- Verbal Filters: "What has happened to the ability of people to use "filters" before speaking?" Maybe it's my age, but I do not recall knowing as many people as I do today who begin talking before they engage their brain as to what the impact of what they are about to say will be.
- Drivers: This is frightening -- I seriously think there are an abundancy of drivers on the road who don't consider reckless driving kills people. Going around a corner at 70 mph is not "cool." Suggestion: go ahead and pretend to be speed racer in a parking lot instead of possibly taking out an innoncent person's life..
- Toilet Paper: I don't think anyone in the house has been trained to replace a roll. The empty roll will sit on the roller until I replace it. This same concept applies to paper towels in the kitchen and any and all trash bags throughout the home.
- Children and Money: Consider this THE official memo that your parents are not the Rockefellers and any and all Christmas should not begin pre-Halloween.
- Manners and Politeness: When entering a room one says "hello" to a family member (i.e., mother and father.) When leaving the house one says, "Goodbye" to same people and does not ignore their existance. These people are your sole support and until you begin earning a salary, treat them as human beings.
- Laundry: When one begins laundy, please continue the process by taking the wet clothes out and moving them to the dryer or to hang to air dry. Do not leave laundry in a stagnated state (both process wise and smelling wise) thereby holding up others who would like to have the opportunity to launder their clothing.
- Texting: Don't text me and then NOT pick up the phone if I have a question regarding the text you just sent. I know you have your phone, PICK IT UP AND ANSWER IT -- you would if you it was a friend.
- Politics: How about "just say no." It's waaaaaay too early in the election process to have to hear other people's opinions on any candidate. Also, another biggie -- media commentators: please refrain from sharing your solution(s) on how to fix everything in this terrible economy. It would probably be more productive to pen a letter to the White House, perhaps in care of President Obama and see if he'll/they'll consider it. Good luck with that.
- Pay kindness forward: This is a postive note in the blog. Most of us have been blessed beyond expectation with precious friends and family, and the way to be thankful for that is to pass it along. Do something nice for others on a frequesnt basis. It's a good thing and tends to be contagious.
- Hold your tongue/keypad: If someone says or writes a nasty or unkind thing about you, my mantra is, "Silence is Golden." Don't engage those types of people with buying into their unhappiness or gripe. Kindness works wonders with unhappy people. I KNOW this from direct experience with the public and it works wonders. Just be kind...it disarms angry folks.
- People: Most people are wonderful and generous. It's just the few bad apples that get the attention. Count your blessings on the wonderful friends and people you presently know and will come to know. It's one of life's great blessings.
- Laughter: This is the final topic for today. Laugh as much and as often as you can. In my opinion it truly is the key to survival and sanity. Plus, it's pretty fun :)
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Topics I Never Got Around to Writing
It's been awhile since I've blogged, but that doesn't mean I don't have at least a dozen topics each week that I think are worth writing about. Here's a summary of some of the ideas I've had and didn't elaborate via the blog.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Our New Tenants
It seems like just last fall we were driving to the university campus to drop off our daughters. Sure there were milliseconds of parental sadness, but we quickly became members of the empty-nesters club. It’s a sweet little organization where everything you own is yours and no one secretly breaks, touches or moves anything. The mantra is simple: r-e-s-p-e-c-t.
Just as we were becoming cozy, our utopia was interrupted by the return of our sweet cherubs, whose move home included multiple bedrooms with clothing cast in hurricane-like patterns; a broken refrigerator drawer left dangling in the breeze; and if that’s not enough evidence, how ‘bout the mountains of laundry which never actually rotate through a complete cycle without a little parental push, or the sinks full of dishes awaiting the secret dishwashing fairy? Alas, the sweet taste of empty-nest joy has been interrupted by our new tenants. One difference – our tenants don’t actually pay or offer any rent. As our children, they seem to think they’re entitled to utilize as much free stuff as possible while copping an “I hate your guts” attitude pretty much 24/7. Envious? Yup, I thought so.
The collective thinking of our tenants is that whatever belongs to their parents belongs to them. Lost your hairbrush? No problem, they just help themselves to yours. Need a cell phone charger? Just rip the one that mom uses out of the wall – and please…don’t you dare leave a note! The icing on the cake is to act completely stupid or annoyed if confronted with any of the above while posing a “How dare you suggest such a thing!”
Uggggg…how many days ‘till school begins?
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Our Beloved GB and the Blue Toolbox
They say there are special folks one meets in heaven... if that is true, I hope George is there for me. We lost him very quickly and celebrated his life today at LBPC. God Bless you George, I will love you forever!
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George’s Blue “Makita” toolbox has been a fixture in this church for years. It’s usually perched on a table in the social hall as it silently whispers and waves, “Hey, George is here -- he’s working on something again!” Occasionally, hours would whiz by without the slightest glimpse of George, but he was present; after all the blue tool box wouldn’t lie. Eventually he would emerge from his latest endeavor and pop into the office to check in and say “howdy” knowing there’d be a possible stack of documents waiting for his signature. Like the old TV character on Mash, I felt like “Radar” always following around “Henry” for signatures on documents. And like “Henry”, George quickly examined the documents he was about to sign, knowing things were in order, because we were a team. And that team was and is part of a larger family; a family who deeply loves and supports each other throughout all of life’s challenges.
The blue tool box has now become an icon. Its definition is simple: “Things are going to be okay.” If something is broken, we’ll fix it. If something is worn out, we’ll replace it. If something needs to be invented or engineered…w-e-l-l, that one might not be as easy. George has taught us so many valuable lessons about how to simply live and treat each other just the way God would want, and he demonstrated that through his service by joyfully volunteering for countless hours to his “two loves”, his Church and Canine Partners for life.
George will remain in our hearts and minds forever, and that blue tool box, well, it’s still whispering to us quietly and this time, it’s reassuring us, “George is here!” He is in our church, our minds and hearts. We will love him forever!
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George’s Blue “Makita” toolbox has been a fixture in this church for years. It’s usually perched on a table in the social hall as it silently whispers and waves, “Hey, George is here -- he’s working on something again!” Occasionally, hours would whiz by without the slightest glimpse of George, but he was present; after all the blue tool box wouldn’t lie. Eventually he would emerge from his latest endeavor and pop into the office to check in and say “howdy” knowing there’d be a possible stack of documents waiting for his signature. Like the old TV character on Mash, I felt like “Radar” always following around “Henry” for signatures on documents. And like “Henry”, George quickly examined the documents he was about to sign, knowing things were in order, because we were a team. And that team was and is part of a larger family; a family who deeply loves and supports each other throughout all of life’s challenges.
The blue tool box has now become an icon. Its definition is simple: “Things are going to be okay.” If something is broken, we’ll fix it. If something is worn out, we’ll replace it. If something needs to be invented or engineered…w-e-l-l, that one might not be as easy. George has taught us so many valuable lessons about how to simply live and treat each other just the way God would want, and he demonstrated that through his service by joyfully volunteering for countless hours to his “two loves”, his Church and Canine Partners for life.
George will remain in our hearts and minds forever, and that blue tool box, well, it’s still whispering to us quietly and this time, it’s reassuring us, “George is here!” He is in our church, our minds and hearts. We will love him forever!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Techno-Meltdown 101
On December 28th, I finally had the opportunity to attend my niece’s high school basketball game. The plans came together so well it was like b-u-t-t-a-h. (Yes, Ellen, I can spell butter.)
My luck began a downward spiral with a simple visit to the ladies’ room, when my cell phone decided to make a direct exit from my coat pocket and perform an Olympic dive into the toilet. A mistake that I SWORE was never going to happen ever again after the first time about five years ago. And, NO, adult beverages were not involved; it was purely a result of my own dysfunctional ability to keep my phone in a safe place. Frantically attempting to dry my phone, I agreed to meet the family for a pizza dinner, following a detour to the supermarket to secure a bag of white rice in which to place my saturated cell phone.
Post pizza dinner, I headed home to research additional methods to dry out a cell phone. Phone securely encased in a zip lock bag of white rice, I booted my laptop to begin research. Seconds later, the computer displayed a black screen. What the “H”????? Not only did I have a soaking wet non-working cell phone, but add to that a black-screen-of-death laptop computer. In pure Scarlett O’Hara fashion, I decided to think about it tomorrow – one of my most beloved mantras.
The following day, I left for work with the knowledge that without question, hubby, who is totally addicted to the use of my laptop computer, would research and identify the new hard drive to be purchased. Beauty! As hubby installed the new hard drive, he disregarded my instructions read directly from the box, “….professional installation recommended.”
Hard drive installed, and recovery disks in hand, I was anxious to get all things computer back to normal. Recovery disk #1 inserted in the DVD drive….nothing. The new hard drive passed all tests. What now? What limited computer knowledge I possess told me all I needed was a new set of recovery disks, but I didn’t listen to myself and called HP customer service a/k/a I-N-D-I-A. Heavy-hearted I admitted defeat and thought, “ Welcome to the dark side.”
The INDIA experience can be summarized as follows:
The next morning our phone rang and the caller ID read, “HP Customer Service.” OMG!! I actually spoke to an American HP customer service representative who was very apologetic regarding my dilemma and not only refunded my $99 but was planning to FedEx the recovery disks to me free of charge for my trouble. Ahhh….there is justice in the world.
However, my joy and redemption was short-lived as I informed youngest-college-daughter-on-break that she needed to be at home to accept the delivery, due to the face that I would be at work earning a living.
“OMG…” was her whiny reply, “I wanted to go to the mall then.” Fortunate for me that FedEx delivers before she even gets out of bed.
My luck began a downward spiral with a simple visit to the ladies’ room, when my cell phone decided to make a direct exit from my coat pocket and perform an Olympic dive into the toilet. A mistake that I SWORE was never going to happen ever again after the first time about five years ago. And, NO, adult beverages were not involved; it was purely a result of my own dysfunctional ability to keep my phone in a safe place. Frantically attempting to dry my phone, I agreed to meet the family for a pizza dinner, following a detour to the supermarket to secure a bag of white rice in which to place my saturated cell phone.
Post pizza dinner, I headed home to research additional methods to dry out a cell phone. Phone securely encased in a zip lock bag of white rice, I booted my laptop to begin research. Seconds later, the computer displayed a black screen. What the “H”????? Not only did I have a soaking wet non-working cell phone, but add to that a black-screen-of-death laptop computer. In pure Scarlett O’Hara fashion, I decided to think about it tomorrow – one of my most beloved mantras.
The following day, I left for work with the knowledge that without question, hubby, who is totally addicted to the use of my laptop computer, would research and identify the new hard drive to be purchased. Beauty! As hubby installed the new hard drive, he disregarded my instructions read directly from the box, “….professional installation recommended.”
Hard drive installed, and recovery disks in hand, I was anxious to get all things computer back to normal. Recovery disk #1 inserted in the DVD drive….nothing. The new hard drive passed all tests. What now? What limited computer knowledge I possess told me all I needed was a new set of recovery disks, but I didn’t listen to myself and called HP customer service a/k/a I-N-D-I-A. Heavy-hearted I admitted defeat and thought, “ Welcome to the dark side.”
The INDIA experience can be summarized as follows:
- Call to India: $99.00 (due to expired warranty)
- Hours on the phone to India: Five
- Times placed on hold by customer service person who never returned: I lost count
- Frustration level: Off the scale and very appreciative that I DID NOT have a gun
- Actual assistance given: Zero
The next morning our phone rang and the caller ID read, “HP Customer Service.” OMG!! I actually spoke to an American HP customer service representative who was very apologetic regarding my dilemma and not only refunded my $99 but was planning to FedEx the recovery disks to me free of charge for my trouble. Ahhh….there is justice in the world.
However, my joy and redemption was short-lived as I informed youngest-college-daughter-on-break that she needed to be at home to accept the delivery, due to the face that I would be at work earning a living.
“OMG…” was her whiny reply, “I wanted to go to the mall then.” Fortunate for me that FedEx delivers before she even gets out of bed.
- Computer situation: back to normal, thank God for back-ups.
