President Obama is very concerned about women.
Especially Julia.
The news has been talking about the character created by the Obama campaign named "Julia" and how her life has been made into a fairytale thanks to Obama's decisions as President. After days of hearing this little spiel I decided to check it out.
I am not a political pundent, economist or analyist but here is what I have to say about Julia. As a heads up, Julia, please don't take any offense to my observations. Nothing against you.
To start, Julia goes to a headstart program as a little 3 year old. Aww, Julia is so cute. I can see her with bows in her hair and a book in hand. She is probably reading "I Am a Bunny." Julia has good taste and enjoys the classics (book choice mine).
Next, she is 17 and she gets SAT help.
Wait a second. What just happened to the past 14 years? Julia never learned how to multiply. How in the world will she succeed on the SATs? No one helped her take her PSSAs in eighth grade. What about her first cell phone? They didn't mention that. Julia is very behind.
And now they are going to send her to college. This could be disastrous.
Then she has surgery and Obama can take credit for that now, too. At least that's what he says. He let her stay on her parents insurance. Gee, thanks. You let her parents pay for her. What a swell guy you are! You let people pay for something. You shouldn't have.
When Julia is 23 she is thankful for the Equal Pay Act. Obama forgot to mention that he found her a job. Is that a given? I think you have to have a job to have any pay. Equal or unequal. Maybe someone should tell Obama.
Now that Julia is done with college she only has to pay back $230,000,000 instead of $320,000,000 on her student loans. He forgot to tell us who paid the rest. I'm sure he'll get around to that late, right?
When Julia is 27 she is a working gal, enjoying the benefits of birth control so she can focus on her career. Thank goodness. She can have sex without worrying about the consequences of her actions. Great.
At age 31 Julia decides its time to bring a child into the world. Obama was just waiting for this day. Oh, how happy he is to pay for this new bundle of joy!
When Julia's son needs to go to school Obama is going to help him out, too. Someone should really send Obama a thank you card for all of this.
But I've been thinking, they forgot to include the slide where Obama finds Julia a husband. She needs Prince Charming, ya know? Match.com ain't free. Those 20% promotional codes only get you so far. Obama needs to add a Match.com slide. eHarmony has good results, too, I hear. He should cover both. This will enhance democracy. The people can choose their dating website. This is only fair. If he is going to get us a career and a kid he better get us a man to help out. Lets get real here - children can be a handful. In fact, throw in a nanny, too. Julia is working for goodness sake! How do you expect her to be there when little Zachary gets off the bus when she has to pay back those "modest" school loans?
And the house is a mess. Well, what did you expect? Julia gets home from work, gets dinner on the table, helps Zachary with his homework and gets him ready for bed. How would she possibly have time to scrub the floors and dust the furniture. She needs a maid. Chop, chop, Obama. I hear the Merry Maids really make a home sparkle. But check Angie's List first. I'm sure Obama would have thought of that already.
Now, Julia is 42 and she is starting her own business. Talk about time consuming! Thank goodness for the maid and nanny.
Watch out, big jump ahead: now she is 65. What happened to the business? Obama gave her money to start it but that was just to get it off the ground. Everyone knows it takes at least 3 years to establish a solid business. Did her business succeed? Did Obama help her run the books in the wee-hours of the night and build a clientele?
Clearly, there are some gaps in his presentation.
At age 67 Julia gets a check in the mail every month. This will come from Social Security. It says that she paid in her whole life and now she will get it back. That was nice of Obama to keep a piggy bank for Julia. It is so tempting to break it open when it is sitting at home on the shelf.
And so concludes the Life of Julia.
But I am perplexed. Did she die at age 68? Who paid for her funeral? Burial plots are no cheap date. Did he pay for that, too? I sure hope so because what a burden that would be on Zachary. Since he doesn't have a Dad or any siblings he would have to pay for it himself.
Maybe I should write Obama a letter. There are a few flaws in his fictional fairytale.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Graduation Day
Today is a special day for the Geneva College class of 2012.
Today is graduation day.
Today is the day that true adulthood begins and the protective bubble of college life comes to a close. It is the next step towards independence. It is scary and exciting all in the same breath.
Some graduates will go on to graduate school - prolonging the inevitable self-reliance that makes even the most self-assured shake in their boots - and others will strike out in the job market while still others will move back in with Mom and Dad.
I should be excited for the grads. They accomplished something great! Four years of studying and focusing toward a goal has paid off for them. They have a diploma. They have achieved what they set their minds to.
But, even though I know I should be congratulatory, I feel melancholy. I was the Geneva College class of 2012. I went to Freshman orientation, studied for tests in the student union, lived in the college dorms and trudged through blizzards in the dead of winter to make it to class on time. For two years I was right there with them, pushing forward to this very day.
