Things You Need to Calm Down About

Now that I've humbly listed the items that I'm trying to calm down about, I think that warrants me the right to instruct you all to calm down a bit too. (Not all of you, of course... but, if the shoe fits.)

Things you should calm down about:

• Feeling superior and looking down your nose at others' parenting skills, eating habits and tastes in music, movies or TV. Guess what? I was fed baby formula as an infant and lived to tell about! I eat meat and my heart's still ticking! I can't even pronounce quinoa without thinking really hard about it first. (And, couldn't even tell you what it tastes like.) Sometimes pop music, even when overly-manufactured, can be catchy and mood-lifting. We like what we like. We do what we do. Feel free to do the same. (Quietly.)
• Making fun of others' appearances. What's with all the fat-shaming, skinny-shaming, slut-shaming, butt-shaming, clothes-shaming, lip-shaming and hair-color-shaming going on as of late? Are you the same people who wear purple to support Anti-Bullying Day? (I will now take this moment to publicly apologize to the Kardashians for anything I have ever said. I will choose to simply ignore you moving forward.) 
• Thinking it's okay to post racist/discriminatory/hateful comments on social media that is aimed at entire groups of people with whom you've probably never even bothered having human contact with. Yes, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and you have your rights to free speech. But, please realize that this will also give you the right to be outted as a complete a-hole in a public setting. The choice is yours!*
• Misrepresenting my religion as being a shield for your prejudices. Don't be throwing God and Jesus's names all over your hate speech. Especially during our holiest weekend of celebration. You make all Christians look bad when you only represent a minuscule percentage of us. Don't be misquoting Scripture out of context as a defense for your own ignorance. If you really feel that God has called you to hate, maybe you need to crack open that book you've been busy thumping people over the head with and perhaps start by turning to Matthew 22:36-40. Then, when you feel your next rant coming on, how about telling us about something you actually like instead? There's a reason they say the biggest deterrent to Christianity is Christians. Don't be a Pharisee.*
• Trying to interfere with others' religious holiday celebrations. So, you don't celebrate Passover. You don't care for Christmas or Easter. You think we're all fools for believing in a higher power. That's great. Do it over there. Let us enjoy our special days and we won't make fun of your obsession with vampires and zombies.
• The N-word. It's the 21st century. Stop saying it. Stop singing it. Stop typing it. No matter what color your skin is. It hurts my ears and my eyes.

Now take a deep breath... 

Just do as I say... and it will all be a-okay.

*If any of these bulletpoints personally offended you and you're now poised to spend a full hour angrily banging out a seething response in your defense; please note that you may want to save your time. If you have any past habit of posting racist statements/memes/"jokes", gay-bashing, or hate speech of any kind... I've probably already blocked you from my Facebook newsfeed and won't see it anyhow. I don't have time for that kind of negativity in my life and you should find a better use for your own time as well.

Things I Need to Calm Down About

Some things bother me. More than they should.

I can get rather hot-headed and opinionated. But, since I've decided I have enough gray hair for the time being... Here is a list of things I'll try to calm down about:

• Getting outbid on eBay. It's not really a contest you're winning if it costs you money.
• People not following my advice. If only the world came to realize how wise I am. Don't live and learn. Do as I say!
• People that don't even ask for the advice that is just waiting for them at the tip of my tongue. Why aren't you more confused about your life? Ask me what to do! DON'T THINK I WON'T TELL YOU!
• Conversations that didn't go my way over a decade ago. I came up with 52 better comebacks in the shower that are entirely wasted on the fact that I don't talk to those people any more.
• Grammatical errors in social media posts that were initially meant to be deeply thought-provoking. Can a bad speller really be deep? And, why did you not proofread after going through the time and trouble of creating that meme? Couldn't you at least have used your Google search bar as a makeshift spell check? Sigh... Okay. I'll calm down about this by spelling it "gramaterkal eras" and saving it without correcting. *cringe*
• People liking the wrong things. You don't like my show?! How could you not like my show? Maybe you just watched the one episode that had weaker writing than the rest of the stellar examples that aired this season. Maybe you were just tired when you viewed it and your brain wasn't acting so sharp. Give it one more try. I don't care if it comes on past your bedtime. Use the DVR! JUST DO AS I SAY!!!
• People not doing as I say.
• People not laughing at my jokes, comments, or physical humor. If you don't laugh, I'm going to just keep doing it harder. The choice is yours.
• What I think you're thinking. I can't guarantee that I can read you thoughts, but I can see your facial expressions and am a pretty good judge of body language. That said, I'm pretty sure that you're mad at me and it's because you're thinking something about me that is not true, unfair or unproven, and your entire opinion of me is a misunderstood one. So, just let me explain... What's that? You're just hungry? Carry on.
• People eating things that traumatize me. Ugh. It's green and brown. And, the texture is so creepy-looking. Are they calling that slime, "sauce"? It smells so spicy! Oh well... It's their belly, not mine. Why are you such an empathetic taster?
• Obsessing over the fact that I'm talking to, not only the audience, but also myself in the second person throughout this entire post. It's my calm self's way of reasoning with my rager self. I'm not Sybil! Quit judging me, grammar snobs.
• People who walk through life as living contradictions.