- Phone situation: up and running, thanks to the rice (plus days of drying out on its own…) Seems like I didn’t HAVE to rush and purchase that new cell phone. On the bright side, I have a backup for the next “wet” cell phone encounter.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Yabba-dabba Stone-age Banking
Haven’t blogged much lately, but was inspired by a chain of events from service companies last week which left me feeling like, “You can’t get there from here….” This essay is dedicated to Wilmington Trust Bank, Comcast and Verizon and the pain they have caused due to their lack of real customer service.
A probable result from a stuffy head/brain following a nasty cold, I incorrectly signed into the work online banking account incorrectly twice. In a nanosecond I was locked out -- S-L-A-M!! -- no questions asked -- security or otherwise.
Realizing my failure, I kick-started my fuzzy post-cold brain and called the customer service center for internet customers. Am I a signer on the account? No, but I’m an authorized user…and have been for over 5 years. Yes, I’ll hold….The customer service rep returns to informs me that I am no longer an authorized user; and I must bring a physical person who is an authorized signer on the account into the bank branch office.
Seriously? Is the bank manager’s name Fred Flinstone? Should I bring my chisel and stone tablet as well? Painful past experience with this backwards bank leads me to hypothesize if I call them again tomorrow, more than likely the response will be completely different. So I choose to do what I often refer to as “The Scarlett-O’Hara-I’ll-think-about-that-tomorrow “ option.
The next day I call the branch, hoping for a bit more faith, hope and charity from folks who know they’ve been on my nasty list for similar past stone-aged, torturous experiences. At least I know these folks by name, and revel in the speculation that when I call and introduce myself to them by phone, they’re more than likely thinking, “Oh, please not her again….” Not that I’ve been nasty, mind you, it’s simply that their operational methods are very archaic and I let them know it each time we meet/speak.
My call to the bank branch is greeted by a “floating CSR.” Fabulous! I’m not even able to revel in any speculation, because he doesn’t know me at all. I explain my problem and receive the same advice, which shocks me because I’ve never had that happen before. I prepare “plan B” and draft an authorized signer on the account to accompany me to the branch to straighten out this mess. The only good news for the signer is that I promise to do all of the talking.
Once inside the bank and comfortably seated at said floating CSR’s desk, we hit a little snag. Not only does an authorized signer need to be present, but said signer should also be a current officer of the corporation where I work. This is the little detail that stone-age bank ALWAYS fails to disclose before one or more people are inconvenienced to drive there to solve ANY problem. Nevertheless, authorized signer and myself begin to discuss our plans to transfer our funds out of our present bank into a more user-friendly financial institution. Floating CSR understands our frustration – really, he does -- as he turns us away to return another day.
And all of this because I had a cold and signed into my online checking with the wrong password! Believe me, our 2011 Corporate Resolution listing authorized bank users and signers cannot arrive soon enough, which is most likely when we'll choose a new institution of finance. And guess what? Stone age bank isn’t even in the running, because their operation is so Grinchy and Scroogey to customers it is beyond words.
An imaginary baby tear is cascading somewhere, but not down my cheek.
PS -- Merry Christmas Grinchey Scrooges!
A probable result from a stuffy head/brain following a nasty cold, I incorrectly signed into the work online banking account incorrectly twice. In a nanosecond I was locked out -- S-L-A-M!! -- no questions asked -- security or otherwise.
Realizing my failure, I kick-started my fuzzy post-cold brain and called the customer service center for internet customers. Am I a signer on the account? No, but I’m an authorized user…and have been for over 5 years. Yes, I’ll hold….The customer service rep returns to informs me that I am no longer an authorized user; and I must bring a physical person who is an authorized signer on the account into the bank branch office.
Seriously? Is the bank manager’s name Fred Flinstone? Should I bring my chisel and stone tablet as well? Painful past experience with this backwards bank leads me to hypothesize if I call them again tomorrow, more than likely the response will be completely different. So I choose to do what I often refer to as “The Scarlett-O’Hara-I’ll-think-about-that-tomorrow “ option.
The next day I call the branch, hoping for a bit more faith, hope and charity from folks who know they’ve been on my nasty list for similar past stone-aged, torturous experiences. At least I know these folks by name, and revel in the speculation that when I call and introduce myself to them by phone, they’re more than likely thinking, “Oh, please not her again….” Not that I’ve been nasty, mind you, it’s simply that their operational methods are very archaic and I let them know it each time we meet/speak.
My call to the bank branch is greeted by a “floating CSR.” Fabulous! I’m not even able to revel in any speculation, because he doesn’t know me at all. I explain my problem and receive the same advice, which shocks me because I’ve never had that happen before. I prepare “plan B” and draft an authorized signer on the account to accompany me to the branch to straighten out this mess. The only good news for the signer is that I promise to do all of the talking.
Once inside the bank and comfortably seated at said floating CSR’s desk, we hit a little snag. Not only does an authorized signer need to be present, but said signer should also be a current officer of the corporation where I work. This is the little detail that stone-age bank ALWAYS fails to disclose before one or more people are inconvenienced to drive there to solve ANY problem. Nevertheless, authorized signer and myself begin to discuss our plans to transfer our funds out of our present bank into a more user-friendly financial institution. Floating CSR understands our frustration – really, he does -- as he turns us away to return another day.
And all of this because I had a cold and signed into my online checking with the wrong password! Believe me, our 2011 Corporate Resolution listing authorized bank users and signers cannot arrive soon enough, which is most likely when we'll choose a new institution of finance. And guess what? Stone age bank isn’t even in the running, because their operation is so Grinchy and Scroogey to customers it is beyond words.
An imaginary baby tear is cascading somewhere, but not down my cheek.
PS -- Merry Christmas Grinchey Scrooges!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Complaint Letter to the Acme Crown Company
Gentlemen:
I have discovered for well over 20 years I have been wearing an incorrectly-issued crown and would like to request an even exchange. My present crown though lovely, is not the model requested when newly married. I have documentation supporting my requisition for the Crown entitled, “Queen of the World” Model #QOW001 but received the Crown “Mother of the World” model #MOW002. This is a serious error on your behalf and must be rectified.
The difference is appalling and please let me count the ways: Queen of the World is an infinitely more desirable crown. The diamonds and gold are priceless and sparkly, the job description associated with it beyond fabulous -- servants, grapes, champagne, and luxury galore. What more could a girl ask for? On the flip side, my current model, Mother of the World Crown, is substantially less glamorous. Not only is the crown itself a knock-off of the better version, it’s silver-plated with snaggle-toothed looking cubic zirconium diamonds, and the job description is extremely challenging.
Mother of the World has to respond to an average of 6-10 needy phone calls daily ranging from “Give me more money!” to “Can I have access to your bank account passwords?"and finally, the single most heart-stopping cell phone call a mother could imagine -- a child on her cell phone who reported, “Oh, no I’m getting into an car accident!” The icing on this little scenario are endless chores, listening to the woes of others and servitude to mankind on the level of some devout sect of nuns. Need I go further? Mother of the World is a selfless, compassionate and giving person whose reward is in heaven. Queen of the World is a selfish, screw-the-world, bitchy, get-away-with-anything type, and her reward is right here and now on planet earth.
I would appreciate receiving my rightful crown at my home address in a timely fashion at which time we can call it even. If there is any problem resulting in requested exchange, you will be contacted by my lawyers who also represent the King of the World.
And guess what? The King of the World always gets everything he wants.
I have discovered for well over 20 years I have been wearing an incorrectly-issued crown and would like to request an even exchange. My present crown though lovely, is not the model requested when newly married. I have documentation supporting my requisition for the Crown entitled, “Queen of the World” Model #QOW001 but received the Crown “Mother of the World” model #MOW002. This is a serious error on your behalf and must be rectified.
The difference is appalling and please let me count the ways: Queen of the World is an infinitely more desirable crown. The diamonds and gold are priceless and sparkly, the job description associated with it beyond fabulous -- servants, grapes, champagne, and luxury galore. What more could a girl ask for? On the flip side, my current model, Mother of the World Crown, is substantially less glamorous. Not only is the crown itself a knock-off of the better version, it’s silver-plated with snaggle-toothed looking cubic zirconium diamonds, and the job description is extremely challenging.
Mother of the World has to respond to an average of 6-10 needy phone calls daily ranging from “Give me more money!” to “Can I have access to your bank account passwords?"and finally, the single most heart-stopping cell phone call a mother could imagine -- a child on her cell phone who reported, “Oh, no I’m getting into an car accident!” The icing on this little scenario are endless chores, listening to the woes of others and servitude to mankind on the level of some devout sect of nuns. Need I go further? Mother of the World is a selfless, compassionate and giving person whose reward is in heaven. Queen of the World is a selfish, screw-the-world, bitchy, get-away-with-anything type, and her reward is right here and now on planet earth.
I would appreciate receiving my rightful crown at my home address in a timely fashion at which time we can call it even. If there is any problem resulting in requested exchange, you will be contacted by my lawyers who also represent the King of the World.
And guess what? The King of the World always gets everything he wants.
Friday, September 10, 2010
My Little Pony
I’ve received a few gifts this summer, but none as meaningful as my little pony. Following a series of serious, silly and nonsensical political discussions, my little pony named “pinkie pie” arrived in a little gift bag about a month ago, and though she is probably only worth $5, I consider her to be priceless.
I could write an entirely serious, boring chapter reporting on how pinky pie came to fruition, but I’ll summarize by sharing that she is an award, a tribute for stick-to-itness, for never giving up in life. She is kind of like an Oscar for attempting to be a good worker, sister, daughter, friend, mother, wife, and American citizen.
I think the exact words which prompted pinky’s purchase was my begging for a pony after my brother sarcastically commented “Oh, you’ve actually tried to contribute to society? Here’s a pony!” (Referring to what our government should do instead of other things….) I fell off the couch in laughter at his reasoning and immediately began obnoxiously begging for a pony of my very own every time I saw him by bellowing “I want pony!” Doesn’t this bring to mind the Seinfeld pony episode where the great aunt says, “I had pony!”
Pinky represents all that is good and shiny and fluffy in the world. She even came with her own combing brush in case her glittery, synthetic hair becomes matted as a result of life’s trials and tribulations. Pinky’s hair looks fab, but I could use that comb myself a few times a day. Just tossing that out there... It ain’t easy living up to the expectations of the ownership of my little pony. You know, I once had a priest friend tell me the one of the most important prayers to God would be for strength and guidance in life. Period, end. Those words have carried me pretty far in both blessed and trying times. Pinky is just an added accessory, and she’s all mine! Thanks, Ed for one of the best and most meaningful gifts of the year!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Miss Me? It's Been Over a Month!
Dear Blog:
Sorry for the quiet period. I’ve been busy lately with the final days of summer and haven’t had necessary time to write about what’s happening. . . or much else. So here’s the deets:
Nowadays, I guess you could say I’m kind of a large deal, as my job responsibilities have increased a bit. I wouldn’t exactly use the word “promotion”, but just yesterday, I silently earned the responsibility of chief sanitation office for the church. Jealous? Please, don’t be. Specifically, I was THE self-appointed staff member who single-handedly eliminated the need for our old raccoon-loving, residential-type trash cans (which were full with something similar to oozing lava.) Additionally, I managed the transitional switch from large to small dumpster. (Imagine: If I had suspenders on at this time, I would be snapping them in pride while chewing on a toothpick…) I am positive that by adding this task to my resume, in conjunction with the recently-acquired farmers’- market-potty-supervisor duty on Thursday afternoons, I’ve catapulted my career marketability into hyperspace. I don’t mean to brag, but let’s be real, it has taken me about ten years of independent, hard work to achieve this level of career glamour, and I’m not about to part with it now.
Another title my husband and I have acquired together this week is “empty-nesters”, a different kind of large-dealishness, if you will. Go ahead, ask me where my tape dispenser is, or in which drawer my scissors sit. You might even be wondering in whose wallet my cash and credit cards reside. Well, it’s a secret no more: the kitchen drawer, and MY wallet! For those of you who have been thoughtful enough to mention this: I realize it’s temporary, and the little cherubs return home, but that’s a happy thing far into the future. I’m choosing to revel in today’s glory.