Then I left.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change the course my life has taken. Leaving Geneva was the right move for me and I don't regret it. Yet, I feel a tinge of sorrow when I think about the goal that I didn't achieve and the degree that hangs in the balance, unfinished.
At some point everyone will look back on a something in their life and wonder what could have been had a decision been made differently. What would have happened if I would have never left Geneva? Would I be standing on that stage with my classmates in a cap and gown receiving a diploma with my name on it? But, if I didn't leave for my health and for a engagement ended, would something else have deterred me from ever completing my education?
That is the thing about our choices, second guessing them does no good. We are all stuck living with the turns in the road we made. Looking back and pondering the other direction is only conjecture.
Robert Frost put it better than I ever could....
Poetry has never been my forte. In elementary school I remember an assignment where we had to write our own poem. Immediately I was overwhelmed. I had no idea where to begin. The work that followed was embarrassing to say the least. Some students proudly read their poems aloud. With palms sweating, I prayed the teacher wouldn't decide to randomly call on me. Funny, I don't remember if she did or not. But I do remember that feeling of inadequacy and incompetence. Sometimes it is our deepest emotions that stick with us the most, not the circumstance's outcome.
But there is something about this poem that makes me love poetry. Maybe because Robert Frost puts into the words a beautiful sentiment that is true of anyone who has ever made a decision that looked unconventional. Going to college after high school is the expectation in today's society. If you don't go to college you are a bum or a slacker or both plus lazy. If you drop out of college you are a bum, slacker, lazy and a failure. Yay for the drop outs!
Listen to society and your self-esteem can take a real blow.
Listen to Robert Frost and you can see the beauty in veering down the less taken path. So many people might leave college vowing to return - just taking a "gap year" to explore the world and know thyself better. But of course, they say, they will return. I know this reasoning well.
Why must we commit to getting back on the road we left? Why make such a decision without finding out where that less traveled road leads first?
I thought I was taking a gap year too and I said I would return to school. Now, I'm not so sure. This road has had so many more turns and curves then I ever imagined. It looked quite clear cut and well groomed in the beginning but, as the forest deepened, the trail became much more twisted then I ever imaged.
So time to be honest: I may never return to that original path. I may never walk onto a platform in a cap and gown. I say this with a sigh and a faint hint of regret. But the path I'm on is leading to another path. Truth be told, I don't even know if I could get back to that original road even if I tried.
But let me reassure you that this path is making all the difference for me. It is growing me and teaching me in ways no classroom ever could. Literature and philosophy aren't being learned from a textbook. They are learned from the daily interaction with the buzzing and bustling world. There are no written tests with a sixty minute time limit. Each moment is a test. Will I walk in obedience to God in the mundane moments and in the midst of trials? This curriculum isn't found in any course catalog.
For some, graduation day is the path they are meant to take. Others are called to travel another road.
And that makes all the difference.
Today is graduation day.
Today is the day that true adulthood begins and the protective bubble of college life comes to a close. It is the next step towards independence. It is scary and exciting all in the same breath.
Some graduates will go on to graduate school - prolonging the inevitable self-reliance that makes even the most self-assured shake in their boots - and others will strike out in the job market while still others will move back in with Mom and Dad.
I should be excited for the grads. They accomplished something great! Four years of studying and focusing toward a goal has paid off for them. They have a diploma. They have achieved what they set their minds to.
But, even though I know I should be congratulatory, I feel melancholy. I was the Geneva College class of 2012. I went to Freshman orientation, studied for tests in the student union, lived in the college dorms and trudged through blizzards in the dead of winter to make it to class on time. For two years I was right there with them, pushing forward to this very day.
Then I left.
Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change the course my life has taken. Leaving Geneva was the right move for me and I don't regret it. Yet, I feel a tinge of sorrow when I think about the goal that I didn't achieve and the degree that hangs in the balance, unfinished.
At some point everyone will look back on a something in their life and wonder what could have been had a decision been made differently. What would have happened if I would have never left Geneva? Would I be standing on that stage with my classmates in a cap and gown receiving a diploma with my name on it? But, if I didn't leave for my health and for a engagement ended, would something else have deterred me from ever completing my education?
That is the thing about our choices, second guessing them does no good. We are all stuck living with the turns in the road we made. Looking back and pondering the other direction is only conjecture.