Don't worry. I'm going to lighten up.

The world can be an annoying place at times, but I know you're not all doing it on purpose.

Or, are you???

Thoughts on Forty

I turn forty in exactly one week. How do I feel about it?

In a word: Depressed.

Now, don't try and cheer me up by telling me that "Life begins at 40", that "40's the new 20", or that at least I get to be a cougar now.

I'm not naive.

I know that life began at 00:01, that I didn't have these crow's feet when I was 20, and that since 40 year-old men go for 27 year-old women, so do the 27 year-old men! Duh.

No. What I get at forty is frequent heartburn, anti-aging face cream that makes me break out, to get hit on by solely the over-60 crowd (talk about an unwanted booby prize!) and nephews that are constantly asking me if I am a widow. (I think the evasive word they're reaching for is "spinster".)

I was recently reminded of an old blog post of mine on turning thirty. I was so excited to turn thirty, in small part, because I was still aging well enough to get carded at the movie theater and I wore that fact like a badge of pride.

The only time I get carded these days is when I'm buying cold medication. And, even then, it's only to check the database of known meth cookers. I'm never mistaken these days for looking 17, only for looking like a speed freak.

Well, I won't ramble on with further complaints on aging or gross you out with more facts on what happens to a woman's body at my age. I will simply conclude this post by offering the following advice.

If you happen to cross my path in the next seven days, take heed:

The wrong way to wish me a happy fortieth: If you think over-the-hill pranks are adorable, prepare to see some wrists slit. Don't worry, my life is not in danger. Yours is. If I'm handed anything with a picture of a gravestone on it, I will cut you. If you try to recite any "cute" poetry that begins with the opening line "Lordy, lordy...", I will cut you. If I receive any cards with that grumpy Shoebox lady on it, even if it's just an early Christmas card, I will paper cut you with the envelope in which it was wrapped. If a black balloon is inflated, next Tuesday, within a half-mile of my vicinity I will cut said person so fast and so deep that they'll risk death from drowning in their own pool of blood as much as from the loss of blood itself.

The right way to wish me a happy birthday this year: Nice cards that don't mention being over-the-hill or premature references to menopause. (And, I won't complain if there's cash stuffed inside of them.) Hugs. Kisses. Gentle pats on the behind. Balloons in any other color than black (see above) or pink (because I hate pink. In fact, I don't really want any balloons. I was just trying to leave the balloon option out there. In reality, what do you do with them once the day's over? Sit there and watch them deflate over the next week, as they slowly become the literal shape and texture of my 40-year old ass. Yeah. Definitely, no balloons!) Or, just a simple "Happy Birthday" with a smile will do. I will also understand a hurried mumble while averting the eyes after putting you through this post.

Or, you can just read the old blog post. It handled 37 alot better than I'm handling 40. And, then bring on the kittens!

House Hunting is a Load of Crap

Let me start off by saying this: HGTV is a network of liars.

House hunting is not as fun as reality TV would have you think. There's no half-million dollar budget, dry-witted realtor, miles of granite countertop, hickory flooring, river rock showers, nor a film crew to capture all the amusing hijinks. (And, those Property Brothers won't even give me the time of day!)

No. In reality, hickory floors are not in your price-point, your realtor never bothered calling back (probably after scoffing at the tiny commission your purchase would generate), and all highjinks so far involved are sad and not anywhere near worth documenting for posterity.

House hunting it stressful.  House hunting is bad for your self-esteem. And, it basically just makes you have to go to the bathroom in more repetition than you are normally used to.

As my regular readers and friends all know; YES! I currently live with my parents. 

Roomies since day one. Now, with bigger jammies and a newer paci.

But, what you may not know is that home ownership was the last remaining unticked bulletpoint on my "Before I Turn 40" bucket list. (Last bulletpoint! I am SO dang close!)

What you also may not know is that this year-of-the-big-4-0 happens to coincide with my parents sudden urge to downsize, once again, and become snowbirds. 

What you really don't know (unless you see me everyday, then you already know too much and will probably want to toggle back to Facebook at this point...) is that our current home sold in under four days and we all need to vacate the premises in less than five weeks having absolutely no place to go.

House hunting has moved into super-stress mode! 