I wanted to share the news of a funny gift from my brother, which I personally refer to as an award, but I decided it warrants its very own blog article. So keep your eyes open for “pinky-my-little-pony.” Coming soon, with picture!
Exhaustedly, I’ve come to the realization that as an empty-nester, I must now reorganize every room, closet and drawer in the house to restore order to our home. Over the past 24 years, there have been more than a few folks residing together, each putting things where she may think it belongs. Now, is the time for all good empty-nesters to carpe diem and bring order once again to every inch of the home. That is, one inch at a time. Baby steps, remember? Ugggg….well, maybe I’ll allow myself just a bit of time to blog
Happy Labor Day!
Sorry for the quiet period. I’ve been busy lately with the final days of summer and haven’t had necessary time to write about what’s happening. . . or much else. So here’s the deets:
Nowadays, I guess you could say I’m kind of a large deal, as my job responsibilities have increased a bit. I wouldn’t exactly use the word “promotion”, but just yesterday, I silently earned the responsibility of chief sanitation office for the church. Jealous? Please, don’t be. Specifically, I was THE self-appointed staff member who single-handedly eliminated the need for our old raccoon-loving, residential-type trash cans (which were full with something similar to oozing lava.) Additionally, I managed the transitional switch from large to small dumpster. (Imagine: If I had suspenders on at this time, I would be snapping them in pride while chewing on a toothpick…) I am positive that by adding this task to my resume, in conjunction with the recently-acquired farmers’- market-potty-supervisor duty on Thursday afternoons, I’ve catapulted my career marketability into hyperspace. I don’t mean to brag, but let’s be real, it has taken me about ten years of independent, hard work to achieve this level of career glamour, and I’m not about to part with it now.
Another title my husband and I have acquired together this week is “empty-nesters”, a different kind of large-dealishness, if you will. Go ahead, ask me where my tape dispenser is, or in which drawer my scissors sit. You might even be wondering in whose wallet my cash and credit cards reside. Well, it’s a secret no more: the kitchen drawer, and MY wallet! For those of you who have been thoughtful enough to mention this: I realize it’s temporary, and the little cherubs return home, but that’s a happy thing far into the future. I’m choosing to revel in today’s glory.
I wanted to share the news of a funny gift from my brother, which I personally refer to as an award, but I decided it warrants its very own blog article. So keep your eyes open for “pinky-my-little-pony.” Coming soon, with picture!
Exhaustedly, I’ve come to the realization that as an empty-nester, I must now reorganize every room, closet and drawer in the house to restore order to our home. Over the past 24 years, there have been more than a few folks residing together, each putting things where she may think it belongs. Now, is the time for all good empty-nesters to carpe diem and bring order once again to every inch of the home. That is, one inch at a time. Baby steps, remember? Ugggg….well, maybe I’ll allow myself just a bit of time to blog
Happy Labor Day!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Broken Clothes Dryer vs. The Sun
My dryer decided to go on strike last Friday. I reported immediately to my fix-it guy who was glued to the British Open, “Hon, I think the dryer is broken!” I explain the problem in detail and he agrees to take a look at it. I formulate “Plan B”, and proceed to take the wet clothes outside to the deck to employ the old-fashioned resource of the sun. I drape wet clothes in a semi-organized fashion on my wrought-iron table and chairs and surprise myself just how much laundry fits onto that set.
Out of space, I eye the Adirondack chairs which seem perfect for delicate items. With a half-dozen towels to go, I decide on the deck railing and figure they’ll dry nicely draped there. Bugs, schmugs…this is nature! My laundry dries in record time and I repeat the process as necessary. With weather like this, who needs a dryer? Not to mention the “Green” factor.
Hubby has no difficulty whittling the possibilities of what’s wrong with our dryer to a few fixes and decides we probably need to call for service. I agree and relay to my youngest daughter the broken dryer situation and instruct her in my new clothes-drying method. Did I mention we are restricted from having clothes lines in our neighborhood which FORCES us to hang wet laundry on our lawn furniture? I reason drying clothes on lawn furniture looks shabbier than the clothes line, but do not have the energy to fight “City Hall” on this one. Lawn furniture and deck railing, it is!
In the meantime, I haven’t yet called the service guy to fix the dryer. For one thing, I am working all day, but more importantly – at least for now – the new method is working. Sure, I’ll probably tire of it soon, or it will actually rain, but until then….thank God we have lawn furniture!
Out of space, I eye the Adirondack chairs which seem perfect for delicate items. With a half-dozen towels to go, I decide on the deck railing and figure they’ll dry nicely draped there. Bugs, schmugs…this is nature! My laundry dries in record time and I repeat the process as necessary. With weather like this, who needs a dryer? Not to mention the “Green” factor.
Hubby has no difficulty whittling the possibilities of what’s wrong with our dryer to a few fixes and decides we probably need to call for service. I agree and relay to my youngest daughter the broken dryer situation and instruct her in my new clothes-drying method. Did I mention we are restricted from having clothes lines in our neighborhood which FORCES us to hang wet laundry on our lawn furniture? I reason drying clothes on lawn furniture looks shabbier than the clothes line, but do not have the energy to fight “City Hall” on this one. Lawn furniture and deck railing, it is!
In the meantime, I haven’t yet called the service guy to fix the dryer. For one thing, I am working all day, but more importantly – at least for now – the new method is working. Sure, I’ll probably tire of it soon, or it will actually rain, but until then….thank God we have lawn furniture!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Once Upon a Mattress Delivery
I can’t remember how many mattresses my husband and I have purchased together during the course of our marriage, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say five or six total. It is the most recent mattress purchase – our mattress – which has become the most popular tale, and it the story is definitely not what you might be thinking.
Voluntarily, to my complete joy, my husband assumed the role of professional procurement person (heretofore referred to as “PPP”) throughout the years. Research IS his bag. Whether one’s need is for an iron or a ‘fridge, give him a day or two and he can instruct you in the construction, functionality and history of the finest model for your hard-earned money; as well as all other models. Approximately eight years ago, we had a need for a new king-size mattress for the master boudoir. Without delay, my PPP proceeded with confident enthusiasm to find yet another “deal.” This was an important acquisition on many fronts – health, sleep, and general quality of life. Yes, quality sleep is essential!
My PPP kept me apprised of the procurement of said mattress on a “need-to-know” basis. That meant I would nod “uh-huh” every time he spoke down to the teeniest detail and sometimes my eyes would even begin to glaze over. One happy day I was informed we had made a purchase! The new tempur-pedic mattress (or one almost equal to the same) was on its way to us, and it was being shipped via UPS. Really? They can do that?
My joy was momentarily curbed by the reminder that my PPP usually had most of his UPS shipments sent to my place of employment, which is a church. (We’re not even going to visit the details between those two parallels.) “Tell me you didn’t have that mattress shipped to the church?” I questioned with a whine. “No, he replied. Do you think I’m crazy? It’s being delivered to the house.” After a very long pause, I breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the thought continued to loom in my mind regarding the possibility of my new mattress being delivered to my place of employment. I decided to think/worry about that tomorrow.
Fast forward about two weeks. Picture me busily working at the church computer and there’s a knock on the office door. It’s UPS – and the delivery person is a woman. What are the odds? I open the door and almost beg her, “Tell me that you do NOT have a mattress for delivery.” She smiles, “Oh, yeah...yup...that’s exactly what I have.” She adds, “I think together we can handle it.” I wonder, “Is she kidding me??” and I have thoughts about my PPP that I should not share.
Presently, as well as at that time, I drive an SUV. If we put the passenger seats down, we have luckily fit a brand-new refrigerator in the back of the vehicle. I prayed my luck would be the same with the mattress, which was very fortunately rolled like a great big jellyroll. Delivery gal takes one end and I grab the other and it fits into my SUV like butter. Relieved, I call hubby, formerly known as my PPP, and sternly relay the story. Honestly, I couldn't even pretend to be angry, my gratitude showed too much. It was just another story to tell.
Still in use, the mattress has proven to be wonderful, restful, and great. This evening, I received a phone call from my oldest daughter who was recently married. She is now eagerly anticipating her very own real tempur-pedic mattress delivery tomorrow. “I have a favor to ask.” She says, “The delivery truck can’t make it up our street because it’s so narrow, so we were thinking we could meet the truck at the church (a/k/a my place of employment) and make the pick-up in the parking lot.” “Sure.” I reply “Thanks for letting me know.”
I wipe away an imaginary baby-sized tear of emotion. Family mattress delivery to my place of employment has become a tradition. Such is life!
Voluntarily, to my complete joy, my husband assumed the role of professional procurement person (heretofore referred to as “PPP”) throughout the years. Research IS his bag. Whether one’s need is for an iron or a ‘fridge, give him a day or two and he can instruct you in the construction, functionality and history of the finest model for your hard-earned money; as well as all other models. Approximately eight years ago, we had a need for a new king-size mattress for the master boudoir. Without delay, my PPP proceeded with confident enthusiasm to find yet another “deal.” This was an important acquisition on many fronts – health, sleep, and general quality of life. Yes, quality sleep is essential!
My PPP kept me apprised of the procurement of said mattress on a “need-to-know” basis. That meant I would nod “uh-huh” every time he spoke down to the teeniest detail and sometimes my eyes would even begin to glaze over. One happy day I was informed we had made a purchase! The new tempur-pedic mattress (or one almost equal to the same) was on its way to us, and it was being shipped via UPS. Really? They can do that?
My joy was momentarily curbed by the reminder that my PPP usually had most of his UPS shipments sent to my place of employment, which is a church. (We’re not even going to visit the details between those two parallels.) “Tell me you didn’t have that mattress shipped to the church?” I questioned with a whine. “No, he replied. Do you think I’m crazy? It’s being delivered to the house.” After a very long pause, I breathed a sigh of relief. Still, the thought continued to loom in my mind regarding the possibility of my new mattress being delivered to my place of employment. I decided to think/worry about that tomorrow.
Fast forward about two weeks. Picture me busily working at the church computer and there’s a knock on the office door. It’s UPS – and the delivery person is a woman. What are the odds? I open the door and almost beg her, “Tell me that you do NOT have a mattress for delivery.” She smiles, “Oh, yeah...yup...that’s exactly what I have.” She adds, “I think together we can handle it.” I wonder, “Is she kidding me??” and I have thoughts about my PPP that I should not share.
Presently, as well as at that time, I drive an SUV. If we put the passenger seats down, we have luckily fit a brand-new refrigerator in the back of the vehicle. I prayed my luck would be the same with the mattress, which was very fortunately rolled like a great big jellyroll. Delivery gal takes one end and I grab the other and it fits into my SUV like butter. Relieved, I call hubby, formerly known as my PPP, and sternly relay the story. Honestly, I couldn't even pretend to be angry, my gratitude showed too much. It was just another story to tell.
Still in use, the mattress has proven to be wonderful, restful, and great. This evening, I received a phone call from my oldest daughter who was recently married. She is now eagerly anticipating her very own real tempur-pedic mattress delivery tomorrow. “I have a favor to ask.” She says, “The delivery truck can’t make it up our street because it’s so narrow, so we were thinking we could meet the truck at the church (a/k/a my place of employment) and make the pick-up in the parking lot.” “Sure.” I reply “Thanks for letting me know.”
I wipe away an imaginary baby-sized tear of emotion. Family mattress delivery to my place of employment has become a tradition. Such is life!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Reasons Why the Three Little Kittens Were Probably Catholics
Three little kittens they lost their mittens, and they began to cry, "Oh mother dear, we sadly fear that we have lost our mittens." Automatically, their first reaction is to confess their loss? This may be interpreted as pure catholic guilt at its most primary level, as there is no direct indication of even the most basic loss investigation. These kittens (referred to herein as “the perpetrators”) immediately blame themselves and spring into confession mode. There is no curiosity as to whether maybe, just maybe, some other nasty criminal kitten/perp mistakenly swiped or picked the mittens up? Absolutely no; instead they proceed directly to the authority figure (i.e., mother dear) to confess their error.
