Well, Crap

I knew it was too good to last. Last night as I sat working on my blog, I felt myself relapsing. Cough, cough, ah-choo! Damn. Then, this morning I woke up with what I call “crack-in-the-back”—one disintegrating disk and one that is already history. Needless to say, I’m feeling a bit cynical today, but in my usual quasi-humorous manner. When I’m like this, my favorite victim venue for fodder is television, especially the channels I actually like, HGTV and the Food Network.

For instance, let’s take the latter. Every once in a while they get a hair up their butt and have what’s called, “Cook With Your Kids Week.” Yeah, that’s what I always enjoy. A kitchen full of kids licking the Alfredo off of their fingers before sticking them back in for another taste. Or the one-gazillion dishes kids always use when they try to cook, or the flour bag that gets dumped onto the floor, and the exhaustion I feel after everything’s been eaten and I’m marooned in the kitchen to clean up the dishes, pots and pans, floor, counters and dining table whilst everyone else retreats sated and full to their computers, TVs, and My Little F*** Pony…

Cook with kids? I think I’ll pass. Sorry, Alton, but I’m tired of you celebrity chefs making me feel guilty during “Cook With Your Kids Week.” C’mon, be honest. Some of you really hate that week too, don’cha? I’ll bet the sound stage trash bins have more wine corks tossed in them during that week.

Oh My God

I can’t describe the aromas that have permeated this house. Nettl’s homemade pumpkin pies, a huge homemade apple pie, and sweet potatoes roasting in the oven. 

And tomorrow morning I’ll awake to the smell of a turkey roasting.

Bobby Doesn't Pay Attention in Class

Madge didn’t yet know that like most boys his age, all Bobby thought about was his meat.

Of Course

“It’ll only take half a day.”

Famous last words by Paul, the mechanic at the Ford dealership. Nettl borrowed her boss’ car and we took ours to get the lighting problem fixed at 8:00 in the morning. When 3:30 rolled around, I called and was told that the car still wasn’t ready. Around 5:00 Nettl called and was told it was ready, so we went to get it. I got the keys and got in. I turned on the lights. What did they do, just park it in another spot, not bothering to even look at it? Still no tail or dash lights. Jebus Crast…

When we went back into the service office the guy behind the counter told me, if the recalled part (which he says they replaced) wasn’t the problem, that’s not their fault. That wasn’t my issue. I was pissed that they had it all day, then told me it was fixed when it wasn’t. Of course, he found all kinds of excuses and things got a little heated. Turned out we left it for them to check in the morning.

Of course the connector was the problem! I’d gotten under the dash and had seen that for myself last week. I suspect he’s going to try to shaft me. After all, when Ford pays for recalls, the dealerships make no profit. It’s times like this that I really wish I was a 6′2″ man.

Fuckerheads.

He mentioned that it may be the light switch, which I will not pay for, because, as it is written on the recall details:

Summary:

VEHICLE DESCRIPTION: PASSENGER VEHICLES. THE TERMINALS AT THE HEADLIGHT SWITCH AND WIRING HARNESS CONNECTOR CAN EXPERIENCE HEAT DAMAGE AS A RESULT OF OVERHEATING.

Consequence:

THE DAMAGE COULD RESULT IN DISTORTION OF THE TERMINAL CAUSING AN OPEN CIRCUIT IN THE INSTRUMENT PANEL ILLUMINATION, PARKING LAMP, AND TAIL LAMP CIRCUITS.

Remedy:

DEALERS WILL INSTALL A HEADLAMP SWITCH WIRING CONNECTOR CONTAINING BRONZE TERMINALS AND AN INSPECTION, AND REPLACEMENT IF NECESSARY, OF THE HEADLAMP SWITCH.

Still, If the switch is the problem, they should have checked it, since it’s mentioned in the recall report. And how can they say the connector wasn’t the problem anyway? The symptoms march perfectly. Fur will fly tomorrow if they try to stick me with a huge bill.

This wasn’t the day for this. Last night, something irritated my right eye and I awoke this morning with a shiner. Seriously, I look like someone punched me. All day it has stung and watered, and it hurts to keep it open for long. This resulted in a nap this evening from 8:00 to 11:00. You’d think I wouldn’t go to bed tonight, but that’s exactly where I’m going. What’s up with my health lately?