[Pause writing for additional bathroom break]

I'd considered breaking a promise on the lease agreement for my storage unit, by sleeping there for a few nights/weeks/months, if need be. (I've kept enough promises in 39 years, I should be allowed a freebie at this point, right?)

But, the mad packing dash has changed the comfort level of my storage unit from this (above) to that (below).

(Although, I'm training myself to fall asleep in this posture as a backup plan.)

One of my other pre-40 bulletpoints that I did manage to pull off thus far was to "not get married".  No shit. That was an actual goal of my thirties. (As if I were having diamond rings thrown at me from every direction. "Stop trying to marry me handsome, intelligent, hilarious men! I'm not that kind of girl!")

The real reason for that "goal" was that I actually wanted to take that decade to explore my independence and straighten out some heavy financial, spiritual and familial stuff.  Made sense at the time, but was not at all considering the fact that had I only left that one goal off the list, I could now have a housing budget that was double in size (making that river rock shower a total possibility.)*

I can't blame God. We all know that He carves a much wiser path for our lives than we ever could. But, I will blame Destiny's Child in small part. "♫ The car I'm driving, I bought it! The house I live in, where is it?! ♫" Why'd you get us all worked up, ladies? This crap is hard!

Here's the state of my housing options as of this week's realty listings:

• The pre-forclosed condo that's in my dream neighborhood, but has been bank-owned for over nine months and is not yet listed for sale. (I'm waiting on the aforementioned realtor to look into the bidding possibilities and get back with me.) The comps for the neighborhood were raised with a recent sale this past week, which has caused the prices in the neighborhood to be suddenly driven up, which has only aggravated my stress-belly further. [Insert additional bathroom trip.]
• The okay-priced home that is, not only two lots down from the local sex shop, but also about 100 yards from where I saw a wino passed out in the grass with his paper bag last summer. (I wish I were exaggerating!)
• The newly refinished home that lies just across the city border. Priced a bit higher than what I have to put down and in a neighborhood where I've spotted at least three places where I could likely procure crystal meth. (If you are confused, that last point is a negative. I do not have any need for meth and am not likely to in the coming years.)

Sigh.

Well, if we can't classify it as being fun, what is a successful house-hunting experience? 

I guess it's just one where you eventually end up with a place to live in. After you've pooped. A whole lot.

Christmas Confessions

It's finally that time of year where we can begin to enjoy our yearly Christmas traditions.

However, since ours are quite typical, I thought I'd talk about some Christmas annoyances/confessions today instead:

• As touching as "The Christmas Shoes" song is supposed to be, I just find it depressing and have to quickly plug my ears and run anytime I encounter it in public.
• Whenever I hear the Jackson 5's version of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" I can't help but picture Joe Jackson open-hand slapping Katherine on mere speculation.
• I've never seen It's a Wonderful Life, never plan too. Sorry, it looks boring. Double-sorry, James Stewart's voice can only be stood in few sentence intervals.
• Despite its catchy the melody, "Baby It's Cold Outside" is really quite rapey in lyric. And, a tad hostagey too. (Men, no matter how cold it is outside; if your date asks to leave, you are not permitted by law to hold her against her will.)
• The more technologically advanced the world becomes, the more archaic Santa's methods begin to seem to me. Sleigh travel is so old school. (Can reindeer-power really compare to jet-power?) Toy-making elves seems a little bit sweat-shoppy. And, with all the world-wide courier services available online, there just seems to be no need for all that breaking and entering.
• "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" is quite possibly the rudest song ever composed.
• I watch Meet Me in St. Louis every Christmas Eve, even though I enjoy the Halloween scenes much more than the hallmark scene of Judy singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas".
• Everyone goes mad for Black Friday sales, that have the same price cuts as Cyber Monday, whose deals are quite comparable to the Two-Weeks-To-Go! sales, which are basically the same as the Christmas Eve, last minute closeouts. Bah, Christmas shopping!
• There were two too many installments of The Santa Clause movies made.
• White Elephant gift exchanges: Make it stop. Nobody wants to find a place for this crap once they get home!
• I always found Ralphie's dad in A Christmas Story to be totally creepy and could never understand how his wife can bring herself to sleep in the same bed as him.
• When I saw little Ralphie all grown up in Vince Vaughan's Wild West Comedy Tour film, I developed a little crush on that towhead.
• I have no idea what figgy pudding is, even though I loved singing about it as a kid!
• How is it that Macaulay Culkin managed to clean the house so immaculately and finish every home repair before his parents got home? And, why on earth did he not feel the need to tell his parents about that little ordeal that happened while they were gone?! I guess the police were so amped to have caught the Wet Bandits that they didn't realize it was an unsupervised minor filing that report.
• The original Simpsons Christmas special still makes me laugh. #ouchquitit
• People who stress over the word "Holiday": Quit trifilin'. (And, read this.) 
• I love love love the Charlie Brown Christmas special and have to watch it at least once a year, but I secretly go into OCD mode when: 1.) the heavy snowfall suddenly stops as Charlie walks away after the catching-snowflakes-on-their-tongues scene. It's so obvious the cartoonists simply tired of drawing white polka dots; 2.) Lucy's "The Dr Is Real In" sign changes margins and spacing twice in that scene. The words are printed in three rows, then two rows, then three rows again... which is a real shame because it looked more pleasing to the eye in two rows; 3.) those little girls running around in their bare legs in the snow. Where are their mothers?! 4.) learning the hard way that mimicking the twin girls' moves in the dancing scene is likely to give you whiplash; 5.) realizing what a brat Violet is and being secretly satisfied that she'd probably be faced with cyber-bullying charges in this day and age; 6.) I can't understand why they would cast the role of a shepherd's wife in the play, when there are clearly no shepherd's wives hanging out in the sheep fields in the Nativity story; 7.) Schroeder is such a music snob; 8.) Charlie's tree magically gains branches and needles the more ornaments they cram on it. It's like blue security blankets were the mid-century's answer to Miracle Grow; and 9.) the gang is singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" at the end and they tip their heads back further than a human neck should go.  I know, I know... they're cartoon characters, but I don't enjoy looking up their nasal canals.
• Candy canes taste gross.
• I am writing this post to avoid wrapping presents.