"What! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie." Mother–dear’s reply is clear and concise. You are in trouble! If you ever attended Catholic school, this is most definitely representative of principal, who is quite likely an IHM nun. (Remember getting your hands slapped with a ruler?) Mother’s response causes the three little kittens to whine in a meowing sequence followed by crying, because they just lost their favorite treat of the day. (Oh great, just what we wanted to hear, whining, crying kittens. "Meeow, meeow, meeow, now we shall have no pie.")
To conclude, this particular nursery rhyme presents the sequence of sin, confession and redemption, which is highlighted and proven when the kitten perpetrators discover, "Oh mother dear, see here, see here for we have found our mittens." Mother dear is pleased and responds affectionately with the redemptive answer, “Put on your mittens, you silly kittens And you shall have some pie."
The story continues lyrically two more times and the former perpetrators/kittens soil their mittens and then they’re clean, etc., which is a repeat of main theme. But we get it already. No need to lather-rinse-repeat.
Finally, there’s a suggestion of a rat nearby. Whatever the religion of these sweet kittens, it really doesn't matter at this point, because they have come full circle and now they must trump evil -- the devil a/k/a the rat. No longer baby kittens, they are almost full-grown cats and fully capable of trumping a rat any day of the week -- which also provides a good vs. evil theme!
Next discussion -- The Rat – potential convert or agnostic?
"What! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie." Mother–dear’s reply is clear and concise. You are in trouble! If you ever attended Catholic school, this is most definitely representative of principal, who is quite likely an IHM nun. (Remember getting your hands slapped with a ruler?) Mother’s response causes the three little kittens to whine in a meowing sequence followed by crying, because they just lost their favorite treat of the day. (Oh great, just what we wanted to hear, whining, crying kittens. "Meeow, meeow, meeow, now we shall have no pie.")
To conclude, this particular nursery rhyme presents the sequence of sin, confession and redemption, which is highlighted and proven when the kitten perpetrators discover, "Oh mother dear, see here, see here for we have found our mittens." Mother dear is pleased and responds affectionately with the redemptive answer, “Put on your mittens, you silly kittens And you shall have some pie."
The story continues lyrically two more times and the former perpetrators/kittens soil their mittens and then they’re clean, etc., which is a repeat of main theme. But we get it already. No need to lather-rinse-repeat.
Finally, there’s a suggestion of a rat nearby. Whatever the religion of these sweet kittens, it really doesn't matter at this point, because they have come full circle and now they must trump evil -- the devil a/k/a the rat. No longer baby kittens, they are almost full-grown cats and fully capable of trumping a rat any day of the week -- which also provides a good vs. evil theme!
Next discussion -- The Rat – potential convert or agnostic?
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The New Itty-Bitty Comcast Box Fiasco
By now, most folks in our area have installed their “upgrade” itty-bitty-Comcast boxes to TV sets which used to simply plug into the cable. That was too simple, so Comcast has now reinvented services to “Xfinity” which could simply indicate xfinity dollars they can charge customers.
My youngest darling daughter installed the two boxes Comcast grants with no additional cost to the bedroom televisions. Great job! That’s all we really need I figure. Not necessary to call for additional boxes (cost $1.99 per month) for the kitchen and basement sets. Right? Oh, no, my friend. It took about a month for Comcast to catch up to televisions not running off the itty-bitty. Once that happened, it was just like the old days, 40 years ago, with basic network programming. Okay, I give. I call and order two more itty-bittys for the kitchen and basement. This will be easy, yeah, right.
My first attempt to install the new itty-bitty was in the kitchen. My television in there is a tiny drop-down screen that mounts under the countertop. Hubby installed the unit and there’s a slight snag during installation. I only have about ¾” space to move to disconnect the old cable and install the new. The new-fangled cable is short and has some engineered blue plastic cover on the tip of each end which measure about one inch. Okay, Lucy, think….
I rip off the blue plastic cover in total frustration and contort my body in a way that is sending cramps up my legs while trying desperately to install the cable jack to the ¾” space on back of the mounted-under-the-cabinet tv. Are we having fun yet? After thinking I have succeeded, there’s a Comcast screen on my tv stating, “we have detected an interruption to your service…” Really? It’s go time. I dial 1-800-comcast and get the representative who helps me. We also try to sync the Comcast tv control to my television set. After several futile attempt, the tech concludes, “Okay, you’ll just have to turn the set on and off with your original control.” Isn’t technology great?
A week later I attempt installation of the itty-bitty box in the basement. The length of the cable cord is so tight, it barely reaches from the box to the tv set. Once installed, again, it’s a screen message to call Comcast. I comply. This time the tech asks for the serial number on the bottom of the itty-bitty box and let me inform you, the font is about 1.0 and virtually unable to read. When straining my vision doesn’t work, I run upstairs for the trusty magnifying glass and achieve success.
I don’t watch much television, but dang, does it have to be this difficult? Also, those little remote light thingies they gave along with the itty bitty box – are they secret cameras so that Comcast can watch our every move? They creep me out.
Just tossing this out for your consideration
My youngest darling daughter installed the two boxes Comcast grants with no additional cost to the bedroom televisions. Great job! That’s all we really need I figure. Not necessary to call for additional boxes (cost $1.99 per month) for the kitchen and basement sets. Right? Oh, no, my friend. It took about a month for Comcast to catch up to televisions not running off the itty-bitty. Once that happened, it was just like the old days, 40 years ago, with basic network programming. Okay, I give. I call and order two more itty-bittys for the kitchen and basement. This will be easy, yeah, right.
My first attempt to install the new itty-bitty was in the kitchen. My television in there is a tiny drop-down screen that mounts under the countertop. Hubby installed the unit and there’s a slight snag during installation. I only have about ¾” space to move to disconnect the old cable and install the new. The new-fangled cable is short and has some engineered blue plastic cover on the tip of each end which measure about one inch. Okay, Lucy, think….
I rip off the blue plastic cover in total frustration and contort my body in a way that is sending cramps up my legs while trying desperately to install the cable jack to the ¾” space on back of the mounted-under-the-cabinet tv. Are we having fun yet? After thinking I have succeeded, there’s a Comcast screen on my tv stating, “we have detected an interruption to your service…” Really? It’s go time. I dial 1-800-comcast and get the representative who helps me. We also try to sync the Comcast tv control to my television set. After several futile attempt, the tech concludes, “Okay, you’ll just have to turn the set on and off with your original control.” Isn’t technology great?
A week later I attempt installation of the itty-bitty box in the basement. The length of the cable cord is so tight, it barely reaches from the box to the tv set. Once installed, again, it’s a screen message to call Comcast. I comply. This time the tech asks for the serial number on the bottom of the itty-bitty box and let me inform you, the font is about 1.0 and virtually unable to read. When straining my vision doesn’t work, I run upstairs for the trusty magnifying glass and achieve success.
I don’t watch much television, but dang, does it have to be this difficult? Also, those little remote light thingies they gave along with the itty bitty box – are they secret cameras so that Comcast can watch our every move? They creep me out.
Just tossing this out for your consideration
Newsflash: tableware missing, culprit still at large...
Where, oh where, has my cutlery gone? It’s a bare cavernous abyss in my cutlery drawer. The next logical conclusion is, “…must be in the dishwasher.” So I go to the dishwasher and find two forks and a spoon. This is becoming quite frustrating. There's no way I'm resorting to a plastic spork!
We have three people currently living in our home. Within the past year I KNOW we had a service for at least eight people. Currently, our flatware might fully serve two people. I guess some family members (who shall remain nameless) didn’t get the memo that flatware is not to be put into the trash.
So, it’s off to Target where I purchase various needed supplies and eight forks and spoons. Upon checkout the cashier comments, “Well, it seems you have the same problem at home with tableware as I do. I’ve stopped purchasing replacements. I have family members who just give me their old flatware and I throw it into a drawer, all mixed up. Kind of makes it hard to find.” I respond that I feel her pain, and mention I’m not quite so lucky to have hand-me-down tableware so I have to purchase more.
Ah, the drawer fully restored to normalcy, all is right with the world – for now.
PS – Dear family members, please consider this notice to put flatware in the dishwasher or sink, not the trash, after dining. Your cooperation will be fully appreciated. Love, Mom
We have three people currently living in our home. Within the past year I KNOW we had a service for at least eight people. Currently, our flatware might fully serve two people. I guess some family members (who shall remain nameless) didn’t get the memo that flatware is not to be put into the trash.
So, it’s off to Target where I purchase various needed supplies and eight forks and spoons. Upon checkout the cashier comments, “Well, it seems you have the same problem at home with tableware as I do. I’ve stopped purchasing replacements. I have family members who just give me their old flatware and I throw it into a drawer, all mixed up. Kind of makes it hard to find.” I respond that I feel her pain, and mention I’m not quite so lucky to have hand-me-down tableware so I have to purchase more.
Ah, the drawer fully restored to normalcy, all is right with the world – for now.
PS – Dear family members, please consider this notice to put flatware in the dishwasher or sink, not the trash, after dining. Your cooperation will be fully appreciated. Love, Mom
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I'm 50 years old, I'm telling it like it is....
Fifteen years ago, I never expressed my thoughts, keeping quiet about things, accepting the status-quo and concerned with the feelings of others overall. I’m still nice to others, but I've changed. The pollyanna factor has really declined. Nowadays, if you ask me a question or seek my opinion, I give an honest answer. No more fluffy, cotton candy, buffer-your fragile feelings replies. It’s time to grow-up, woman-up, deal with life, get a life and learn to treat others with respect. Guess what? That’s always been my advice to anyone and everyone else! Gotta tell you, I’m really liking the 50 year-old me.
A friend recently contacted me and asked why I left her home during a celebration where there was not a spare inch to stand or sit. I was clearly in the way and uncomfortable about it, while knocking into another person every 30 seconds. I made a decision…to go straight to my car and drive home. I never heard a word from the host, and didn't expect to, actually didn't expect to be missed. Then yesterday, my cell phone vibrated in the middle of my weekly library visit. I did not recognize the caller. This time, I didn’t respond the old-me-way by running outside to answer. I hit the “ignore” button. It’s not an emergency, I’ll get back to them.
Safely back in the privacy of my car, I returned the call to the unknown party. Surprise, it was the host from the celebration. “What’s up?” I asked. She wanted to know why I seemed so “mad” (her words not mine) during the party and then left. Mad? Mad? Isn’t that some kind of animal emotion? Human beings become angry when agitated, and I wasn’t even close. The incorrect word choice “mad” merely underscored my host's incorrect perception of the situation and choice of vocabulary. I have to admit, I ALMOST slipped back into the old make-an-excuse person, but I quickly did a 360 degree turn back to 50-year-old me. “I wasn’t mad.” I replied, “I was uncomfortable. There was not a spare inch in which to sit or stand, and I felt like I was in everyone’s way. I attended by completing the trifecta of any bridal shower. I hugged and kissed the bride-to-be, presented my gift, stayed and hour and a half and split, and in quite pleasant manner, so not to disrupt the joyful day. Oh and FYI - I don’t get angry or upset very easily, and certainly not to cause any drama EVER.”
Honest expression behind me, WOW, I was at peace. This IS the new me. You know, Jerry Seinfeld used to have a bit he did onstage about old people just backing their car out of the driveway without looking backward to check for safety, “I’m old and I’m backing out.” Very humorous, well, I’m not QUITE that old yet, but I’m on track for a fifty-something and that's life! It's funny -- I've paid my dues, and nowadays I'm totally honest take me or leave me. Honest life, honest opinions, honest existence. Why wasn’t I this way at thirty-something? Guess it takes time. Look out, I'm just coming at you life, the true me. Get ready!
Another friend tells me that this is my signature mantra, so I'll share it with you, "I'm just tossing this out for your consideration." and I would like to add, "Keeping you posted!"
A friend recently contacted me and asked why I left her home during a celebration where there was not a spare inch to stand or sit. I was clearly in the way and uncomfortable about it, while knocking into another person every 30 seconds. I made a decision…to go straight to my car and drive home. I never heard a word from the host, and didn't expect to, actually didn't expect to be missed. Then yesterday, my cell phone vibrated in the middle of my weekly library visit. I did not recognize the caller. This time, I didn’t respond the old-me-way by running outside to answer. I hit the “ignore” button. It’s not an emergency, I’ll get back to them.
