Doug does all the talking.
Change it.
Change it.
Wait.
Change it.
Go back.
Change it.
Turn it up a little.
Go back one more.
Seen it.
Change it.
Change it.
WAIT!
Seen it.
Change it.
Etc.
Sometimes just to be mean or rude or both, Doug would make me stand there by the t.v. for eons—maybe ten minutes or until Mom got tired of listening to me whine about wanting to watch t.v. too. Worse yet, if I complained too much, Mom would punish both of us for “fighting.” I was not “fighting,” thank you. I was whining. There’s a big difference. When we were both punished, sent to our rooms for a couple hours, Doug would administer his own form of justice, a punch in the arm for being such a baby and wouldn’t shut up like he said.( http://www.preventchildabuse.org/index.shtml We get along a whole lot better now.)
For some reason, I didn’t mind being a human remote control for my father—probably because I worshiped the ground he walked on. My father. Oh, my father. Dad was 6’6” tall and was covered with fur (hair). When Mom trimmed his hair, she had to trim his eyebrows too. He had to shave twice a day, sometimes three. He wore a size 15 shoe. My father was also one of the most gentle men I have had the privilege of knowing. I was also fortunate because my father was a commercial printer and worked at home in his print shop. Dad worked long and hard at his caft. Thus, when it was the end of the day and he was tired, changing the channel for him was th elast I could do t make him happy.
(www.printingmuseum.org.au/Equipment.htm). [FYI: I know how to run about half the machinary found at the Web site. Running a linotype is not easy, even if you are just hitting the correct letters in order to cast a line in lead. Of all the machinary shown, I was never allowed to use the smelter when it came time to make new pegs.)
Okay. Fine. I whined about changing the channel for him, too, but as long or as annoying as I did with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation. Dad did most of the talking, but sometimes he asked what I thought about a program.
What channel is that?
Turn it, please.
Shonda.
Shoooooooooon-duhhhhhhhhhh!
Hey! I’m talking to you.
Yes, I can see it’s Barbie.
Now change the channel.
Shonda.
Shonda!
SHONDA!
Will you please change the channel?
Thank you.
Turn it down now.
No. We are not going to watch the Brady Bunch.
Why are you crying?
You want to see Marcia get hit by the football? (http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/)
Fine.
Whatever.
Bev! (my mother) Where’s the Journal?
Not all sessions went like that with Dad. There were some days I didn’t mind rotating the channel selector time after time after time after time after time. At least when I whined with my dad and my mother couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d let Dad handle the punishment. Most of the time he made me change the channel and tell me to “shut up.” And don’t think that he said “shut up” in a mean and nasty way. It came out more as a mild rebuke, like we were both in the secret that Dad had done as Mom the Shrew had insisted. (Even I knew my father loved me more than my mother because my mother was always bossing him around and he hated that kind of thing. But that's another soon-to-come blog entry.)
Besides changing the channel, I also learned the secrets of the vertical and horizontal holds. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, get back into your time machine and check out the late 60s at any store that sells televisions. I can’t say that I was the best “keeper of the holds,” but I got to do the job a lot, especially with my brother. Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Doug did all the talking.
It’s skipping now.
I can’t see it very good.
You must have changed the resolution thingy again.
Go back to what you had a minute ago.
Can’t you do anything right?
Here’s a fairly typical command situation when Dad did the talking.
Shonda, Go fix the t.v.
Put your Barbies down and come help Daddy.
No, Barbie doesn’t want to live in the television.
No, Francie doesn’t want to be on t.v.
Shonda, please fix the television for Daddy.
Yes, that’s better.
Shonda, if you put Barbie (http://www.barbiecollector.com/) down you won’t get another shock like that again.
Sweetheart, if Barbie gets too close to some parts of the t.v., she’s going to melt and then Ken won’t have a date for the wedding.
Thank you, Shonda.
Now go play.
Take Barbie with you.
No. I don’t think Ken would really like to wear Barbie’s wedding gown. Because it won’t fit him.
Honey, Ken is a boy and boys don’t wear dresses.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talk:Breeching_(boys))
(http://www.manbehindthedoll.com/)
What?