Enjoy your Christmas everyone!

And, once you air your grievances, take some time to remember the true Reason for the Season. 

Monster In My Attic

There's a monster living in my bedroom ceiling.

There.  I said it.  Now you know.

It's a nighttime monster that only makes its presence known when the call to slumber has arisen.  Then sounds its internal alarm to haunt and terrorize.  It scratches, claws and nibbles above as I wait for it to gnaw its way through the drywall barrier and drop onto my sleepless self.

I'm not afraid of monsters.  In fact, they're something to adore in daylight.  I see the gentleness in their beady eyes and playfulness in their twitching whiskers.  I think their tiny feet are precious as they pad along through daylit life and their tails like eager little whips beneath the sun.

But come moonlight, the monster has broken the cardinal law of trespassing, for which no twitching whisker can find pardon.

My monster has moved its way further from the corner of the room and closer to the discomfort zone. Directly above my bed.

Scrape, scrape. Chew, chew. My fists pounding above no longer intimidate. The monster is now brazen and impertinent, claiming squatter's rights in an unabandoned home.

I secretly wonder why the circle of life doesn't claim the monster's life by day. There are larger monsters looming both above and below who would find such a twitching monster a delightful treat.

But, everyday my brave monster outwits. Refusing a life as prey and returning ever again.  To gnaw, louder and Louder and LOUDER than ever. A quarter-inch of drywall closer than before.

The gauntlet's been cast and the intrusion no longer stood for. Tonight, he'll find monster traps. Lined and loaded with cunning cheese.

Ever so sorry, Beady Eyes.  You should have responded more politely to the beckon of my fist. This night you will find that participating in the food chain as prey may have been a more noble way to go.  

2013: Resolute

New Year's resolutions... Who's made them this year?

I don't make a habit of the annual tradition.  Every now and then I'll take the oath.  Life was in a bit of a tailspin last year, so I did it.

This year is starting much more on track, however.  So, rather than vowing any vows myself, I thought I'd assign a few resolutions to others instead.

Facebook friends:  I resolve, on your behalf, to give me one day's newsfeed free of gun control debate.  Pro, con... doesn't matter.  I'm simply asking for one day that my newsfeed remains entirely amusement only. 

Rihanna: Disable your Twitter account.  There's this thing called "oversharing" and it will haunt you twenty years from now.

Lindsay Lohan: Take what's left of your money and go to college.  Night school, not university.  No dorms, no parties.  Surround yourself with books and learning.  Converse only with the sober.  Avoid the camera lens with the determination of the Amish and the strength of an aborigine.  Shun your family.  Take one year to look at others without forcing them to look at you.

Psy:  Remember William Hung?  Us neither.  Count your money while following his footsteps.

Young Hollywood:  Film-makers and stars: You're funny without the "shock".  You can be provacative without the vulgar.  And, newsflash!  The f-word is not an adjective, it is a verb.  Using it 50 times per film in its unintended tense does not a comic make.  Be smart.  On your behalf, I resolve one PG film from Judd Apatow, Seth MacFarlane, Paul Rudd, Jonah Hill and Seth Rogan apiece.  Consider yourself challenged.  It will be the best work of your life!

Claire Danes: Just for kicks... a comedy.  I dare you!

Boo Boo Family (That's Honey's last name, right?): She's getting taller, older, less cute-little-princessy... Come up with a game plan. Stat!