Robert Frost put it better than I ever could....
| TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, | |
| And sorry I could not travel both | |
| And be one traveler, long I stood | |
| And looked down one as far as I could | |
| To where it bent in the undergrowth; | 5 |
| Then took the other, as just as fair, | |
| And having perhaps the better claim, | |
| Because it was grassy and wanted wear; | |
| Though as for that the passing there | |
| Had worn them really about the same, | 10 |
| And both that morning equally lay | |
| In leaves no step had trodden black. | |
| Oh, I kept the first for another day! | |
| Yet knowing how way leads on to way, | |
| I doubted if I should ever come back. | 15 |
| I shall be telling this with a sigh | |
| Somewhere ages and ages hence: | |
| Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— | |
| I took the one less traveled by, | |
| And that has made all the difference. |
Poetry has never been my forte. In elementary school I remember an assignment where we had to write our own poem. Immediately I was overwhelmed. I had no idea where to begin. The work that followed was embarrassing to say the least. Some students proudly read their poems aloud. With palms sweating, I prayed the teacher wouldn't decide to randomly call on me. Funny, I don't remember if she did or not. But I do remember that feeling of inadequacy and incompetence. Sometimes it is our deepest emotions that stick with us the most, not the circumstance's outcome.
But there is something about this poem that makes me love poetry. Maybe because Robert Frost puts into the words a beautiful sentiment that is true of anyone who has ever made a decision that looked unconventional. Going to college after high school is the expectation in today's society. If you don't go to college you are a bum or a slacker or both plus lazy. If you drop out of college you are a bum, slacker, lazy and a failure. Yay for the drop outs!
Listen to society and your self-esteem can take a real blow.
Listen to Robert Frost and you can see the beauty in veering down the less taken path. So many people might leave college vowing to return - just taking a "gap year" to explore the world and know thyself better. But of course, they say, they will return. I know this reasoning well.
Why must we commit to getting back on the road we left? Why make such a decision without finding out where that less traveled road leads first?
I thought I was taking a gap year too and I said I would return to school. Now, I'm not so sure. This road has had so many more turns and curves then I ever imagined. It looked quite clear cut and well groomed in the beginning but, as the forest deepened, the trail became much more twisted then I ever imaged.
So time to be honest: I may never return to that original path. I may never walk onto a platform in a cap and gown. I say this with a sigh and a faint hint of regret. But the path I'm on is leading to another path. Truth be told, I don't even know if I could get back to that original road even if I tried.
But let me reassure you that this path is making all the difference for me. It is growing me and teaching me in ways no classroom ever could. Literature and philosophy aren't being learned from a textbook. They are learned from the daily interaction with the buzzing and bustling world. There are no written tests with a sixty minute time limit. Each moment is a test. Will I walk in obedience to God in the mundane moments and in the midst of trials? This curriculum isn't found in any course catalog.
For some, graduation day is the path they are meant to take. Others are called to travel another road.
And that makes all the difference.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Good Morning
The cock crows as the sun begins to rise. This is common knowledge, even to those of us who haven't lived on a farm. I learned of the rooster's habits from Babe the Pig. This is also where I learned that ducks will pose as roosters to avoid becoming dinner. But the plight of Ferdinand the duck is beside the point.
The point is that I didn't have to move to a farm to have an animal AM wake up call. The rooster may wake at the crack of dawn, but my alarm doesn't even wait for the first sign of sun light.
This morning I laid in my bed with the windows wide open. Although the days are plagued by sweltering heat here in Florida, the nights are perfect with a breeze flowing pleasantly through the windows. That is how I prefer to sleep. It makes me feel at one with nature - especially this morning.
At 5:58 AM furious scurrying began. First I thought it might be Pippy. So I glanced over in her direction, but she was asleep on her blanket. So, I lifted the blinds and peered outside.
Sure enough, the bushes were alive. They shock, rattled and rolled. Whatever was in them was quite busy.
For a moment I was a little nervous. What if it was an alligator? And God forbid it be a rat! I'd rather live in ignorant bliss as to the physical particulars of a rat. What I have seen on TV and movies is enough to suffice my curiosity. After a minute or two my neighbor emerged.
An armadillo.
His hard shell and long snout were my first indicators as to his identity. Lets just say that I know my armadillo. Thank you tenth grade biology project. The way this little creature scooted about was a dead give way.
I named him Louie. He was certainly French. I could tell this immediately. I imagine him to be quite the chef. In fact, I believe he was collecting plants for one of his latest creations. My bushes are his farmers market. I might be more annoyed by his early morning browsing but I understand the love of fresh produce to much to deny Louie his thrill of the hunt. Just this morning I took my time in picking out the prettiest radishes and perfectly formed sweet potatoes at my own farmers market. So, who am I to deny this pleasure to my armadillo neighbor?
Eat your heart out, Louise. And do come again. The corn is going to be a beauty this year! You won't want to miss it.
The point is that I didn't have to move to a farm to have an animal AM wake up call. The rooster may wake at the crack of dawn, but my alarm doesn't even wait for the first sign of sun light.