Safely back in the privacy of my car, I returned the call to the unknown party. Surprise, it was the host from the celebration. “What’s up?” I asked. She wanted to know why I seemed so “mad” (her words not mine) during the party and then left. Mad? Mad? Isn’t that some kind of animal emotion? Human beings become angry when agitated, and I wasn’t even close. The incorrect word choice “mad” merely underscored my host's incorrect perception of the situation and choice of vocabulary. I have to admit, I ALMOST slipped back into the old make-an-excuse person, but I quickly did a 360 degree turn back to 50-year-old me. “I wasn’t mad.” I replied, “I was uncomfortable. There was not a spare inch in which to sit or stand, and I felt like I was in everyone’s way. I attended by completing the trifecta of any bridal shower. I hugged and kissed the bride-to-be, presented my gift, stayed and hour and a half and split, and in quite pleasant manner, so not to disrupt the joyful day. Oh and FYI - I don’t get angry or upset very easily, and certainly not to cause any drama EVER.”
Honest expression behind me, WOW, I was at peace. This IS the new me. You know, Jerry Seinfeld used to have a bit he did onstage about old people just backing their car out of the driveway without looking backward to check for safety, “I’m old and I’m backing out.” Very humorous, well, I’m not QUITE that old yet, but I’m on track for a fifty-something and that's life! It's funny -- I've paid my dues, and nowadays I'm totally honest take me or leave me. Honest life, honest opinions, honest existence. Why wasn’t I this way at thirty-something? Guess it takes time. Look out, I'm just coming at you life, the true me. Get ready!
Another friend tells me that this is my signature mantra, so I'll share it with you, "I'm just tossing this out for your consideration." and I would like to add, "Keeping you posted!"
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Sandwich Generation?
A friend e-mails me:
“Speaking of chores, I think we are the sandwich generation regarding chores. My mother never had any because she had me! My kids have me! Where did I go wrong??”
Got a minute? Step into my office... “Sandwich Generation” is a term usually applied to folks who are responsible for the care of both their children and parents at the same time. Your creative use of the term regarding family chores, is very interesting and one to which I can relate without elaboration. (Note: Excluding my older daughters who WILL read this, but were guilty on some counts as youngsters.)
Here’s where I assess that we went wrong:
• Simple admission of the problem itself. Never complain openly regarding this dilemma unless, as you did, it is to another mom/woman. Men, primarily husbands/fathers, will initially appear interested in an open dialogue on this topic; be prepared, they will turn on a dime in order to get back to their TV show or whatever they were doing prior to your little chat. The hubby/father trump card to your challenge will be similar to my experience: “Well, how do you think it got that way and what are you going to do to change it?” Game, set, match. OUCH!
• Non-implementation of the “Is Your Room Clean?” defense before allowing a child ANYTHING. (Note: I learned to employ this defense on child #3, but admit it was way too late. Works like an absolute charm.)
• We didn’t learn from our mothers! Double-duh! Their ability to employ daughters to cook, fold clothes, take care of younger siblings, etc. was to beyond stellar. We’re dunces for failing in this department.
My final advice, friend, is there’s still time for you, save yourself. Your children are still young! Hike you pantyhose high, take a deep breath and dig in, you CAN do it. You CAN win. Be the boss. It might require baby steps, but get those babies in line. And while you’re at it, get hubby in line too! I have faith in you! Keep me posted.
“Speaking of chores, I think we are the sandwich generation regarding chores. My mother never had any because she had me! My kids have me! Where did I go wrong??”
Got a minute? Step into my office... “Sandwich Generation” is a term usually applied to folks who are responsible for the care of both their children and parents at the same time. Your creative use of the term regarding family chores, is very interesting and one to which I can relate without elaboration. (Note: Excluding my older daughters who WILL read this, but were guilty on some counts as youngsters.)
Here’s where I assess that we went wrong:
• Simple admission of the problem itself. Never complain openly regarding this dilemma unless, as you did, it is to another mom/woman. Men, primarily husbands/fathers, will initially appear interested in an open dialogue on this topic; be prepared, they will turn on a dime in order to get back to their TV show or whatever they were doing prior to your little chat. The hubby/father trump card to your challenge will be similar to my experience: “Well, how do you think it got that way and what are you going to do to change it?” Game, set, match. OUCH!
• Non-implementation of the “Is Your Room Clean?” defense before allowing a child ANYTHING. (Note: I learned to employ this defense on child #3, but admit it was way too late. Works like an absolute charm.)
• We didn’t learn from our mothers! Double-duh! Their ability to employ daughters to cook, fold clothes, take care of younger siblings, etc. was to beyond stellar. We’re dunces for failing in this department.
My final advice, friend, is there’s still time for you, save yourself. Your children are still young! Hike you pantyhose high, take a deep breath and dig in, you CAN do it. You CAN win. Be the boss. It might require baby steps, but get those babies in line. And while you’re at it, get hubby in line too! I have faith in you! Keep me posted.
Monday, April 19, 2010
I Graduate High School on June 5, 2010.....Diploma please!
On Saturday, June 5, 2010, at 11:00 a.m., our youngest daughter will graduate from high school, thus ending the long and winding road of all three daughters’ illustrious 12 year high school span, as well as my own starring role as high school mom. For many of those years, I was the editor-in-chief of the school newsletter, trip chaperone, band booster, PTSA member, general volunteer, taxi cab, sports mom and fan, last-minute all-around baker and team dinner chef. Favorite team dinner entrée: hands down, Taco Chicken! I anticipate what lies ahead with both excitement and melancholy emotions.
With youngest attending university next fall, and middle child preparing to graduate in December, I have identified specific calendar opportunities for hubby and me to reacquaint ourselves with two old
friends – Mr. Leisure Activities and Mrs. Travel. Let me not overstate our position -- having 2 children in college is our primary financial priority, possibly limiting available funding for visiting Mr. Leisure and Mrs. Travel. Nevertheless, always the optimist, I see possibilities in ANY situation.
Realistically considering our financial priorities: TWO college educations, FOUR automobiles, THREE cell phones and a partridge in a pear tree; perhaps a day trip to Atlantic City in December might be along the lines of what the budget can handle. Still, I’m joyously reveling (imagine cartwheels) in the knowledge that there will be NO two-week August sports pre-season, NO last-minute sports physical, NO blackout dates for any plans in August and September, and NO nighttime meetings. Oh, sweet freedom! Sweet joy!
Yes, your honor, I’m ready for graduation. But not before I share this final thought to my daughters: Girls, I seriously had the time of my life. High school, the second, third and fourth time around presented me with so many joyful, memorable experiences, life-long friends and heartfelt laughter, I wouldn’t trade one minute. I truly thank God for the blessing to have been able to share each treasured high school day, sun-shiny or not, with each of my precious daughters.
Who knows? Maybe university life will provide a few more blogs….
With youngest attending university next fall, and middle child preparing to graduate in December, I have identified specific calendar opportunities for hubby and me to reacquaint ourselves with two old
friends – Mr. Leisure Activities and Mrs. Travel. Let me not overstate our position -- having 2 children in college is our primary financial priority, possibly limiting available funding for visiting Mr. Leisure and Mrs. Travel. Nevertheless, always the optimist, I see possibilities in ANY situation.
Realistically considering our financial priorities: TWO college educations, FOUR automobiles, THREE cell phones and a partridge in a pear tree; perhaps a day trip to Atlantic City in December might be along the lines of what the budget can handle. Still, I’m joyously reveling (imagine cartwheels) in the knowledge that there will be NO two-week August sports pre-season, NO last-minute sports physical, NO blackout dates for any plans in August and September, and NO nighttime meetings. Oh, sweet freedom! Sweet joy!
Yes, your honor, I’m ready for graduation. But not before I share this final thought to my daughters: Girls, I seriously had the time of my life. High school, the second, third and fourth time around presented me with so many joyful, memorable experiences, life-long friends and heartfelt laughter, I wouldn’t trade one minute. I truly thank God for the blessing to have been able to share each treasured high school day, sun-shiny or not, with each of my precious daughters.
Who knows? Maybe university life will provide a few more blogs….
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Wilma Flintstone or Jane Jetson?
Having no current revelations on which to blog on this week, I decided to include a column I wrote as editor of the high school newsletter. This post was written in 2003, but still applies today to moms and dads who serve as transport for their kiddies. God Bless You!
Picture the image of the future we all became familiar with when watching THE JETSONS as children. The future consisted of nothing less than space age everything! Sadly, I contend the notion has become nothing more than a tease. Although mornings greet many of us with the opportunity to engage in a George Jetson-like walk on treadmills and sidewalks across the county, I have finally accepted a very stark reality:
My children will never travel to school or anywhere else via jet-pack just like Elroy and Judy Jetson! Their only means of travel is mom-taxi.
One may argue that microwaving food is relatively Jetson-esque, as well as the use of cell phones, etc. Generally speaking, our generation has made many space age advancements. However, I argue that the task of driving back and forth to school two, three, (dare I say four?) times a day, leaves me feeling more like Wilma Flintstone than Jane Jetson. As the primary driving parent of a non-driving high school student, I clearly remember the sweet experience of ride freedom, and daydream of innovative ways of improvement. Linking necessity as the true mother of all invention and being a mother myself, I share my top three solutions:
• Air-chute transport: Just as we send checks and money in an air-chute to the drive-in bank teller, students could be airlifted to school via a giant plastic cylinder travelling through tunnels. Less expensive than a car, this solution requires no insurance, gas or license.
• Star-Trek transport: Similar to Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock and the gang, our beloved offspring would be transported to school via the use of affordable in-home transporters. Students would be physically placed directly in front of his/her locker with plenty of time to prepare for the day. This concept works well with items students leave behind as well (i.e., lunches, money, homework, sports gear, etc.)
• Career Change: Parent(s) could volunteer to quit their job and become full-time bus driver(s), continually looping a pre-designated course for approximately 10 hours daily. This would be a paid position including salary, medical benefits and yearly vacations to any destination. Ultimately, the goal is to keep our drivers very happy until our children can drive for themselves. Until a real solution is found, or our students become drivers, I'll see you on the road. Keep on driving -- and daydreaming (it helps. . .)
Picture the image of the future we all became familiar with when watching THE JETSONS as children. The future consisted of nothing less than space age everything! Sadly, I contend the notion has become nothing more than a tease. Although mornings greet many of us with the opportunity to engage in a George Jetson-like walk on treadmills and sidewalks across the county, I have finally accepted a very stark reality:
My children will never travel to school or anywhere else via jet-pack just like Elroy and Judy Jetson! Their only means of travel is mom-taxi.
One may argue that microwaving food is relatively Jetson-esque, as well as the use of cell phones, etc. Generally speaking, our generation has made many space age advancements. However, I argue that the task of driving back and forth to school two, three, (dare I say four?) times a day, leaves me feeling more like Wilma Flintstone than Jane Jetson. As the primary driving parent of a non-driving high school student, I clearly remember the sweet experience of ride freedom, and daydream of innovative ways of improvement. Linking necessity as the true mother of all invention and being a mother myself, I share my top three solutions:
• Air-chute transport: Just as we send checks and money in an air-chute to the drive-in bank teller, students could be airlifted to school via a giant plastic cylinder travelling through tunnels. Less expensive than a car, this solution requires no insurance, gas or license.
• Star-Trek transport: Similar to Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock and the gang, our beloved offspring would be transported to school via the use of affordable in-home transporters. Students would be physically placed directly in front of his/her locker with plenty of time to prepare for the day. This concept works well with items students leave behind as well (i.e., lunches, money, homework, sports gear, etc.)
• Career Change: Parent(s) could volunteer to quit their job and become full-time bus driver(s), continually looping a pre-designated course for approximately 10 hours daily. This would be a paid position including salary, medical benefits and yearly vacations to any destination. Ultimately, the goal is to keep our drivers very happy until our children can drive for themselves. Until a real solution is found, or our students become drivers, I'll see you on the road. Keep on driving -- and daydreaming (it helps. . .)