Taylor Swift: For you, I resolve a one year dating fast.  There's a world of music beyond break-up songs.  And, I'm beginning to think a secret society's been created by the young men who've served as muse.  (Joe Jonas to Jon Mayer, "Only one song, John! Pfft.  I was inspiration enough for three!")  You're young,  talented, rich and beautiful. Best yet... for a star of your age, your reputation is still pretty much intact.  (For now.)  Be free!  Be otherwise inspired!

Glee: Spin off the New York storyline as was originally intended.  It's good, but it's different and needs its own vehicle.  The college scenes are draining the color, vibrancy and spunk out of the high school ones.  And, when did Glee suddenly become a small screen version of Center Stage?  More singing less dance class, please!

Bakers:  Find a new trend.  We already had cake, cupcakes, mini cupcakes, ice cream cake, cake with fruit, cake with filling and cakes unnaturally shellacked in fondant.  There was never really a need for cake pops, was there?

Zombies:  Die already!  Again.

.

Mother Nature: A little tenderness this year?

Shopping While Hungry

If there's one thing I'll never learn my lesson about, it's going grocery shopping while hungry. 

I usually stick to the micro "grocery store" located in my local Target for weekly trips.  Once a month I'll drag my feet to an actual grocery chain to stock up on the remainders on my list that Target doesn't carry (Whole Grain Pringles, meat... fresh fruit if I'm feeling health-conscious.)  Every now and again I'll stumble into the super-mega-gigantico store located seconds from my office and get lost for days among the abundant selection of pasta, Pop-Tarts and frozen meals.  And, I usually tend to do this around dinner time when everything looks especially delicious and as absolute necessities to be added to my fridge.

I actually landed home in my kitchen with three different varieties of granola bars last night!  Sorry, make that six varieties, three different brands.  I don't even think Target carries six different granola types, so I have no choice but to experiment when given the fleeting chance.  Right?

Well, when finding yourself not quite lost but wandering though the fluorescent lit aisles of a super-mega-gigantico chain, you're all but forced to people-watch as well as make obscene purchases.  Like it or not, in order to get to the granola aisle you must first wade through a sea of super-mega-gigantico shoppers.

My first memorable encounter cut me off in the dishware aisle.  (Hey, I needed a cup!)  It was a teenage daughter whining at breakneck speeds to her mother about her best goodest friend that had the nerve to not confide in her about some issue I couldn't catch before they rounded the next corner.  My wish was not granted as I crossed them again, "She couldn't tell me this, but she could tell the lunch lady?!?"  And, again, "The lunch lady is more important confidante than ME?!?"  And, again, "THE LUNCHLADY, Mom???!!!" for the next four aisles.

I began to share the same forward-glazed stare of her poor mother, quietly tolerate, but offering no insight to her daughter's woes as she pushed her cart solemnly up and down each aisle at a robotic death march pace.  The only difference was that, on my end, I could escape to the dairy aisle and poor mother could not.  In her shoes I might have piped in with the suggestion that maybe Best Goodest Friend was simply defining her right not to have her business broadcast across the local super-mega-gigantico store.  But, I think poor mother's only take on this was a deep-seated yen to trade places with the lunchlady, if only for the moment.

The dairy aisle alerted me to an egg thief on premises.  I had to open three cartons to find one with all egg slots full!  I only can hope the burgled eggs found their way to a hungry child's stomach and not to the windshield of my SUV parked out front.

It was around the breakfast aisle I came across the annoying sound of human whistling.  Bird whistling is fine in my book.  Even children's whistling I can live with.  But, the sound of a grown man forcing spittle through his lips and out into the inhaled oxygen of the general public is just a pet peeve I rank right up there with nails on a chalkboard.  Don't argue with me that it's a sound of jolliness.  Any jolly spirit-choosing-to-whistle's jolliness is negated by the robbery of the audience's jolly.  (Got that?!)

Even more annoying than the general whistling, was the chosen tune!  It was a repetitive loop of what started out to be the Jeopardy theme song and ended up segueing into the first two lines of "Deck the Halls."  He'd seemingly forget the next lines, pause for twenty seconds and then launch back into The Jeopardy theme... wait for it, wait for it... oops it's Deck the Halls again!

This went on through my insane granola purchase and then four subsequent aisles of frozen food.  By aisle three, the peeve-ranking got raised a notch when the small child in the seat of Whistler's cart started chanting "Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi!" into his face.  Whistler just kept on whistling as if he was oblivious to the fact that he had, at some point in his life, procreated.  'Tis the season to be jolly... "Hi. Hi. Hi! Hi!"  This may have been the only word the young one had learned so far in his short life. But, I'm pretty sure it could be interpreted as, "Hi Dad!  Remember me?  I'm that kid that loves you and I'm twenty-four inches from your face.  Do you see me down here?  Hi!  I think I've inhaled just about the right amount of your spittle for now.  Thanks for the jolly tune!  Hi."