Yesterday's Concert

I didn’t write about yesterday’s choral concert because I was too lazy too busy to do so. I have to say, the new director, Mark Lawlor, has really whipped the Stillwater Chamber Singers into shape. By holding impartial, unsentimental auditions (at which all of the members had to try out) when he first took this post, he has cut a lot of mediocre deadwood from the group. It must have been emotionally difficult for the long-timers who were not asked to return, but the rewards were much in evidence yesterday. Not only is his conducting style buoyant and likeable, his musical selections are well thought out and his interpretations are unique.

Take “And the glory of the Lord” from Handel’s Messiah, for instance. It was snappy and light, and oh, so Baroque. I have to add that Lawlor has won a grant for a full production of the oratorio, using authentic instruments, during the upcoming Christmas season. Not bad.

Two children’s choirs performed, and I especially enjoyed a cute little piece called, “Badgers and Hedgehogs Bless the Lord.”

The only part of the concert that bothered me had nothing to do with the music. It was the woman who sat next to me. She was so bathed in sticky sweet perfume that not only did I get a headache, a runny nose and watering eyes, but also a bout of nausea. And I had to struggle to hold back a sneeze the entire concert, besides. To add insult to injury, it was a full house, with nowhere else to sit. It put a bit of a damper of the otherwise pleasant concert. Please, please, don’t bathe in Chantilly or Shalimar. In scents, less is definitely more.

Recharged

I finally crawled into bed just after six am and, quite unlike me, fell asleep almost instantly. I remember hearing the wind chimes out on our patio, but I was, for the most part, out cold until one in the afternoon. Guess that’s what less than five hours of sleep in two days will do to you.

I did get up around 10:30 and stumbled out to the living room, but Nettl made me go back to bed saying, “You have to sleep at least until noon.” I was still half-asleep anyway, so I simply turned around and went back down the hall to the bedroom. I don’t even remember making it to the bed, although I know I did. At least I hope I did.

But that’s not what I want to write about.

Today (this will probably be my only entry), I’d like to introduce you to a remarkable woman. Her name is Lorraine and she’s over at Me & the Cat. She describers herself as a “70-something, compassionate, tree-hugger” but I can tell you she’s much more than that. In the short week or two that I’ve been visiting her blog, she has become very special to me. She’s a real role model of what aging can be, if we refuse to get old. She’s my newest hero. She’s had kind of a rough week, so pay her a visit and tell her I sent you.

Tonight, I’m going over to Ville and Beau’s for Poker Night. Ville’s two new friends, Rodney and Lashell will be joining us.

Ever notice how, sometimes when you drink something, it kind of gets caught in your throat and your esophagus cramps, and it hurts? I hate it when that happens.

A Pause For Punctuation

What is it with punctuation? Why can’t otherwise intelligent people just frickin’ get it? I don’t claim to be an expert on punctuation, but there are certain things that annoy me. Nothing big mind you, but things that most people should have a handle on by the time they enter high school.

Exclamation Points: Why do so many people (especially women) feel the need to use them so much? Too many people use them too often! And way too many!!! At the end of every sentence!!!!! It seems to me, the more confident a person is with what they’re writing, the less they need to validate their thoughts with exclamation points. I think it’s like shouting. Someone who is confident about their thoughts on a given matter has no need to raise their voice. When we yell, we are often simply trying to prove — to ourselves as well as to others — just how correct we are. The world can do with less exclamation points!!!

Apostrophes (and other irritants): This isn’t hard. I’ll lay it out here for you:
Your: YOUR home is next door.
You’re: YOU ARE home.
There: My home is over THERE.
Their: THEIR home is next door.
They’re: THEY ARE going home.
Its: ITS home is in a tree.
It’s: IT IS not in a tree.
Parent’s: Possessive for ONE PARENT.
Parents’: Possessive for BOTH PARENTS.
50s: A time, or age, as in BEING IN MY 50s ISN’T SO BAD. Resist the temptation to insert an apostrophe.


Ellipses: Using more than the standard three dots does not add more significance to the thought that you’re trying to articulate. It’s puzzling the way some people feel the need to use a long string of them……………………… Three should be sufficient…


Commas: There is no need to add commas, where they do not, belong. A comma, is, like a breath, or space, in what you are writing. When in doubt, leave it out. You’ll piss off fewer people that way. Seriously, I confess that commas are my worst writing habit. Because I read a lot of 18th century literature, I tend to over-use them, but I’m learning. Bless Deni for her help back in 1995 concerning comma splices.
I’m not going to get into colons, semi-colons and all that, because most people on the internet don’t use them anyway. Besides, misuse of those isn’t as irritating to me.