Sunday, April 11, 2010
My "I Drive Safely" Driving Course Fiasco
If even one member of my family successfully passes an approved online driving course, the entire family is eligible for a 10% savings on their auto liability policy for three years. Sweet deal, I promptly added it to my “to do” list.
About a week ago, a flash went off in my brain -- the driving course – oh, no. I somehow recall hubby assigning the task to daughter who was now conveniently vacationing with friends on spring break. I locate the original email and realize that I had just days to complete the six hour class, pass the exam and get the certificate to my agent. Guess who’s taking the course? Later that day, I grabbed my computer and worked for about two hours refreshing my knowledge of the rules of the road.
Time Check: Happy Saturday morning, large coffee in hand, I proceed to “git ‘er done.” Let me share one of the more “handy” tidbits of knowledge acquired during my instruction:
Did you know if your vehicle stalls or you experience engine failure while on railroad tracks and a train is heading straight for your vehicle, the recommended procedure is as follows:
A) Everyone should evacuate the vehicle, run 50 feet away from the tracks, then turn 90 degrees and continue to run from the vehicle. The driving course preparers decide to illustrate the seriousness of this situation via a cartoon video with a train impacting the vehicle just moments after everyone escapes. The video concludes with the driver and passengers standing safely by as their vehicle explodes into a huge cartoon fireball. I guess they weren’t able to get any real people/actors for that dangerous scenario.
Time check: 4.5 course hours and only just more than halfway finished. Ugggg! Why is youngest daughter always away on some fabulous vacation when I need her? Following the train wreck, it’s time to take a computer break, but not before yet another revelation: Remember good old, “10 and 2” position for hands on the steering wheel? Well that’s history, baby! The new hand placement is “8 and 4”, partially due to injuries (and I’m guessing lawsuits) which have resulted to arms and hands when airbags deploy. I must’ve missed the DMV’s memo on that one. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to flash these facts on the info screen at the DMV instead of names of bail bondsmen and lawyers?
Time check: 7:45 PM – back to computer driving course. What better way to spend Saturday evening? The Final chapters consist of vehicle maintenance, road courtesy and trip planning. I want to skip these because they really have nothing to do with my driving ability, but the program won’t let me. My reasoning --
Vehicle maintenance: not my department, talk to my husband.
Road courtesy: yes, please. Thank you.
Trip planning: unless it’s on an airplane to some exotic location and they’re footing the bill, I’m not interested.
Time check: 9:15 PM – The Final Exam – 25 questions. I figure it’ll take about 20 minutes, maybe 30 if I take my time. At this very un-perfect moment, hubby who has witnessed my torture all day, enters the study chuckling aloud and asks if he can help me “cheat” on the final exam. Not being in the mood for jokes, I kick him out of the room. It’s totally “go” time.
Time check: 10 PM – Success! Final exam passed, certificate on its way, I sashay into the kitchen for my reward – A celebratory glass of wine. How was your weekend? I hope it was so much better than this!
About a week ago, a flash went off in my brain -- the driving course – oh, no. I somehow recall hubby assigning the task to daughter who was now conveniently vacationing with friends on spring break. I locate the original email and realize that I had just days to complete the six hour class, pass the exam and get the certificate to my agent. Guess who’s taking the course? Later that day, I grabbed my computer and worked for about two hours refreshing my knowledge of the rules of the road.
Time Check: Happy Saturday morning, large coffee in hand, I proceed to “git ‘er done.” Let me share one of the more “handy” tidbits of knowledge acquired during my instruction:
Did you know if your vehicle stalls or you experience engine failure while on railroad tracks and a train is heading straight for your vehicle, the recommended procedure is as follows:
A) Everyone should evacuate the vehicle, run 50 feet away from the tracks, then turn 90 degrees and continue to run from the vehicle. The driving course preparers decide to illustrate the seriousness of this situation via a cartoon video with a train impacting the vehicle just moments after everyone escapes. The video concludes with the driver and passengers standing safely by as their vehicle explodes into a huge cartoon fireball. I guess they weren’t able to get any real people/actors for that dangerous scenario.
Time check: 4.5 course hours and only just more than halfway finished. Ugggg! Why is youngest daughter always away on some fabulous vacation when I need her? Following the train wreck, it’s time to take a computer break, but not before yet another revelation: Remember good old, “10 and 2” position for hands on the steering wheel? Well that’s history, baby! The new hand placement is “8 and 4”, partially due to injuries (and I’m guessing lawsuits) which have resulted to arms and hands when airbags deploy. I must’ve missed the DMV’s memo on that one. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to flash these facts on the info screen at the DMV instead of names of bail bondsmen and lawyers?
Time check: 7:45 PM – back to computer driving course. What better way to spend Saturday evening? The Final chapters consist of vehicle maintenance, road courtesy and trip planning. I want to skip these because they really have nothing to do with my driving ability, but the program won’t let me. My reasoning --
Vehicle maintenance: not my department, talk to my husband.
Road courtesy: yes, please. Thank you.
Trip planning: unless it’s on an airplane to some exotic location and they’re footing the bill, I’m not interested.
Time check: 9:15 PM – The Final Exam – 25 questions. I figure it’ll take about 20 minutes, maybe 30 if I take my time. At this very un-perfect moment, hubby who has witnessed my torture all day, enters the study chuckling aloud and asks if he can help me “cheat” on the final exam. Not being in the mood for jokes, I kick him out of the room. It’s totally “go” time.
Time check: 10 PM – Success! Final exam passed, certificate on its way, I sashay into the kitchen for my reward – A celebratory glass of wine. How was your weekend? I hope it was so much better than this!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Walking Balance Class
featuring the teacher who was a former dancer
My youngest daughter plays lacrosse and was experiencing back pain, so we visited the doctor. He recommended a trip to our chiropractor. Through the door we were instantly relaxed with the sounds of their trickling waterfall, soothing scents and visually cozy surroundings. Daughter’s name is called and following our discussion as to whether or not I should accompany her, she sallies forth to go into the exam room alone. This is a first, and I’m wishing I was permitted admittance, not by my doctor but by my daughter. Surprisingly, the doctor invites me in for the assessment.
Cheerfully, I agree. (Experienced mom note: Children NEVER disclose enough info to doctors, which is why moms should be present.) We discuss daughter’s health and back pain problem. Doctor determines she’s fine, but her overall posture and balance could improve. With marketing hat on, he recommends an on-site balance class conducted by a woman who was a former dancer and now is teaching the art of proper posture and balance to others. He suggests that I attend as well and pick up few pointers.
In all honesty, I’m a complete and total spaz with a layer of dysfunctional balance as icing on the cake. Having had two surgeries -- neck and back, I count my successes by rooms I can still paint, driveways I can still shovel and stairs I haven’t fallen down recently. Because of my balance or lack thereof, I no longer decorate staircase handrails at Christmas and always grip both sides going up or down stairs. This is learned behavior resulting from past trips, falls and stumbles. If I’m half asleep in the morning coming down the stairs, I’ll take the last two stairs as one and “boom” make a big sound sending hubby out to see if it’s just another spazy moment or I’m actually hurt. Fortunately, it’s usually the former rather than the latter, and that was a result of attempting to turn off the alarm on my cell phone while descending stairs. You’re likely thinking, can the woman walk and chew gum? Not anymore really. I used to be able to roast a chicken, clean the house and wash the car all at the same time. That was then, this is now.
It’s balance class day and we arrive at 9 AM promptly through the torrential rain. The class consists of myself, daughter and two women a bit younger than me. So there’s four students and one teacher (the former dancer) who arrives 10 minutes late due to the inclement weather. At first glance, teacher is NOT what I expected. She’s about 60-70 years of age, very overweight, gray-haired and has an enormous bandage on her whole right hand thumb. To complete the picture, the bandage has a few dots of blood on it. The class is scheduled from 10 AM – 1 PM and I can’t imagine how we’re going to do so little in so long. Daughter is furious and in her non-participation mode, which I ignore.
Teacher begins, “Stretch and scream b-l-a-a-h-h-h-h-h-h. This is our tension releasing exercise.” Done. Now, walk around the room. She’s watching and critiquing our walking strut and balance. My daughter gives me the dagger eyes. “How does that feel?” she asks. “You’re all looking so much lighter on your feet. Don’t they feel lighter?” Oh, yeah, they’re so different everyone replies. The other women, to whom I’ll refer as classmate #1 and #2 begin to report some problems. Mind you, these women weight about 100 lbs each.
Classmate #1: “I feel better on my feet but now my gerd is acting up.”
Classmate #2: “My back is hurting now."
I think to myself, “Seriously? Is this where we’re going?" I resist the temptation to report some stupid health blip but decide to take the high road with the hope of qualifing as one of the more sane people in the room.
More balance exercises and snack time. No one eats the snacks, teacher performs a dancer’s stretch on the floor and informs us that none of us is able to do such a thing at this time because we are not in physical shape to do so. I think to myself, “At least I can use a knife without cutting off my thumb…”
Daughter is so angry that she’s even there she has completely stopped interacting with anyone. I ignore it and attempt to come away from the class having learned SOMETHING. Teacher informs me that my lower torso and neck areas are extremely tight, boxy and controlled. What DOES that mean? I must learn to loosen the protective control on them. Seriously? Did she conclude this from the disclosure that I’ve had surgeries? Let’s see, how does one loosen the area surrounding a cervical neck fusion? Just tossing that out, but I’m feeling MUCH lighter on my toes! And we’re walking in circles around the room….
It’s feedback time again:
Classmate #1: “I beginning to get a migrane headache now.”
Classmate #2: “I’m feeling very ill, kind of dizzy, perhaps it’s all of this walking in circles…”
Daughter is staring at the clock silently and counting the minutes until we outta here.
Upon conclusion of our class, we bid farewell and daughter and I proceed to the car. She begins texting madly to catch up for the last three hours of cell phone silence and announces that we deserve to go to lunch together. Silently driving down the road, I smile, slip into my smart-ass mode and say aloud, “Teacher, my feet feel twinkle-toes light, but now I have a tension headache and my teeth are falling out. ”
Daughter finally cracks a smile, continues texting and without missing a beat replies loudly while shaking her arms, “B-L-A-A-A-H-H-H”, which if you recall, is our brand-new tension releasing exercise assigned to us by the dancing teacher.
The class was kind of a bust, but look at the myriad of material it provided. Quality daughter time with laughs to boot. Not too shabby for a rainy Saturday.
My youngest daughter plays lacrosse and was experiencing back pain, so we visited the doctor. He recommended a trip to our chiropractor. Through the door we were instantly relaxed with the sounds of their trickling waterfall, soothing scents and visually cozy surroundings. Daughter’s name is called and following our discussion as to whether or not I should accompany her, she sallies forth to go into the exam room alone. This is a first, and I’m wishing I was permitted admittance, not by my doctor but by my daughter. Surprisingly, the doctor invites me in for the assessment.
Cheerfully, I agree. (Experienced mom note: Children NEVER disclose enough info to doctors, which is why moms should be present.) We discuss daughter’s health and back pain problem. Doctor determines she’s fine, but her overall posture and balance could improve. With marketing hat on, he recommends an on-site balance class conducted by a woman who was a former dancer and now is teaching the art of proper posture and balance to others. He suggests that I attend as well and pick up few pointers.
In all honesty, I’m a complete and total spaz with a layer of dysfunctional balance as icing on the cake. Having had two surgeries -- neck and back, I count my successes by rooms I can still paint, driveways I can still shovel and stairs I haven’t fallen down recently. Because of my balance or lack thereof, I no longer decorate staircase handrails at Christmas and always grip both sides going up or down stairs. This is learned behavior resulting from past trips, falls and stumbles. If I’m half asleep in the morning coming down the stairs, I’ll take the last two stairs as one and “boom” make a big sound sending hubby out to see if it’s just another spazy moment or I’m actually hurt. Fortunately, it’s usually the former rather than the latter, and that was a result of attempting to turn off the alarm on my cell phone while descending stairs. You’re likely thinking, can the woman walk and chew gum? Not anymore really. I used to be able to roast a chicken, clean the house and wash the car all at the same time. That was then, this is now.