This morning I laid in my bed with the windows wide open. Although the days are plagued by sweltering heat here in Florida, the nights are perfect with a breeze flowing pleasantly through the windows. That is how I prefer to sleep. It makes me feel at one with nature - especially this morning.
At 5:58 AM furious scurrying began. First I thought it might be Pippy. So I glanced over in her direction, but she was asleep on her blanket. So, I lifted the blinds and peered outside.
Sure enough, the bushes were alive. They shock, rattled and rolled. Whatever was in them was quite busy.
For a moment I was a little nervous. What if it was an alligator? And God forbid it be a rat! I'd rather live in ignorant bliss as to the physical particulars of a rat. What I have seen on TV and movies is enough to suffice my curiosity. After a minute or two my neighbor emerged.
An armadillo.
His hard shell and long snout were my first indicators as to his identity. Lets just say that I know my armadillo. Thank you tenth grade biology project. The way this little creature scooted about was a dead give way.
I named him Louie. He was certainly French. I could tell this immediately. I imagine him to be quite the chef. In fact, I believe he was collecting plants for one of his latest creations. My bushes are his farmers market. I might be more annoyed by his early morning browsing but I understand the love of fresh produce to much to deny Louie his thrill of the hunt. Just this morning I took my time in picking out the prettiest radishes and perfectly formed sweet potatoes at my own farmers market. So, who am I to deny this pleasure to my armadillo neighbor?
Eat your heart out, Louise. And do come again. The corn is going to be a beauty this year! You won't want to miss it.
Love isn't blind
Confession time: I am in love.
Yes, I know this comes to a shock seeing as though my FaceBook status hasn't been updated with "in a relationship" and a love declaration as my "What's on your mind?" update.
But I will tell you what is on my mind.
Brace yourselves.
Coffee.
Specifically Light Roast Coffee, black (hard core, baby) from Panera Bread.
My relationship with this cup of coffee, specifically when it comes in a green mug, is like two love birds - we just can't get enough of each other!
They say love is blind, but I think I can see just fine. This green mug is perfectly shaped and has no chips or flaws. It is the perfect fit for the grasp of my little hand. I've never dropped this precious mug or struggled to wrap my hand around its perfectly curved exterior.
We fit together like peanut butter and jelly. Stephanie and Panera Bread Light Roast Coffee in a light green mug. Hmm....doesn't flow off the lips quite like a PB and J but tastes just as good going down! Trust me!
They say love can become an obsession. You think about the object of your affection without ceasing. You plan out your future around what the other lover will be doing or where their future will take them. You write their name on notebook covers and backs of receipts. Hearts and stars abound on scribbles across the page. So, this got me thinking, have I crossed the line into obsessive love?
Answer: no.
What an absurd thought! I am not addicted to coffee. In fact, I stopped drinking it for a whole two days and didn't shake once... or twice, didn't shake twice. Maybe I did shake once. Or maybe I was just chilly. Lets go with the latter. You see, I'm not addicted.
And do I need this coffee to function? Well, certainly not. I utter phrases before my morning cup of joe. Some mornings I don't even have a cup of joe. I stick to a cup of H2O most mornings. I'm more of a lunch Panera Bread coffee lover. When it comes to do it yourself coffee I never have the same butterflies and rainbows love spell that comes from Panera Bread. That coffee has captured this heart, what can I say?
But I can focus. In fact, after my coffee I can focus at top notch levels. I'm productive and energetic. My senses are at peak performance. A car comes into my lane - I'm all over that horn. Pippy suddenly pulls on the leash without warning - my hand locks up like the jaws of Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors. Come on world, give me your best shot!
And if you could, add a little caffeine to it. Please and thank you!
Come to think of it, the Panera Bread Light Roast coffee in the light green mug (PBLRC-lgm) love is not only NOT an obsession it is downright healthy.
Think about it this way: you can't marry a cup of coffee. You can marry a building. I read about a woman in Seattle who did just that, but she wasn't marrying a beverage or kitchen glassware. So, I think my logic still stands.
But let me take it further.
If you can't marry something then you also can't get engaged to it which we know is a good safety net for moi seeing as though I already ventured down that road once. This saves a lot of trouble. I will never have to worry if mug of coffee is or isn't going to propose. And I don't have to doubt its taste in rings. Last I checked, coffee doesn't shop. And all that planning is a real time suck. So no wedding magazine purchases or appointments with florists. Coffee love is a time and money saver!
I don't have to worry about coffee texting or calling too much. Or coffee demanding that I change my plans so I can see it - you're on the calendar for noon, no worries. I don't have to dress up for coffee or worry that I have spinach stuck in my teeth. Coffee doesn't care. Coffee and spinach get along.
This is relationship heaven.