Yes, Jesus wore what looks like a dress, but it’s not really a dress.
You’ll understand when you get older.
Now go play.
Did we ever switch to a real remote control for the t.v? We sure did—about the time I started taking classes at Mott.
Monday, May 17, 2010
How my Father Influenced my Sense of Humor
My mom’s youngest brother lived with us for a couple years in the middle 1970s. He got a job at the local Vlasic Pickle Plant in Imlay City. Like many in his family, Don was partially deaf, and while he could hear okay, he didn’t hear high-pitched sounds a whole lot.
One Sunday night, Dad took the phone off the hook and went to Don’s room, saying he had a phone call. We could hear what Dad said because Dad made sure we could. As Don walked through to the living room, I had a hard time keeping my face straight because I knew what Dad was doing.
Don picked up the phone, said hello a couple times, then hung up. He just looked confused and said that who ever it was must have hung up. No one laughed at that moment, but Mom did the leave the room pretty quick.
Twenty years later, I was living with my best friend in Columbiaville. She had three sons and son number two, Roy, and his fiancée, Kristen, came back to Michigan from California to spend Christmas with us and her parents. On a dull afternoon, Kristen was reading while I was channel surfing. If you haven’t already guessed it…
I got Kristen’s attention and told her that Roy was calling for her. He and his mom, Joan, were in the office/bedroom working on the computer. Roy is a electrical engineer or something like that and he fixed the computer problems when he came to town. Anyway, Kristen put down her book and then trotted across the house to the bedroom. About ten minutes later she returned and said that I must have misheard Roy because he hadn’t been calling for her.
A few minutes after she was again engrossed in her book, I told Kristen that Roy was calling for her. She put down the book and stood up, stopped, and then looked at me with a curious stare. She said, “Did Roy really call me?” I told the truth and said no, to which she sat down, said something about idiots, and continued to ignore me the rest of the day.
My father never pulled a prank that would endanger or hurt someone. If he did do something, it was always to have some fun and he didn’t mind it if he was found out or that he made a fool of himself for having tried. I am the same way. I will not humiliate anyone in public on purpose. Nor will I say the obvious, even if I know that person will not hear. It doesn’t matter. The news will get back to that person regardless. I don’t care if I look like a fool if the participants understand that I am not out to get them. Thus, I don’t pull pranks on anyone I know, and very seldom on people I do know.
Like Dad, I am more inclined to the gentle art of humor. If I look like a fool, then I look like a fool. But more important, was it funny or at least humorous?
One Sunday night, Dad took the phone off the hook and went to Don’s room, saying he had a phone call. We could hear what Dad said because Dad made sure we could. As Don walked through to the living room, I had a hard time keeping my face straight because I knew what Dad was doing.
Don picked up the phone, said hello a couple times, then hung up. He just looked confused and said that who ever it was must have hung up. No one laughed at that moment, but Mom did the leave the room pretty quick.
Twenty years later, I was living with my best friend in Columbiaville. She had three sons and son number two, Roy, and his fiancée, Kristen, came back to Michigan from California to spend Christmas with us and her parents. On a dull afternoon, Kristen was reading while I was channel surfing. If you haven’t already guessed it…
I got Kristen’s attention and told her that Roy was calling for her. He and his mom, Joan, were in the office/bedroom working on the computer. Roy is a electrical engineer or something like that and he fixed the computer problems when he came to town. Anyway, Kristen put down her book and then trotted across the house to the bedroom. About ten minutes later she returned and said that I must have misheard Roy because he hadn’t been calling for her.
A few minutes after she was again engrossed in her book, I told Kristen that Roy was calling for her. She put down the book and stood up, stopped, and then looked at me with a curious stare. She said, “Did Roy really call me?” I told the truth and said no, to which she sat down, said something about idiots, and continued to ignore me the rest of the day.