It’s balance class day and we arrive at 9 AM promptly through the torrential rain. The class consists of myself, daughter and two women a bit younger than me. So there’s four students and one teacher (the former dancer) who arrives 10 minutes late due to the inclement weather. At first glance, teacher is NOT what I expected. She’s about 60-70 years of age, very overweight, gray-haired and has an enormous bandage on her whole right hand thumb. To complete the picture, the bandage has a few dots of blood on it. The class is scheduled from 10 AM – 1 PM and I can’t imagine how we’re going to do so little in so long. Daughter is furious and in her non-participation mode, which I ignore.
Teacher begins, “Stretch and scream b-l-a-a-h-h-h-h-h-h. This is our tension releasing exercise.” Done. Now, walk around the room. She’s watching and critiquing our walking strut and balance. My daughter gives me the dagger eyes. “How does that feel?” she asks. “You’re all looking so much lighter on your feet. Don’t they feel lighter?” Oh, yeah, they’re so different everyone replies. The other women, to whom I’ll refer as classmate #1 and #2 begin to report some problems. Mind you, these women weight about 100 lbs each.
Classmate #1: “I feel better on my feet but now my gerd is acting up.”
Classmate #2: “My back is hurting now."
I think to myself, “Seriously? Is this where we’re going?" I resist the temptation to report some stupid health blip but decide to take the high road with the hope of qualifing as one of the more sane people in the room.
More balance exercises and snack time. No one eats the snacks, teacher performs a dancer’s stretch on the floor and informs us that none of us is able to do such a thing at this time because we are not in physical shape to do so. I think to myself, “At least I can use a knife without cutting off my thumb…”
Daughter is so angry that she’s even there she has completely stopped interacting with anyone. I ignore it and attempt to come away from the class having learned SOMETHING. Teacher informs me that my lower torso and neck areas are extremely tight, boxy and controlled. What DOES that mean? I must learn to loosen the protective control on them. Seriously? Did she conclude this from the disclosure that I’ve had surgeries? Let’s see, how does one loosen the area surrounding a cervical neck fusion? Just tossing that out, but I’m feeling MUCH lighter on my toes! And we’re walking in circles around the room….
It’s feedback time again:
Classmate #1: “I beginning to get a migrane headache now.”
Classmate #2: “I’m feeling very ill, kind of dizzy, perhaps it’s all of this walking in circles…”
Daughter is staring at the clock silently and counting the minutes until we outta here.
Upon conclusion of our class, we bid farewell and daughter and I proceed to the car. She begins texting madly to catch up for the last three hours of cell phone silence and announces that we deserve to go to lunch together. Silently driving down the road, I smile, slip into my smart-ass mode and say aloud, “Teacher, my feet feel twinkle-toes light, but now I have a tension headache and my teeth are falling out. ”
Daughter finally cracks a smile, continues texting and without missing a beat replies loudly while shaking her arms, “B-L-A-A-A-H-H-H”, which if you recall, is our brand-new tension releasing exercise assigned to us by the dancing teacher.
The class was kind of a bust, but look at the myriad of material it provided. Quality daughter time with laughs to boot. Not too shabby for a rainy Saturday.
Friday, March 26, 2010
E-Mail Delivery Status Notification
Ever get one of these e-mail returns?
---------------------------------------------------------------
Mail Delivery System [mailer-daemon@comcast.net]
This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification.
Delivery to the following recipients is still underway after 49.9 hour(s):
*persons-wrong-address-you-thought-you-knew@yourinternetprovider.net
Will keep trying and contact you if the message can't be delivered permanently.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks, but no thanks, I get it. The e-mail I sent isn’t going through. It's been almost 50 hours and you're still trying.... Seriously, is it necessary to be notified a dozen times daily that I’m wrong and they know it? Listen, IP (short for internet provider but it should mean incessant pesterer) Here’s my authorization:
STOP TRYING TO SEND THE MESSAGE! It’s really not THAT urgent…
I think to myself “Why do they keep reminding me with their automatically-generated-delivery-status-notification?” Because they enjoy torturing me, that’s why…and for this, I pay them money.
Here’s the bait: I see a new message in my inbox. Oh, no, it’s not a real e-mail, just another reminder/spank-across-the-ego from “Oh-so-better-than-thou IP” that the e-mail address I used was incorrect, or the recipient purposely changed his/her address solely to avoid all communications from me. This notification is a flagrant reminder that I screwed up. Oh yeah, it was me, because as far as “IP” Mailer Delivery System is a computer, and they NEVER make mistakes -- so much better than real humans....
What “IP” really wants to bleep is “Yeah, we’ll keep trying to send… but the only way that message is going anywhere other than the recycle bin is for you print it out, put it in a bottle and launch it into the Atlantic Ocean.
For now, we’ll continue attempting to send, while e-mailing you we can’t because, BLEEP -- that’s what we do - BLEEP!
---------------------------------------------------------------
Mail Delivery System [mailer-daemon@comcast.net]
This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification.
Delivery to the following recipients is still underway after 49.9 hour(s):
*persons-wrong-address-you-thought-you-knew@yourinternetprovider.net
Will keep trying and contact you if the message can't be delivered permanently.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks, but no thanks, I get it. The e-mail I sent isn’t going through. It's been almost 50 hours and you're still trying.... Seriously, is it necessary to be notified a dozen times daily that I’m wrong and they know it? Listen, IP (short for internet provider but it should mean incessant pesterer) Here’s my authorization:
STOP TRYING TO SEND THE MESSAGE! It’s really not THAT urgent…
I think to myself “Why do they keep reminding me with their automatically-generated-delivery-status-notification?” Because they enjoy torturing me, that’s why…and for this, I pay them money.
Here’s the bait: I see a new message in my inbox. Oh, no, it’s not a real e-mail, just another reminder/spank-across-the-ego from “Oh-so-better-than-thou IP” that the e-mail address I used was incorrect, or the recipient purposely changed his/her address solely to avoid all communications from me. This notification is a flagrant reminder that I screwed up. Oh yeah, it was me, because as far as “IP” Mailer Delivery System is a computer, and they NEVER make mistakes -- so much better than real humans....
What “IP” really wants to bleep is “Yeah, we’ll keep trying to send… but the only way that message is going anywhere other than the recycle bin is for you print it out, put it in a bottle and launch it into the Atlantic Ocean.
For now, we’ll continue attempting to send, while e-mailing you we can’t because, BLEEP -- that’s what we do - BLEEP!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Techno-savy no More!
When I turned 50 last year, my family gifted me with a laptop computer because my hubby was ALWAYS doing research on the desktop in the study. Ever so slowly during the past year, he has adopted the use of my laptop 24/7 making it extremely difficult to obtain access, exiling me to the desktop in the study or texting from my cellphone. Yeah, I'm a pretty techo-savy, happening 50-year-old computer/cellphone whiz mom I'd say. That is until I was "de-throned" yesterday by disrespectful, bratty children. You see, not having access to MY computer once again, I attempted to text a message to the children on Monday evening. My cellphone has a touchscreen, not buttons with letters, making life difficult. Not to mention that if one spaces two times, the phone chooses to put a period after the last letter assuming you are ending a sentence. It also CAPITALIZES things randomly. It's definitely some glitch in the phone, because I'm postive that it is not caused by operator-error :)
Here’s the text they received (I have to admit it is pretty bad…..
"Hi all. Sat is dads actual bday but we r celebrating with his havertown pals and staying over. At Gerr’s. My plan was a family dinner. On SUN here and Elisa and Jon could cook. I'll buy u guys cook. Laura could u do the cake? Tori it would be good of Kay could come and u guys help out. Dad is researching ear buds so I'll buy them (app $70) and u guys can split it if u want or choose ur own gift. Let me know if this works for u. Love mom"
After receiving the text, they discussed amongst themselves how many glasses of wine had been consumed before sending the treasured text to them. The topic was the highlight of their day and I'm sure they shared many laughs on my behalf....aren't they just darling?
Here's my reply:
Dearest Children who are making fun of my text from last night:
Please be advised that I had to send it on my quite “touchy” cell phone (which puts a period after every two spaces and CAPITALIZES everything) because **SHOCKER** dad was on my computer all night, yet again, this time searching for the ear buds from heaven suitable for his tender and discriminating ears . I will make sure that, in the future, I make a special effort to send an email from the desktop in the study rather than send a quick note, lest I be drawn and quartered verbally amongst yourselves via cellphone and over the internet.
Remember the gift you all gave me last year for my 50th birthday? Well, I might draft a birthday card to dad re-gifting it to him this year, as it might as well be his sole possession.
As a sidebar, I would like to mention that I don’t recall any of you have a phone with a touch screen rather than buttons to send texts and until you do, please keep your smart-a** opinions and comments to yourselves.
P.S. Remember the woman to whom you run when your computer(s) are acting up. That can change, you know! Fondly,
Mother
Here’s the text they received (I have to admit it is pretty bad…..
"Hi all. Sat is dads actual bday but we r celebrating with his havertown pals and staying over. At Gerr’s. My plan was a family dinner. On SUN here and Elisa and Jon could cook. I'll buy u guys cook. Laura could u do the cake? Tori it would be good of Kay could come and u guys help out. Dad is researching ear buds so I'll buy them (app $70) and u guys can split it if u want or choose ur own gift. Let me know if this works for u. Love mom"
After receiving the text, they discussed amongst themselves how many glasses of wine had been consumed before sending the treasured text to them. The topic was the highlight of their day and I'm sure they shared many laughs on my behalf....aren't they just darling?
Here's my reply:
Dearest Children who are making fun of my text from last night:
Please be advised that I had to send it on my quite “touchy” cell phone (which puts a period after every two spaces and CAPITALIZES everything) because **SHOCKER** dad was on my computer all night, yet again, this time searching for the ear buds from heaven suitable for his tender and discriminating ears . I will make sure that, in the future, I make a special effort to send an email from the desktop in the study rather than send a quick note, lest I be drawn and quartered verbally amongst yourselves via cellphone and over the internet.
Remember the gift you all gave me last year for my 50th birthday? Well, I might draft a birthday card to dad re-gifting it to him this year, as it might as well be his sole possession.
As a sidebar, I would like to mention that I don’t recall any of you have a phone with a touch screen rather than buttons to send texts and until you do, please keep your smart-a** opinions and comments to yourselves.
P.S. Remember the woman to whom you run when your computer(s) are acting up. That can change, you know! Fondly,
Mother
Monday, March 22, 2010
I am a Catholic. In case of an accident ....
A "Cradle Catholic" is someone who has been born and raised Catholic rather than having converted into the religion later in life. Having been baptized as an infant and attended Catholic elementary and high schools, I am the former rather than latter.
I love my faith and try live a dedicated, spiritual life according to the church and its docrine. When my children were younger, it was very important for me to teach them their faith. I even volunteered to teach Catechism (religion) classes in my parish.
My high school identification card was recently discovered by my youngest daughter, a senior in a non-Catholic high school. She was fascinated by the ID card on a multitude of levels, which intrigued and actually "creeped me out" that she was carrying it around in her wallet. What the fascination was, I'll probably never know, but I suspect that unlike my current driver's license with the prison-shot photo, my high school picture didn't have the capacity to scare white-off-rice, which in her probable opinion was miraculous. Additionally, on the back of the ID card, there was a statement that read: "I am a Catholic, in case of an accident, please call a priest."
Whle hanging out in the kitchen washing dishes while she watched, I could not ignore hyenia-like laughter from my daughter as she repeated over and over again "...in case of accident, please call a priest."
"What's IS so funny?" I questioned her as she almost fell out of the chair laughing.
"I don't know..." she answered, "I just find it strange that someone is supposed to call a priest if you get hurt. I mean, what are people 'supposed to do -- look up the phone number of a priest and tell them that you had to go to the emergency room to get stiches or something?"
It was at this very moment that any joy, pride or happiness at having passed along a shred of Catholic knowledge to my daughters was washed down the kitchen drain with the water from the dishes.