My advice to women everywhere: find a beverage and love it... be wise of course. I am not advocating substance abuse. But caffeine romance has its perks. Get a cup and see for yourself.
I recommend PBLRC-lgm. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
Yes, I know this comes to a shock seeing as though my FaceBook status hasn't been updated with "in a relationship" and a love declaration as my "What's on your mind?" update.
But I will tell you what is on my mind.
Brace yourselves.
Coffee.
Specifically Light Roast Coffee, black (hard core, baby) from Panera Bread.
My relationship with this cup of coffee, specifically when it comes in a green mug, is like two love birds - we just can't get enough of each other!
They say love is blind, but I think I can see just fine. This green mug is perfectly shaped and has no chips or flaws. It is the perfect fit for the grasp of my little hand. I've never dropped this precious mug or struggled to wrap my hand around its perfectly curved exterior.
We fit together like peanut butter and jelly. Stephanie and Panera Bread Light Roast Coffee in a light green mug. Hmm....doesn't flow off the lips quite like a PB and J but tastes just as good going down! Trust me!
They say love can become an obsession. You think about the object of your affection without ceasing. You plan out your future around what the other lover will be doing or where their future will take them. You write their name on notebook covers and backs of receipts. Hearts and stars abound on scribbles across the page. So, this got me thinking, have I crossed the line into obsessive love?
Answer: no.
What an absurd thought! I am not addicted to coffee. In fact, I stopped drinking it for a whole two days and didn't shake once... or twice, didn't shake twice. Maybe I did shake once. Or maybe I was just chilly. Lets go with the latter. You see, I'm not addicted.
And do I need this coffee to function? Well, certainly not. I utter phrases before my morning cup of joe. Some mornings I don't even have a cup of joe. I stick to a cup of H2O most mornings. I'm more of a lunch Panera Bread coffee lover. When it comes to do it yourself coffee I never have the same butterflies and rainbows love spell that comes from Panera Bread. That coffee has captured this heart, what can I say?
But I can focus. In fact, after my coffee I can focus at top notch levels. I'm productive and energetic. My senses are at peak performance. A car comes into my lane - I'm all over that horn. Pippy suddenly pulls on the leash without warning - my hand locks up like the jaws of Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors. Come on world, give me your best shot!
And if you could, add a little caffeine to it. Please and thank you!
Come to think of it, the Panera Bread Light Roast coffee in the light green mug (PBLRC-lgm) love is not only NOT an obsession it is downright healthy.
Think about it this way: you can't marry a cup of coffee. You can marry a building. I read about a woman in Seattle who did just that, but she wasn't marrying a beverage or kitchen glassware. So, I think my logic still stands.
But let me take it further.
If you can't marry something then you also can't get engaged to it which we know is a good safety net for moi seeing as though I already ventured down that road once. This saves a lot of trouble. I will never have to worry if mug of coffee is or isn't going to propose. And I don't have to doubt its taste in rings. Last I checked, coffee doesn't shop. And all that planning is a real time suck. So no wedding magazine purchases or appointments with florists. Coffee love is a time and money saver!
I don't have to worry about coffee texting or calling too much. Or coffee demanding that I change my plans so I can see it - you're on the calendar for noon, no worries. I don't have to dress up for coffee or worry that I have spinach stuck in my teeth. Coffee doesn't care. Coffee and spinach get along.
This is relationship heaven.
My advice to women everywhere: find a beverage and love it... be wise of course. I am not advocating substance abuse. But caffeine romance has its perks. Get a cup and see for yourself.
I recommend PBLRC-lgm. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?
Bored?
Growing up there were a few words we didn't utter in my house. We had the basic no-no's: the "bad" words that most suburban homes ban, at least while the children are around. But in my house we had a few other unwelcome words.
The biggie being "shut-up." It's as foul as any curse word if you ask my Mom. I remember that phrase crossing my lips one day when I was young, maybe eight or nine. My Mom got a stern look and said, "We don't use that word." Oh, okay - got it. A stern look didn't come out of her very often and when it did I knew she meant business. I don't remember ever saying that dreaded phrase again.
There was another word wasn't just banned in our house, it didn't exist. It wasn't until I made friends in elementary school that I even became aware of its place in the English language.
Bored.
We just didn't say it in my house. What was bored? I didn't know. I was never bored.
Don't get me wrong, there was down time in my life. We didn't have a 24/7 circus or amusement park set up in my backyard. I didn't have a personal TV sitting in my lap during car trips. Instead I kept myself busy. I was a master player. Give me a salt and pepper shaker and I would give you Suzanne and Billy. As a kid, I could make play time anywhere and with anything. Ordinary objects were just toys waiting to be discovered.
Thinking back on those days, I'm beginning to question how my creative streak may have looked a little loopy to bystanders. Schizophrenic even? Oh well, at least I wasn't bored.