By the time I exited the frozen section, I was pretty much done.  I had just the bread aisle to go as I gazed into the trappings of my cart.  Holy smokes!  This is just food for one?!  I had visions of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman taunting, "Big mistake!  HUGE!"  But, instead of holding Gucci bags up in the air, I had processed cheese, real cheese and cheese by-products (...if those exist.  Do they?  If they do, they were in my cart.  "HUGE!")  I even ended up with a frozen ham and cheese sandwich that comes with it own small vat of cheese dipping sauce.  Yes, I'd even selected cheese that you heat up and dip into more cheese!

This is the point where you're supposed to come to your senses and start dropping things in the candy and magazine racks that are conveniently located near the checkout for the purpose of discarding unnecessary items.  But, nope, I was still hungry, it all still looked delicious and every thing ended up on the conveyor belt.  Three brands of granola bars in six varieties, cheese sandwiches you dip in cheese and all!

I didn't let the cashier boy (who made very clear in body language and facial expression that I had ruined his day by choosing his register) ruin my food booty high.  I even helped him bag my purchase.  Then I drove right home, nuked a frozen mushroom burger (with Swiss!) and proceeded to have a slightly severe bout of indigestion for the next 24 hours.  That's where a trip to the super-mega-gigantico store will get you!

You'll find me at Target next week.

Silence Isn't Golden

 

The rear speakers in my car blew out a few weeks ago. I came to this conclusion when instead of hearing the classic rock stylings of Detroit's WCSX on my ride home from work, "psst-psst-psst- SQQQQQQQUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ooooooooohhh-sssQQQQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooohh-SQQQQQQUUUEEEEEE...ffffft-ffffft-fffffft... POP!" was heard in its place.

You know? That high-pitched bad frequency feedback you hear at every amateur rock show each time the novice guitar player wanders out in front of his amp, "SSQQQQQUUUEEE-OOOHH!", then looks around confusedly like, "Dude, what was that noise? Where is it coming from?"

Well, that was my ride home the other week. For twenty minutes straight. With the radio turned OFF. My ears rang for days. DAYS, I tell you!

I had to beg my father to drop his fork full of dinner, calling from my cell phone in the driveway, "Please come out and disconnect this thing! I can't take it! The noise!" He came outside and we went through the same, "What noise?" conversation that takes place every time he's called out to my car. (Too many amateur rock shows in his day?)

There were some perks to losing the rear speakers though. When toting a carload of kids around town the following weekend and having a song arise that's totally their jam; their "Turn it up! Turn it up!" pleas were easily squashed by my, "Oh, so sorry, Karlie Rae Jepsen. The rear speakers are blown. This is as loud as it goes." (Volume turned down to three.)

But, then madness happened on today's morning drive. I usually have the Christian radio station on in the mornings, setting my mind and spirit in place for the coming day. When I started off my drive they were taking calls from listeners, "My life... ppppfffftttt...that bridge...p-ppt-pfftt-ppt...my family is in... Ptt-[silence]-pttp...sooo low...ptt..." "Wow! What a sto...ptt-[silence] Let's lift up... pfftt... in prayer.. Ptt-[silence]-[silence]-[silence]..."   Augh!

Now the front speakers! In my mind there was some depressed soul out there dangling from the side of the Ambassador Bridge and my curiosity couldn't be any further fed. I convinced myself the word "bridge" I'd heard was just part of some analogy I'd missed in between the sputters and silence, but said a "Please help whoever that was with whatever that was all about..." prayer (almost verbatim) just in case.

By lunch, the front speakers were useless and the radio could only be heard from the radio itself. This reminded me of the transistor hand radio I had in the early eighties.  A vintage sound.  Better than nothing!

By the five o'clock rush hour commute, even that had evolved into "Here I am... [silence]... again. ♫ Here I... [silence]... the stage. ♫ [silence]" That's it! I threw in the towel and the radio went off. Twenty minutes of silence can't be that bad. Stereos aren't a necessity. It could have been the engine to die. It could have been the transmission.

Silence isn't so quiet though. The first thing I noticed, without having music to distract me, was the squeaking of my seat every time stopping and going caused the slightest shift in my body. Red light. Squeak. Green light. Squeak. Right turn. Squeak squeak. I spent the next quarter-hour wondering if I had recently gained weight.

I briefly tried to make my own music. For some reason a medley from Les Miserables was all that came to mind and mouth. It took very few stanzas to realize that my own voice wasn't something worth listening without a full set of speakers and a pro on the cd player to drown me out.