My father never pulled a prank that would endanger or hurt someone. If he did do something, it was always to have some fun and he didn’t mind it if he was found out or that he made a fool of himself for having tried. I am the same way. I will not humiliate anyone in public on purpose. Nor will I say the obvious, even if I know that person will not hear. It doesn’t matter. The news will get back to that person regardless. I don’t care if I look like a fool if the participants understand that I am not out to get them. Thus, I don’t pull pranks on anyone I know, and very seldom on people I do know.
Like Dad, I am more inclined to the gentle art of humor. If I look like a fool, then I look like a fool. But more important, was it funny or at least humorous?
Friday, May 14, 2010
I'm laughing my way through the semester
I will be blogging about my sense of humor. It’s a good topic and there is much in my life that will definitely be good fodder.
I have a dry sense of humor and, fortunately or unfortunately, it’s genetic. My mother’s side of the family is loud and laughs at just about anything. Unfortunately, they laugh just as much to the funny stuff as they do the malicious stuff. I really that. I was a very sensitive kid and I didn’t need the added pressure of performing well in front of my mother’s family when I could barely walk across the room without tripping on something, mostly my feet. My father’s side makes much the same jokes and comments, but it’s never meant to hurt just because the opportunity arose. I like that side of the family better.
So I’m stuck with this sense of humor and I try to use it as much as possible without hurting anyone on purpose. I do this by observation and then making low key comments. For example, my mother once went to Maine with two of her sisters-in-law, Virginia and Loraine, and Cousin Doris to visit with a third in-law, Janet. The “girls,” none of them less than 60, spent time doing Maine-like stuff. One of their outings was to pick blueberries.
In Maine, the bushes are low to the ground, looking more like moss than bushes. One of those cranberry commercials that touts the greatness of blueberries and the pitchmen are in a blueberry orchard, they ain’t in Maine. In order to pick blueberries in Maine, you have to bend low to the ground and use a tissue-sized box to sweep the blueberries into it. There is no standing up and picking them one by one.
Anyway, while the “girls” were picking their blueberries, Mom took a picture of the four other ladies as they bent over to scoop. When I saw the picture, I pointed at each butt pointed toward the camera and said, “That’s Virginia, Loraine, Janet, which makes that Doris.” I am not kidding you. You could tell by their who was who. I didn’t have to say anything more about the picture because my mother just shook her head, although she was agreeing with me.
And that’s just the Stimer side.
Well, that's just one example of what I can write about. If you have any special requests, I just might have a story to cover that topic.
I have a dry sense of humor and, fortunately or unfortunately, it’s genetic. My mother’s side of the family is loud and laughs at just about anything. Unfortunately, they laugh just as much to the funny stuff as they do the malicious stuff. I really that. I was a very sensitive kid and I didn’t need the added pressure of performing well in front of my mother’s family when I could barely walk across the room without tripping on something, mostly my feet. My father’s side makes much the same jokes and comments, but it’s never meant to hurt just because the opportunity arose. I like that side of the family better.
So I’m stuck with this sense of humor and I try to use it as much as possible without hurting anyone on purpose. I do this by observation and then making low key comments. For example, my mother once went to Maine with two of her sisters-in-law, Virginia and Loraine, and Cousin Doris to visit with a third in-law, Janet. The “girls,” none of them less than 60, spent time doing Maine-like stuff. One of their outings was to pick blueberries.
In Maine, the bushes are low to the ground, looking more like moss than bushes. One of those cranberry commercials that touts the greatness of blueberries and the pitchmen are in a blueberry orchard, they ain’t in Maine. In order to pick blueberries in Maine, you have to bend low to the ground and use a tissue-sized box to sweep the blueberries into it. There is no standing up and picking them one by one.
Anyway, while the “girls” were picking their blueberries, Mom took a picture of the four other ladies as they bent over to scoop. When I saw the picture, I pointed at each butt pointed toward the camera and said, “That’s Virginia, Loraine, Janet, which makes that Doris.” I am not kidding you. You could tell by their who was who. I didn’t have to say anything more about the picture because my mother just shook her head, although she was agreeing with me.
And that’s just the Stimer side.
Well, that's just one example of what I can write about. If you have any special requests, I just might have a story to cover that topic.
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