Peanut Butter & Power Tools

I’ve been holding a particular rant in for some time, feeling that I wouldn’t be able to articulate what I want to say well enough to avoid getting slammed by my readers or make it interesting, but damn it, I have to get it out.

You know that Jif peanut butter commercial in which the dad is sitting on the couch minding his own business, making himself a peanut butter sammich? It goes something like this:

Daughter: What’re you doing, Dad?
Dad (patting the space beside him on the sofa): Sit down. There’s plenty of room.
Dad generously proceeds to make his daughter and himself a sammich using one slice of bread for each. As she begins to eat hers open-faced, Daughter looks at Dad to see that he’s folding his bread in half.
Daughter (looking smugly judgmental): Why did you fold yours like that?
Dad: Well, when I was a kid, this is how my dad did it, and I wanted to do everything just like he did.
Daughter: That’s silly. (She turns her back to him and folds her sammich)

Hey. Maybe Dad needed a little peace and quiet, a little alone time with his obviously pleasant memories of his deceased father. This chit of a girl comes in and judges him, and with a bitchy attitude at that. If it’s so silly, then give Dad back the damn sammich and leave him alone. Talk about ungrateful.

Of course, the daughter folds her sammich in half as well, but like the bitchy little sneak she is, she turns her back so Dad can’t see. The unspoken message is sent out to little girls all over the country: It’s ok to judge your father. You’re better than he is anyway, and you obviously know more about how a sammich should be eaten. And whatever you do, don’t let him think for a moment that he has a good idea once in a while.

If it was just this one commercial I wouldn’t care that much, but I’ve seen this message over and over again.

“That’s not how Mommy does it!”
“Mommy puts the glasses over here!”
“You’re not the the one that’s still growing, Dad!”

Ever notice that it’s never sons dissing their fathers or their mothers, or daughters dissing their mothers? Our television media is packed full of messages teaching our kids that all husbands and fathers are The Dumb White Guy. One commercial finally succeeded in emasculating the male entirely. A couple is in a home improvement store and Hubby can’t seem to hammer a nail (or something simple like that), so Wifey-Poo picks up a power tool and “does the job the right way,” gloating all the while. Now, that one really pissed me off. In commercial after commercial the male is portrayed as a hapless, helpless nincompoop. My question is, if he’s such an idiot, then why did you marry him? What’s up with you?

I’m not saying the Dumb White Guy doesn’t exist; I do live in Oklahoma after all (ducking), but if the tables were turned and it was a man showing a woman up in her little stereotyped scenario, or sons dissing their mothers, the fur would be flying.

Oh, pipe down. I’m an old feminist from the 70s and I’m well-aware of how women have been treated by the media. What I’m saying is, turn about is not fair play, it’s just more of the same old crap. Reverse discrimination is still discrimination and it needs to be canned if we’re ever going to teach our children how to do things better than we have done.

I’m not even going to get started on my opinions about what a lot of very visible young women these days are doing to set us all back fifty years. That’s an entirely different post for another time, which will probably be called, “What the Fuck Happened to the Women’s Movement?” But tonight, I’m standing up for the guys.

No Accident of Birth

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, and a whole lot of foolish decisions, but one of my best “accomplishments” (for want of a better term), is my son Micah, who is turning 31 today. When I look back at my life there are few really bright spots, but he’s up there at the top of that brief list.

Micah is a man of great integrity, steely introspection, artistic creativity, staggering intelligence and profound spirituality. He is, in a word, a true mystic and searcher. I’m proud — and blessed — that he chose to come into my life at all. The only regret I have is that I’ve never gotten to spend enough time with him. This is my deepest loss, my life’s greatest sadness, and my greatest failure. We stay in close contact though, and the more I get to know him, the more I admire him. I’ve always adored him.

Pay his website a visit. Not only is he gifted in music, he is also a brilliant developer and graphic designer. Take a little time to look around his site, and give his music a listen.

Happy Birthday, beloved son. I sent you a card, but expect something else, already on its way.

Fitting In

Took a walk to the pond behind our neighborhood after dark and sat beneath a tree on the water’s edge for a while. It was peaceful, with the Big Dipper and the Pleiades reflecting on the ebony water. For a few moments I felt like I fit in somewhere.

Madge's Traumatic Summer

After spending summer vacation at vegetarian Aunt Starshine's house, Little Madge couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into a pork butt steak.