The squeaking of the driver's seat then met the harmony of the pinging of invisible debris being flung at my windshield. I didn't see a thing, but every few feet was met with, ping! Ping. Ping! Ping. Dust particles? Microscopic insects? Gravel shavings? Is it possible to hear glass settle?

The "quiet" of the red light of my final left turn caused me to notice dozens of birds up on a wire.  I'd never noticed them up there before, but they are likely to be sitting there every evening like thirty little dots all in a row. I'd never noticed them chirping before. I'd never noticed them actually interacting either. One bird kicking the other to his left like a bratty little brother. This made me laugh and almost hear the next sound of my drive. I preempted the honk that was sure to be coming my way as the light turned green and I was still gazing skyward.

The last sound of my evening was the pop of my speakers' last dying gasps. "Remember us! *pop* Make sure our story lives on... *pfft!*" And so, it has.

I may never adjust to the sound of silence before my budget affords a new sound system for the car. But, at least I managed to honor a deathbed promise. *pop!* [silence]

Pacifically Speaking

 

Axe me where "ask" has gone

  for it's been harder and harder to find

 

Why come "how" has died away

  when it was still very young

 

Supposebly they were killed away

   by the one who coined "pacific"

 

He should have left that ocean out of it

  when getting down to specifics

 

He then voted for his favorite team

   instead of rooting like the others

 

Then claimed, aloud, "we're winning you!"

now "beating" is killed, another

 

[explanation point]

 

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

"No Offense!"

I have a five-year old nephew who thinks "I'm sorry" is a get-out-of-jail-free card.  He thinks he can punch his brother, kick his sister, slap anyone's face and not get in trouble because, "Well... I said, 'I'm sorry!'"

It's not uncommon to hear a thud coming from the other room, instant tears accompanied by an "I'm telling!" that's very quickly followed with an "I'm sorry!  It's okay. I'm sorry!"  It's also not uncommon for me to enter the room as a slap-down is in progress, meet eyes with the five-year-old slapper and still have him play his card once it should be too late.  "I'm sorry!" he tosses out to his nine-year-old brother whom he's just publicly walloped.  Nine-year-old brother looks at me and tosses out an equally hasty, "It's okay, I forgive you."  Fake hugs are the next order of business and they think this means all is well.  Yes, he may forgive you, but it's not okay!

I don't know if I'm more perplexed by the logic of the apologizer or the forgiver in this scene.  That is, I was perplexed until I learned older brother's new piece of rationale.  The phrase "no offense" has entered his fifth grade vocabulary.

He uses his get-out-of-jail-free card as a means to criticize everyone's weight, looks, intelligence or natural body odor and thinks he can cash in our forgiveness by prefacing the whole insult with a "No offense, but..." 

Only someone with the audacity to say such things as, "No offense, but your armpits smell like toothpaste." and "No offense, Kimmy, but I weigh 70 pounds and you weigh a thousand times more than me." (Oh yes! Real life examples!) would have the same reasoning to forgive someone as they are simultaneously pounding in his solar plexus.  Maybe he's just laying the groundwork for a "No offense, but you're a big-headed buttface" that he knows he'll be dishing out within the hour.  Who knows!

I hope I've effectively used this weekend to clear up that once a bad deed is done, sorry or not, it is still wrong and there will still be punishment.  And that, if you feel the need to say "no offense" before making a comment, it's probably a comment left best unsaid.

Now if I could just remove the word "sexy" from the five-year-old's vocabulary. As in:

5YO: "There are three Japanese girls in my class.  They all love me and they are all SEXY!"

Me: "What?! What do you know about sexy?"

5YO: "I'm telling you, these girls love me and they are [in a creepily sing-songy voice] sex-y!!!"

Me: "That's the most inappropriate thing I've ever heard!"

5YO: "But, they are!"

Me: "That is not a word for kids. I don't want to hear of it coming out of your mouth again until you're at least twenty!  And, not even then!"
5YO: "I'm not lying.  They are sexy and HOT!"

Me: "That's gross.  No five-year-old is sexy!"

5YO: "It's okay.  One of them is six!"

No offense, but I foresee the principal's office calling next school year with a complaint that "I'm sorry" won't be good enough to fix. Sigh...

All the Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise!

Why is it that some noises can drive us climbing up the wall by our fingernails and others can be the sweetest sounds to kiss our eardrums?  I have a fickle relationship with noise.  I may sometimes be the noisiest thing in a quiet room but I'm---more often than naught---the quietest thing in a noisy space.

I've heard alot of noise lately.  We're having flooring installed at home and every bad noise that could possibly come with that followed.  By Day Two I had to escape!

Then, I heard more noise.