The other day I was in Marshall's when I spotted a new phenomenon. A toddler was in a shopping cart with a portable DVD player hooked onto a bar so she could have comfortable, easy viewing while her mother shopped uninterrupted. What happened to the good old days of whining kids and the term "are we done yet?" or "can I buy this?" Society is changing and I'm not sure if it's for the better. Instead of teaching kids to be better shoppers we are teaching them to check out of the experience.
Who will sustain our economy in the future? Come on, Moms. Step up to the plate. Teach your kids to snag a bargain, scour the shelves of TJ Maxx for the perfect home accents and find the missing size 8 ballet flat that has lost its pair in the shoe department. If you don't teach them these valuable life lessons, who will?
But this is beside the point.
The word bored is taking over. Kids everywhere are complaining that they are bored.
How could this be possible?
The world is full of exciting, interesting and worthwhile stimulation. All it takes is looking out the window to see something of value. Oh wait, kids don't look out the window - Dora is on the back of Mom's driver seat and, heaven forbid, the child miss a re-run of a magical adventure with sidekick Boots.
I blame the rise of constant technology for the explosion of "bored."
And it isn't just kids. Its adults too.
We, as a people, have become so plugged into something that if we lose the outlet, or the battery runs out, we are like lost sheep. What do we do?
I have some suggestions:
Go outside.
Take a walk.
Read a book (novel idea, eh?).
Clean the bathroom (or kitchen or living room or every surface of the house).
Break out your bike and give it a spin around the neighborhood.
Play Scrabble.
Or Candy Land if that's more your style.
Wash the car....or the dog.
Write a letter or a thank you card (a lost art).
Sit on the porch swing and watch the world go by while enjoying the gentle breeze of spring.
There is so much to look at, explore and experience in this world. You'll never be bored if you let life interest you.
The biggie being "shut-up." It's as foul as any curse word if you ask my Mom. I remember that phrase crossing my lips one day when I was young, maybe eight or nine. My Mom got a stern look and said, "We don't use that word." Oh, okay - got it. A stern look didn't come out of her very often and when it did I knew she meant business. I don't remember ever saying that dreaded phrase again.
There was another word wasn't just banned in our house, it didn't exist. It wasn't until I made friends in elementary school that I even became aware of its place in the English language.
Bored.
We just didn't say it in my house. What was bored? I didn't know. I was never bored.
Don't get me wrong, there was down time in my life. We didn't have a 24/7 circus or amusement park set up in my backyard. I didn't have a personal TV sitting in my lap during car trips. Instead I kept myself busy. I was a master player. Give me a salt and pepper shaker and I would give you Suzanne and Billy. As a kid, I could make play time anywhere and with anything. Ordinary objects were just toys waiting to be discovered.
Thinking back on those days, I'm beginning to question how my creative streak may have looked a little loopy to bystanders. Schizophrenic even? Oh well, at least I wasn't bored.
The other day I was in Marshall's when I spotted a new phenomenon. A toddler was in a shopping cart with a portable DVD player hooked onto a bar so she could have comfortable, easy viewing while her mother shopped uninterrupted. What happened to the good old days of whining kids and the term "are we done yet?" or "can I buy this?" Society is changing and I'm not sure if it's for the better. Instead of teaching kids to be better shoppers we are teaching them to check out of the experience.
Who will sustain our economy in the future? Come on, Moms. Step up to the plate. Teach your kids to snag a bargain, scour the shelves of TJ Maxx for the perfect home accents and find the missing size 8 ballet flat that has lost its pair in the shoe department. If you don't teach them these valuable life lessons, who will?
But this is beside the point.
The word bored is taking over. Kids everywhere are complaining that they are bored.
How could this be possible?
The world is full of exciting, interesting and worthwhile stimulation. All it takes is looking out the window to see something of value. Oh wait, kids don't look out the window - Dora is on the back of Mom's driver seat and, heaven forbid, the child miss a re-run of a magical adventure with sidekick Boots.
I blame the rise of constant technology for the explosion of "bored."
And it isn't just kids. Its adults too.
We, as a people, have become so plugged into something that if we lose the outlet, or the battery runs out, we are like lost sheep. What do we do?
I have some suggestions:
Go outside.
Take a walk.
Read a book (novel idea, eh?).
Clean the bathroom (or kitchen or living room or every surface of the house).
Break out your bike and give it a spin around the neighborhood.
Play Scrabble.
Or Candy Land if that's more your style.
Wash the car....or the dog.
Write a letter or a thank you card (a lost art).
Sit on the porch swing and watch the world go by while enjoying the gentle breeze of spring.
