Month: February 2011

Cry, Baby

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There’s weird news in the San Antonio paper too. That is, a column dedicated to the devotees of quirkiness in this world of ours. The latest I read are two counselors in California who started Men of Tears, a male support group to encourage crying.

Yeah, what is in the water out there?

According to the counselors, crying makes men emotionally stronger and less hostile. Well actually I wouldn’t dispute that. But boys, aren’t we suffering from just a little Over-Simplification? 

Sure you cry, but then you eat a pint of Haagen-Dazs or whatever is handy and then you call someone who understands and loves you. After a vigorous round of chat, if you are lucky your perspective is back in place and the world tilts back into its socket. 

Plus, c’mon — how are you going to recruit for an organization called Men of Tears. The only thing I think is worst is Clan of the Cave Bear. It’s a plain no-starter.

What?

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If someone asks you why you are cleaning before the person paid to do cleaning comes to do the cleaning, you just know even if you answer the person, he isn’t going to get it. Your best bet is just to pretend you did not hear the question and go get some gelato.

Good Ship Enterprise

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The other day, I stopped at a table in the grocery store to buy cookies from an enthusiastic group of high schoolers raising money for this and that at their school. I asked, “How much?” gesturing at a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies in a plastic baggie tied with a jaunty bow.

“Everything goes for a donation, just pay what you want,” one of the table honchos said.

Clever, I thought. A huge jar sat smugly in the center of the table with a challenge on its fat little face. What value do you put on teen enterprise and industry? Don’t let’s be cheap, after all, these are kids not Keeblers!

I stuffed a $10 bill in the slot to a chorus of high-pitched thank yous and tossed the cookies into my purse.

Looking for my keys, I came across the cookies this morning. Wow, this is great, I thought. Homemade cookies that I didn’t have to make at home. I am having one now, and I have to tell you even if I hadn’t boosted the school’s GNP, they are worth every penny.

BTW, I actually put a fiver in the jar, he wasn’t that convincing.

A Puppy Chow Night

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The Westminster Dog Show is packing ’em in to Madison Square Garden tonight for the Best of Show finale. Counting this year’s 2500 competitors, over 300,000 dogs have taken part since the first show in 1877.

It stands as the second longest continuously held sporting event in America, right behind the Kentucky Derby. Even New York pays attention, the tower lights on the top of the Empire State Building are purple and gold, official Westminster colors.  

If your dog pines for a chance at the big time, give him a front row seat when they broadcast the finish tonight. In case you think age is a factor — the oldest Best of Show Dog was Grinchy Glee; he was 10, the youngest was Rough Collie at 9 months.

Hang this poster in his doghouse to keep him motivated for the long road ahead. A portion of the proceeds goes to support the Animal Medical Center in New York.

Break-through Minor

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I am at a significant personal break-through; I do not expect grand and spontaneous gestures on Valentine’s Day. And ever since, I am a whole lot happier. What a strange quirk to believe that love is best demonstrated when it catches me off guard.

I talk about Valentine’s Day way before it rolls around.

And I know now that repetition is directly correlated to making sure that the day will come and go with at least a modicum of celebration.

Another sign of having arrived is the part about asking for what I want.

Not that there is anything wrong with a Farberware double boiler but there are few things more satisfying than a bouquet of bright flowers and a card I can save for a while.  

(He gets a slab of mint chocolate fudge he can eat all by himself and a card with a cat on it waiting for him to come home. February 14 is just a Monday to him. )

HVD where ever you are.

(UNICEF card at left.)

Steampunk

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I learned so much this morning thanks to Wikipedia and You Tube. It all started when I was reading the San Antonio sunday paper and saw Office Time Waster. It’s a blog by Richard Marini who considers himself a sometime writer and a full-time time waster. Good credentials, I thought.

His archives show that he enjoys videos; he fancies effective commercials, obscure musicians and impressive but useless skills. He described “Eye of the Storm” as a richly detailed short film with a steampunk vibe. Take a look.

Steampunk is a sub genre of science fiction that came of age in the late eighties and nineties. It is a throwback to early sci-fi writers Jules Verne and H.G. Wells whose specialities were imagining travel through — space, water, air — with steam-powered inventions. 

Equally fascinating to me is the related video that showed how the film was made.