First, I packed a lunch (because noise and digestion are not compatible) and went to the park.  There I found alot of sounds I liked.  I was amazed to find that one dead leaf brushing against the armpit of a tree was, not only audible, but loud enough in this peaceful environment to make me spin around and "What's that?!"  The bullfrog I thought I heard was nothing more than a detached branch caught midfall and rubbing against a tree trunk, creating such a ribbit.  And, that very peculiar noise that sounded something like a waterfall---only one whose molecules had shifted, causing it to sound more like a solid-fall than a liquid-fall---ended up being two adorable baby squirrels chasing each other around the base of a tree.  Toenails clamping onto the bark in a downward spiraling motion.

I accidentally disturbed quite a few pairs of birds enjoying the Spring mating season.  I was merely hiking down the marked trails in an innocent manner, not wishing to offend.  But these avian flew away from me with such speed and attitude, you'd think I was an overprotective father busting up their session at Inspiration Point.  Wings wildly flapping, twigs violently swatted out of the way... now that was a sound!

Then I went to the library.  For a place whose national motto is, "Shhh...", there's certainly alot of noise going on in there.  There's guy who thinks he's obeying the "Do not hold cell phone conversations at the desk" sign, by slipping into the entry hallway and holding a thirty minute conversation loud enough to echo through the rest of the building.  The book cart with the squeaky wheel.  The shuffling of feet.  The schooching in and out of chairs.  The phone ringing.  The kids running by.

Then I went to my beloved Target to grab a few grocery items.  I'm now noticing the decibel level increasing with each bulletpoint of my day.  We all know the shopping noises.  Hundreds of conversations blurring into each other and taking place all at once. Cash registers, shopping carts, babies wailing, the "beep beep beep" that those tiny stock vehicles make.

I finished my quick stop and then proceeded homeward, only to find the flooring truck still in the driveway.  My peaceful sanctuary was still being molested by the sounds of power saws, vacuums, clunking and hammering.  The walls were practically vibrating, so I escape with my mother for a quiet walk around the neighborhood.

Boy, are those neighborhood kids noisy...

Business vs. Bizness

Let me tell you the frustrating thing about job-hunting in 2012.  I don't even understand what half of these companies sell!

It's not at all like looking for a job in 2001, which is the last time I was out there searching.  There doesn't seem to be that many businesses out there that sell tangible products anymore.  There's no, "This is a shirt. See, it has sleeves?  We're gonna sell it to someone with arms." or, "This is a car. You drive it from place to place so you can get there much faster than you could walking.  What our company does is sell these to people with long ways to go." or, "See that sick person?  He's our customer. See that other person going home? We made him better.  This is what we do."

Business has become "bizness".  Not only are today's products not tangible, but they're not even comprehensible.  When I'm on the job search sites and click on a company's wesbsite to better understand what it is that they do (another thing no one did during my last stint with unemployment), I usually wind up even more confused.  I find that these companies are marketing invisible things like information, media, data, talent, technologies and ideas.  There are accompanying pictures of young energetic people with very white teeth in very uncomfortable-looking suits.  What they do with these products you can't touch is beyond me, but they seem to make money doing it.  I guess a perk to selling an invisible inventory is no heavy lifting.  So, their employees might possess much healthier backs and knees than I, but still.  I don't know how I can administratively assist a company whose product I can't physically see.  It's very, very... SO VERY confusing to me.

I have a recurring daymare (that's a nightmare you have while you're awake, daydreaming) that I'm in a job interview, in the "bizness" industry, and I ask them what kind of business it is that they do.  I don't understand their technically overt lingo and am naive enough to tell them that maybe they need to explain it more plainly on their website because the layman can't understand what type of company they are.  Their mission statement is just a jumble of buzz words pieced together, trying to sound important, smarty pants and high tech.  They mistake my naive honesty for brazenness and appoint me CEO.  Months later, I sit behind a mahogany desk and realize that it still hasn't been explained to me what my company sells.  I'm beginning to suspect that nobody else knows either and that I've been hired as a scapegoat until the bottom falls out.  So, I promptly resign and get a job at Pet Supplies Plus selling dog food.  Because I know of dogs and exactly what food is.

I'm looking for a job that when people asks what industry I work in, I can say, "______" and they know what that is.  Even grandmothers.  Let's not confuse my grandmother!  Companies need products that can be put into boxes.  Loaded onto trucks, boats, planes and trains.  Touched and felt.  That have on buttons and off switches.  That can be put together with other products to build something. That can be seen or read or smelled or eaten.

Maybe that means I'll have to settle for less money working for one of these old-fashioned corporations, but at least I won't go home confused at the end of the day.  If somebody tells me they'd like me to work for their office specializing in communications,  data management, intelligence or "peace of mind", I'll be sure to ask them if that comes gift wrapped.

I'd rather work for the one who sells the bees than the one who sells the buzz.