There is so much to look at, explore and experience in this world. You'll never be bored if you let life interest you.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Kitchen Massacre
There are some issues I'd rather live with then attempt to resolve.
Case in point: cold water in the kitchen sink. Let me explain.
Since moving into my new place I have struggled to get any hot water in the kitchen sink. Forceful cold? Yes. Tiny warm drizzle? Occasionally. But hot, disinfecting, powerful water? No such luck. The faucet on this sink is a little twisted. It doesn't have a cold and hot knob. This is a major annoyance of mine. I just can't seem to grasp the single lever water dispenser. I tend to get it too far to the left and get burned or too far to the right and end up with icicle hands. Give me two separate, distinct handles and I'm a pro. I'll get the perfect level of warmth in moments. Just don't expect me to find hand/dish washing perfection when you are limiting the amount of equipment I have to work with.
When Mom arrived she immediately commented on the missing hot water in the kitchen. I was relieved - I thought it had been my one-knob handicap that was causing the MIA heat. Apparently, I had nothing to do with it. She did a lot of twisting of the knob and letting the water run to see if it was just slow on the command retrieval end. But no. Still nothing.
This morning Mom took matters into her own hands. She went DIY on me.
Bob Villa cover your ears.
Usually my Mom fixing things under the sink is either a) successful or b) makes no difference in circumstances. But today option c) came into being with rapid force - literally.
With her head in the kitchen cabinet, she twisted some mystery knobs. She didn't have a flash light. Surprised? Within moments panic came from the voice in my kitchen cabinet along with a slight stream of water. Upon further investigation, the water was not in the sink, it was on Mom's head.
I grabbed a bowl. What else could I do? When it comes to home repair I'm over my head. Add water and I'm way over my head. But I did know where the bowls were.
My advice as the water kept coming in a very steady, hot (Yay), stream of water: turn that knob the opposite direction! Righty tighty, lefty loosy. We were going too loosy. More tighty seemed to make sense.
Or so we thought.
Until the steady stream easily contained in a bucket turned into a machine gun of hot water attacking the kitchen. Screaming ensued. Language that I will not repeat may have been uttered, I cannot be sure of anything. We were facing flood waters on the kitchen floor. Not only was the water rising but it was looking red, caused by the dye in the rug on the floor.
This plumbing disaster was starting to look like a crime scene. The investigation of who tried to fix this darn kitchen sink?
Dateline special will follow.
In a moment of sheer genius I remembered where the hot water tank is located. Okay, so maybe it wasn't genius because I didn't know what to do with it once I got there but Mom came running (aka slipping, sliding and soaking wet) and attempted to find the shut off valve.
Maybe I should have stopped her. The hot water tank spewing water would have been a major issue and given her past three minutes she might not be the best person to trust with water and valves. At the time I didn't think this at all. In the moment I just wanted the water off!
Thankfully, she reached for the handle, pulled it and the kitchen massacre came to an end. Thank you God.
Time to survey the damage.
It wasn't pretty.
The kitchen was floating in red water. The body (a Pier 1 rug) lay lifeless on the floor.
He never saw it coming.
And neither did Mom and I. We were attacked in our own home. Next time I'm sleeping with a towel under my pillow. But until then, I'm calling my landlord.
The police would ask too many questions.
Case in point: cold water in the kitchen sink. Let me explain.
Since moving into my new place I have struggled to get any hot water in the kitchen sink. Forceful cold? Yes. Tiny warm drizzle? Occasionally. But hot, disinfecting, powerful water? No such luck. The faucet on this sink is a little twisted. It doesn't have a cold and hot knob. This is a major annoyance of mine. I just can't seem to grasp the single lever water dispenser. I tend to get it too far to the left and get burned or too far to the right and end up with icicle hands. Give me two separate, distinct handles and I'm a pro. I'll get the perfect level of warmth in moments. Just don't expect me to find hand/dish washing perfection when you are limiting the amount of equipment I have to work with.
When Mom arrived she immediately commented on the missing hot water in the kitchen. I was relieved - I thought it had been my one-knob handicap that was causing the MIA heat. Apparently, I had nothing to do with it. She did a lot of twisting of the knob and letting the water run to see if it was just slow on the command retrieval end. But no. Still nothing.
This morning Mom took matters into her own hands. She went DIY on me.
Bob Villa cover your ears.
Usually my Mom fixing things under the sink is either a) successful or b) makes no difference in circumstances. But today option c) came into being with rapid force - literally.
With her head in the kitchen cabinet, she twisted some mystery knobs. She didn't have a flash light. Surprised? Within moments panic came from the voice in my kitchen cabinet along with a slight stream of water. Upon further investigation, the water was not in the sink, it was on Mom's head.
I grabbed a bowl. What else could I do? When it comes to home repair I'm over my head. Add water and I'm way over my head. But I did know where the bowls were.