The Helpers

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I love this microwave. After it reaches the time I’ve set, it buzzes politely and says,

Too bad all my appliances don’t give me affirmations every time I use them.  It could be revolutionary — the sly vacuum cleaner that says, “Great workout,” just before you put it away, the prim little toaster that says, “You light up my life,” or the George Foreman Grill that says, “Yo, have a nice day.”

The down side of this affirming microwave is it does get a little pushy. If I don’t take out whatever I put in to heat in a reasonable amount of time, it will buzz again with an impatient edge to its voice. Ignore it again, and it bleats louder. Finally I fling open the door and slam the cup on the counter.

Good grief, I think.

Anybody else thinking?

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What exactly does Mubarak not understand about, “It’s over.” Sure, I understand –he’s used to the gig and doesn’t have a whole lot of other marketable skills but still when a whole bunch —hundreds of thousands –of people mill around outside your window hollering, “Show us your shoes!”

 Ouch.

News reports have picked up the suggestion evidently floated by the Mubarak camp that  foreign interests are fueling the demonstrations. Well, don’t be looking this way. Although Show Me The Shoes is a fine and catchy line, we are partial to Show Me The Money or that old-school favorite, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee.  

Ahem, Big M, here’s a thought. If you hurry, you probably can make the entire talk show circuit over here.

You’ll be able to reveal how Loera, the next door neighbor lady, in the absence of your caring-but-way-too-busy parents, nurtured and coached you to stand tall against the boys down the street who for some reason kept stealing your shoes. Then a ghost writer memoir in the works, an endorsement or two, and an offer to launch a brand new reality show, Real Ousted Autocrats. 

You’re money, Mr. Mubarak. Go ahead, quit.

Guest Blogger

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In the end, I would like to write as fresh and honest as say — a third grader. And I have an example to show you thanks to my sister who forwarded this e-mail pass-along. You may have already seen it, if not, you’re in for a treat. I only wish I knew who deserves the credit. (If it is some adult, I don’t want to know.)

In January, a teacher asked her third graders to tell how they spent their holiday away from school. One child wrote:

We always used to spend the holidays with Grandma and Grandpa. They used to live in a big brick house, but Grandpa got retarded and they moved to Arizona .

Now they live in a tin box and have rocks painted green to look like grass. They ride around on their bicycles, and wear name tags, because they don’t know who they are anymore. They go to a building called a wreck center, but they must have got it fixed because it is all okay now, they do exercises there, but they don’t do them very well.There is a swimming pool too, but they all jump up and down in it with hats on.

At their gate, there is a doll house with a little old man sitting in it. He watches all day so nobody can escape. Sometimes they sneak out, and go cruising in their golf carts.

Nobody there cooks, they just eat out. And, they eat the same thing every night – early birds. Some of the people can’t get out past the man in the doll house. The ones who do get out, bring food back to the wrecked center for pot luck.

My Grandma says that Grandpa worked all his life to earn his retardment and, says I should work hard so I can be retarded someday too. When I earn my retardment, I want to be the man in the doll house. Then I will let people out, so they can visit their grandchildren.

Is it just Me?

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Whenever my mother said, “Far be it for me to say anything about …” You knew she felt just the opposite; and sure enough, she’d launch into talking about someone or something like a dog.

“Far be it for me…” I heard myself say to Sig this morning, “to talk about someone’s idiosyncracies but that letter to Dear Ann is stupid.” Though he is as interested in the topic as in hearing how to decorate with plaids, he arranges his face to resemble attentive.

So, this person writes to ask,”How long should I keep cards I’ve gotten for holidays, birthdays and so on?” Her dilemma comes from feeling guilty about throwing cards away when she knows her friends have spent time and money picking them out just for her. 

I continue, “Not only is the question stupid, the answer is baaad.” She is told to gather up her cards and take them to a school or senior citizen home to recycle into crafts. A mild warning was stuck on for good measure: cut out any addresses, both yours and the senders before you drop them off. 

“OMG, so maybe the lady has hoarding tendencies, but who says she is a dummy? Someone is getting paid for this drivel!”  

“Hmm” Sig says, “Keeps them out of the landfill for a while longer.” I look at him and realize that he will never understand that dissing only works when there are two or more players. It’s kinda like the tango.