"No, dufus (another loving motherly expression I frequently choose) it's in case of a life-threatening emergency so that you can recieve the Sacrament of the Sick; not if you scrape your knee to please call the priest and leave a message on his answering machine that you got hurt and then hang up. Just keeping him "posted."
Ahhh, just another humbling moment in motherhood, the kind when you imagine someone saying, "Outta line, lady, you must be dreaming or something, you lose! Imagine a piece of loose-leaf with a big red grade "F". Ouch!
As I write this, I realize it doesn't matter how she learned this Catholic lesson. She learned it even though it was in some round-about dufus, hyenia laughing way. I found the ID card on the kitchen counter the other day, picked it up and popped it into the big bucket marked "photo archive."
Perhaps someday, even 50 years from now, she'll see it again and remember our conversation and smile.
I love my faith and try live a dedicated, spiritual life according to the church and its docrine. When my children were younger, it was very important for me to teach them their faith. I even volunteered to teach Catechism (religion) classes in my parish.
My high school identification card was recently discovered by my youngest daughter, a senior in a non-Catholic high school. She was fascinated by the ID card on a multitude of levels, which intrigued and actually "creeped me out" that she was carrying it around in her wallet. What the fascination was, I'll probably never know, but I suspect that unlike my current driver's license with the prison-shot photo, my high school picture didn't have the capacity to scare white-off-rice, which in her probable opinion was miraculous. Additionally, on the back of the ID card, there was a statement that read: "I am a Catholic, in case of an accident, please call a priest."
Whle hanging out in the kitchen washing dishes while she watched, I could not ignore hyenia-like laughter from my daughter as she repeated over and over again "...in case of accident, please call a priest."
"What's IS so funny?" I questioned her as she almost fell out of the chair laughing.
"I don't know..." she answered, "I just find it strange that someone is supposed to call a priest if you get hurt. I mean, what are people 'supposed to do -- look up the phone number of a priest and tell them that you had to go to the emergency room to get stiches or something?"
It was at this very moment that any joy, pride or happiness at having passed along a shred of Catholic knowledge to my daughters was washed down the kitchen drain with the water from the dishes.
"No, dufus (another loving motherly expression I frequently choose) it's in case of a life-threatening emergency so that you can recieve the Sacrament of the Sick; not if you scrape your knee to please call the priest and leave a message on his answering machine that you got hurt and then hang up. Just keeping him "posted."
Ahhh, just another humbling moment in motherhood, the kind when you imagine someone saying, "Outta line, lady, you must be dreaming or something, you lose! Imagine a piece of loose-leaf with a big red grade "F". Ouch!
As I write this, I realize it doesn't matter how she learned this Catholic lesson. She learned it even though it was in some round-about dufus, hyenia laughing way. I found the ID card on the kitchen counter the other day, picked it up and popped it into the big bucket marked "photo archive."
Perhaps someday, even 50 years from now, she'll see it again and remember our conversation and smile.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Fluffy Noodles for My Patient
Men are miserable when they are not feeling well. This includes the entire array of sicknesses from severe head colds to splinters and ingrown toe nails. What does a caregiver do when this happens? I like to refer to it as the "poor baby" treatment.
Recently my significant other had a nasty head cold and was achy all over. I called him to question what I could purvey for him from the supermarket to assist in his recovery. "Soup with egg noodles was his stuffy reply."
My first inclination was to make the soup myself, but it was already 8 PM when I arrived at the supermarket and as I approached the aisle, I'll admit, I sold out and went directly to the cans. of soup. Asurprisingly limited supply of canned chicken sat upon the shelf. The kind we usually like chicken-wise, such as Italian Wedding, Chicken rice, etc. were there, but I didn't see anything clearly labeled "contains egg noodles." I found one with wide yellow noodles (not the skinny Campbell's kind) and thought, "sold." My purchased consisted of 6-8 cans of soup for my love.
Next morning, while preparing for work, my sweetheart stepped into the bedroom and asked, "Did you get me the soup yesterday?"
"Yes, there's like 50 cans of soup downstairs." I replied exaggerating.
"Not with egg noodles -- they all have pasta." I stared at him for a moment and continued applying eye makeup while explaining, "Look, I spent almost 20 minutes in the soup aisle looking for what you wanted. I thought the can with the picture of the wide-yellow-ruffley noodles were egg noodles. What's the difference between the two? Seriously?"
"Well, the egg noodles are lighter and not so heavy. They're easier to eat when you're sick." I stared at him thinking oh so silently, "This from a man who will consume four meals before lunctime today, which most likely will include pizza and maybe a can of chili." In reality I smiled, looked up and responded sympathetically, "Poor baby, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better next time :)"
Upon listening to my explanation of the story to a friend that morning, she asked "Did you smack him?"
"Oh no," I smiled, "I just apologized and said next time I'll read the label closer."
Who could be angry at someone with a severe head cold who just wanted light-fluffy- egg-noodles? Plus, this kind of material is priceless! The entire dialogue amused me --I love it when life and family members provide me with humorous moments like these. Believe me, there's so much more to come :)
PS -- Just went to the cabinet, (see picture) I think I was right all along. No surprise :)
LMN
Recently my significant other had a nasty head cold and was achy all over. I called him to question what I could purvey for him from the supermarket to assist in his recovery. "Soup with egg noodles was his stuffy reply."
My first inclination was to make the soup myself, but it was already 8 PM when I arrived at the supermarket and as I approached the aisle, I'll admit, I sold out and went directly to the cans. of soup. Asurprisingly limited supply of canned chicken sat upon the shelf. The kind we usually like chicken-wise, such as Italian Wedding, Chicken rice, etc. were there, but I didn't see anything clearly labeled "contains egg noodles." I found one with wide yellow noodles (not the skinny Campbell's kind) and thought, "sold." My purchased consisted of 6-8 cans of soup for my love.
Next morning, while preparing for work, my sweetheart stepped into the bedroom and asked, "Did you get me the soup yesterday?"
"Yes, there's like 50 cans of soup downstairs." I replied exaggerating.
"Not with egg noodles -- they all have pasta." I stared at him for a moment and continued applying eye makeup while explaining, "Look, I spent almost 20 minutes in the soup aisle looking for what you wanted. I thought the can with the picture of the wide-yellow-ruffley noodles were egg noodles. What's the difference between the two? Seriously?"
"Well, the egg noodles are lighter and not so heavy. They're easier to eat when you're sick." I stared at him thinking oh so silently, "This from a man who will consume four meals before lunctime today, which most likely will include pizza and maybe a can of chili." In reality I smiled, looked up and responded sympathetically, "Poor baby, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better next time :)"
Upon listening to my explanation of the story to a friend that morning, she asked "Did you smack him?"
"Oh no," I smiled, "I just apologized and said next time I'll read the label closer."
Who could be angry at someone with a severe head cold who just wanted light-fluffy- egg-noodles? Plus, this kind of material is priceless! The entire dialogue amused me --I love it when life and family members provide me with humorous moments like these. Believe me, there's so much more to come :)
LMN
Today is my 28th Wedding Anniversary! Here's my job description :)
HOUSEHOLD MANAGER
This is not an opportunity for employment -- just my thoughts on a mother's job:
Our household is seeking a selfless individual with experience in the following areas:
• Financial Manager: budget implementation, expense allocation, investment supervision. This includes removal of coins from the washer/dryer and elsewhere.
• Human Relations: possess the ability to counsel and hit “reset” buttons on those who need it, with the ability to handle conflict resolution. A minimum of at least five years experience in psychological counseling is required. Counseling is to be administered on a “no appointment necessary basis”, as breakdowns occur often and are unpredictable.
• Procurement: Responsible for purchasing all necessities in order to keep the household running smoothly while remaining within the parameters of annual budget. A financial bonus for cost-reductions reducing budget forecast sat year’s end will be considered.
• Culinary: Meal preparation including three tasty, healthy meals daily for household members. This would include the production of brown-bag lunches as well as healthy snacks. Meal prep may not be redundant and the suggestion of consumption of left-overs (although healthy for the annual budget) will not be tolerated on an ongoing basis. Breakfast MAY not consist solely of cereal, tuna salad for lunch will be accepted on an occasional basis, especially during lent.
• Janitorial: Household cleaning responsibilities including window washing, bed making, floor sweeping and mopping, snow shoveling, toilet cleaning, vacuuming, dish washing, laundering of clothes and dusting of everything from ceiling fans to baseboards.
*NOTE: NO household member will be available for assistance for any listed janitorial duties. Additionally, trash removal as well as toilet paper replacement will be the SOLE responsibility of the Household Manager.
• Medical: Complete medical knowledge of the human body is a plus. The ability to administer medicine to members as well as band-aids and salve is required.
• Chauffeur: Must possess automobile in order to move household members from point “a” to point ”b”. This task may have to be performed multiple times daily and include waiting for over 30 minutes for household members to arrive at vehicle.
• General: Applicant should possess cheerful ability to implement “wake-up” calls for household members, even the most cranky, and be able to push said members out of the home daily if required. Applicant should NEVER rely that any household member has had the forethought to set a morning alarm clock or figured out what breakfast will be, etc. Strict compliance to this item is necessary. If required, applicant must secure outside employment to supplement overall budget.
• Vacation: No vacation plan is currently available.
• Medical: Medical plan is available. Manager will be expected to perform all of the above-listed duties regardless of illness.
• Fringe Benefits : Endless cups of coffee.
Interested individuals should forward their resume to the address listed below
Household Manager
Department of Marriage and Parenthood
111 Calgon-Take-Me-Away Blvd.
Anywhere, USA
This is not an opportunity for employment -- just my thoughts on a mother's job:
Our household is seeking a selfless individual with experience in the following areas:
• Financial Manager: budget implementation, expense allocation, investment supervision. This includes removal of coins from the washer/dryer and elsewhere.
• Human Relations: possess the ability to counsel and hit “reset” buttons on those who need it, with the ability to handle conflict resolution. A minimum of at least five years experience in psychological counseling is required. Counseling is to be administered on a “no appointment necessary basis”, as breakdowns occur often and are unpredictable.
• Procurement: Responsible for purchasing all necessities in order to keep the household running smoothly while remaining within the parameters of annual budget. A financial bonus for cost-reductions reducing budget forecast sat year’s end will be considered.
• Culinary: Meal preparation including three tasty, healthy meals daily for household members. This would include the production of brown-bag lunches as well as healthy snacks. Meal prep may not be redundant and the suggestion of consumption of left-overs (although healthy for the annual budget) will not be tolerated on an ongoing basis. Breakfast MAY not consist solely of cereal, tuna salad for lunch will be accepted on an occasional basis, especially during lent.
• Janitorial: Household cleaning responsibilities including window washing, bed making, floor sweeping and mopping, snow shoveling, toilet cleaning, vacuuming, dish washing, laundering of clothes and dusting of everything from ceiling fans to baseboards.
*NOTE: NO household member will be available for assistance for any listed janitorial duties. Additionally, trash removal as well as toilet paper replacement will be the SOLE responsibility of the Household Manager.
• Medical: Complete medical knowledge of the human body is a plus. The ability to administer medicine to members as well as band-aids and salve is required.
• Chauffeur: Must possess automobile in order to move household members from point “a” to point ”b”. This task may have to be performed multiple times daily and include waiting for over 30 minutes for household members to arrive at vehicle.
• General: Applicant should possess cheerful ability to implement “wake-up” calls for household members, even the most cranky, and be able to push said members out of the home daily if required. Applicant should NEVER rely that any household member has had the forethought to set a morning alarm clock or figured out what breakfast will be, etc. Strict compliance to this item is necessary. If required, applicant must secure outside employment to supplement overall budget.
• Vacation: No vacation plan is currently available.
• Medical: Medical plan is available. Manager will be expected to perform all of the above-listed duties regardless of illness.
• Fringe Benefits : Endless cups of coffee.
Interested individuals should forward their resume to the address listed below
Household Manager
Department of Marriage and Parenthood
111 Calgon-Take-Me-Away Blvd.
Anywhere, USA
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