My advice as the water kept coming in a very steady, hot (Yay), stream of water: turn that knob the opposite direction! Righty tighty, lefty loosy. We were going too loosy. More tighty seemed to make sense.
Or so we thought.
Until the steady stream easily contained in a bucket turned into a machine gun of hot water attacking the kitchen. Screaming ensued. Language that I will not repeat may have been uttered, I cannot be sure of anything. We were facing flood waters on the kitchen floor. Not only was the water rising but it was looking red, caused by the dye in the rug on the floor.
This plumbing disaster was starting to look like a crime scene. The investigation of who tried to fix this darn kitchen sink?
Dateline special will follow.
In a moment of sheer genius I remembered where the hot water tank is located. Okay, so maybe it wasn't genius because I didn't know what to do with it once I got there but Mom came running (aka slipping, sliding and soaking wet) and attempted to find the shut off valve.
Maybe I should have stopped her. The hot water tank spewing water would have been a major issue and given her past three minutes she might not be the best person to trust with water and valves. At the time I didn't think this at all. In the moment I just wanted the water off!
Thankfully, she reached for the handle, pulled it and the kitchen massacre came to an end. Thank you God.
Time to survey the damage.
It wasn't pretty.
The kitchen was floating in red water. The body (a Pier 1 rug) lay lifeless on the floor.
He never saw it coming.
And neither did Mom and I. We were attacked in our own home. Next time I'm sleeping with a towel under my pillow. But until then, I'm calling my landlord.
The police would ask too many questions.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
What is love?
I receive a lot of forwarded e-mails. Most of them I delete without reading. No offense dear sender, I just can't keep up. I have a forwarded e-mail threshold and most days I hit it before I read the first one. I see the list of 4,349 other names who are receiving the forward and I press delete. Mass sending just turns me off.
But today, for no reason, my threshold for the forwarded e-mail grew to one which was perfect because that's what was in my inbox.
It was titled "What love means to a 4 - 8 year old." Cute.
And surprisingly spot on.
Most of the kids saw love in the simple things like a kiss goodnight, Moms taking care of Dads and grandparents growing old together. But one really caught my attention. Chrissy, age 6, defined love this way: "Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs." Woah, Chrissy.
At first glance this may not seem all that profound but when you think on it, it is actually quite meaningful. Chrissy captured selfless and generous love in the form of French fries. I may not eat French fries anymore but I can still share in the sentiment. Love is when you give without expecting anything in return. Love is when you want to fullfill the needs of someone else more than your own.
I couldn't help but think about my Mom when I read that. Right now she is driving to Sarasota with Pippy in a VW Beetle. She's been on the road for over two days and honestly, she has acted like she just drove around the block. To her, this is no big deal. She gives of herself without complaint or whining or even acknowledging that what she is doing is selfless.
But it is.
Driving twenty hours in a little car with a dog isn't most people's idea of a joy ride. Most people are ready to be done after hour four on the road, but not my Mom. If it took forty hours to get to me I don't think she'd bat an eyelash. She loves me that much.
So, what is love to me?
Love is a Mom who would travel day and night to see you. She would do it without ever mentioning sore knees from hours of sitting or a stiff back from the endless time spent in an uncomfortable chair. That is love, and that is my Mom.
But today, for no reason, my threshold for the forwarded e-mail grew to one which was perfect because that's what was in my inbox.
It was titled "What love means to a 4 - 8 year old." Cute.
And surprisingly spot on.
Most of the kids saw love in the simple things like a kiss goodnight, Moms taking care of Dads and grandparents growing old together. But one really caught my attention. Chrissy, age 6, defined love this way: "Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs." Woah, Chrissy.
At first glance this may not seem all that profound but when you think on it, it is actually quite meaningful. Chrissy captured selfless and generous love in the form of French fries. I may not eat French fries anymore but I can still share in the sentiment. Love is when you give without expecting anything in return. Love is when you want to fullfill the needs of someone else more than your own.
I couldn't help but think about my Mom when I read that. Right now she is driving to Sarasota with Pippy in a VW Beetle. She's been on the road for over two days and honestly, she has acted like she just drove around the block. To her, this is no big deal. She gives of herself without complaint or whining or even acknowledging that what she is doing is selfless.
But it is.
Driving twenty hours in a little car with a dog isn't most people's idea of a joy ride. Most people are ready to be done after hour four on the road, but not my Mom. If it took forty hours to get to me I don't think she'd bat an eyelash. She loves me that much.
So, what is love to me?
Love is a Mom who would travel day and night to see you. She would do it without ever mentioning sore knees from hours of sitting or a stiff back from the endless time spent in an uncomfortable chair. That is love, and that is my Mom.
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